“Oh, Gladys! Thank the dear Lord!” he cried, fairly snatching her from Jerry. “You are saved! I thought you were gone! Your mamma is safe. Come. Oh, boys, I can’t thank you enough! You have saved my little daughter.”
“And the glass didn’t cut me!” cried Gladys. “I was in a blanket. But, papa, I can’t go. Annabell is in there.”
“What, another little girl!” cried Jerry. “Come on, boys. More work!”
“Annabell is my doll!” explained Gladys, smiling now in her father’s arms. “But I want her. I love her.”
Jerry looked in through the broken window. In a pile of blankets, on what had been a berth, he saw what seemed to be a tousled head of hair. Reaching in his arm he pulled out a big doll, minus one leg.
“Oh, poor Annabell is hurt!” cried Gladys. “Oh, papa!”
“Never mind, you shall have a dozen dolls. Boys, I can’t begin to thank you! Montrose is my name, James Montrose, of Denver. I’ll see you again. I want your names. Now I must take Gladys to her mother. Mrs. Montrose is slightly injured. Oh, what a terrible wreck!”
He hurried away, and Jerry and his chums looked for more work to do. But, so well had the rescue operations been conducted that, as far as could be learned, not another soul remained in the wrecked sleeper. From the other cars the passengers had hastened themselves, or been helped, after the crash, bruises and cuts being their worst injuries.
And, strange as it may seem, no one was killed outright, though several were grievously hurt. The wounded had been carried back to the stalled Express, and made as comfortable as possible. Fortunately, there was a doctor aboard, and a supply of bandages and medicine. The conductor of the wrecked Limited checked over his passenger list, and reported no one missing.
“I think everyone is out now, gentlemen,” he said to Jerry and his chums, and the little group of rescuers.