"They had just got the wrecking train made up, and this man, running

forward after setting a switch, had flipped the tender of the backing

engine and slipped from the footboard. When I bent over him, I saw he

was against it. He knew it, too, for the minute they shut off and got

to him he kept perfectly still, asking only for a priest.

"I tried every way I could think of to get him free from the wheels.

Two of us crawled under the tender to try to figure it out. But he lay

so jammed between the front wheel and the hind one, and tender trucks

are so small and the wheels so close together that to save our lives we

could neither pull ahead nor back the engine without further mutilating

him.

"As I talked to him I took his hand and tried to explain that to free

him we should have to jack up the truck. He heard, he understood, but

his eyes, glittering like the eyes of a wounded animal with shock,

wandered uneasily while I spoke, and when I had done, he closed them to

grapple with the pain. Presently a hand touched my shoulder; the

priest had come, and throwing open his coat knelt beside us. He was a

spare old man--none too good a subject himself, I thought, for much

exposure like that--but he did not seem to mind. He dropped on his

knees and, with both hands in the snow, put his head in behind the

wheel close to the man's face. What they said to each other lasted

only a moment, and all the while the boys were keying like madmen at

the jacks to ease the wheel that had crushed the switchman's thigh.

When they got the truck partly free, they lifted the injured man back a

little where we could all see his face. They were ready to do more,

but the priest, wiping the water and snow from the failing man's lips

and forehead, put up his fingers to check them.

"The wind, howling around the freight-cars strung about us, sucked the

guarded lantern flames up into blue and green flickers in the globes;

they lighted the priest's face as he took off his hat and laid it

beside him, and lighted the switchman's eyes looking steadily up from

the rail. The snow, curling and eddying across the little blaze of

lamps, whitened everything alike, tender and wheel and rail, the

jackscrews, the bars, and the shoulders and caps of the men. The

priest bent forward again and touched the lips and the forehead of the

switchman with his thumb: then straightening on his knees he paused a

moment, his eyes lifted up, raised his hand and slowly signing through

the blinding flakes the form of the cross, gave him the sacrament of

the dying.




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