"The boiler has blown up!" added Andy. "Run for cover!"
But there was no need, even had there been time to do so—to race against the awful speed and power of steam—for the one explosion was followed by no others.
For a moment the air was filled with flying debris, pieces of the locomotive boiler, and bits of the wrecked cars. But, fortunately, the mass scattered, and fell to one side, so that none of it hit the unfortunate survivors of the wreck.
The man whom Billy had called Shackmiller—the man he so feared—had been hurled forward, rather than up, as though blown along, slightly above the surface of the ground by some mighty wind.
"That's the end of him!" cried Frank. "He'll be killed sure!"
"How did he happen to be near the boiler?" asked Andy, but there was no chance to answer him, had anyone been so inclined. For at that instant the crumpled-up body of the man fell on a pile of the car seat cushions that had been carried out to make beds for the wounded ones.
"Let's see how badly he is hurt," suggested Billy. "Poor fellow. I hate to see him suffer, even if he is a plotter."
They rushed toward where the man had landed. So did a number of others—nearly all save those who were looking after the injured passengers.
"He's done for," murmured Billy. But even as he spoke the man moved.
"Quick! Get the doctor here!" called the conductor of the train, and the much over-worked physician began to work on the man.