Whirling along, in the dark and the uproar, the two panting figures rushed against the little station. It was very dark. In a lull of the raging earth the distant whistle of the train could be distinctly heard.
"THE RAGGED OLD ARM THAT FELLED IT DOWN."
"THE LITTLE ONE CLIMBED LIKE A MONKEY UPON A SHELF."
"In there!" cried the boy. "There! There! Oh, don't you think perhaps my papä took some other train? Oh, she's coming! I'll help. I can help. Oh, the door's too big for me!"
But not too big for the ragged old arm that felled it down as an axe fells the last rings of a stricken tree. Not too big for the remnant of strength in the once muscular slave. Not too big for the fiery old heart that trouble and toil and hunger and loneliness had never quenched.
The door went down—glass crashed—another door yielded—two wild figures fell into the superintendent's private office. The little one climbed like a monkey upon a shelf he knew of, and then the two rushed out of the rocking building into the resounding air, on which human shrieks smote steadily, as it was said they did all that awful night. Again, the whistle of the train—near now—nearer—
As the pathetic couple ran up the torn and twisted track, Donny began to sob aloud; but all he said was, "Papä! Papä! Papä!"