"I thought we hit a man," said the engineer, swinging his lantern far out into the darkness. But no sign, whether of the dead or of the living, was in sight,—nothing except a half-starved, collarless dog, who sat stupidly upon the grass, and who did not even wag his tail when the stoker spoke to him.
"Who saved us? Who saved the train?"
Ask the disappointed vulture and the mouth of the muttering earth to tell you, gentlemen passengers! There is no other lip to answer.
Yes, there is one; a little, trembling, ashy lip—a child's—scarcely able to articulate for grief or terror, and pouring forth confused cries that nobody can understand. The passengers have left the train, and are making their way cautiously homeward down the devastated road-bed, where the track had lain. It is hurled now to every point of the compass in the wild night.
"PAPÄ! PAPÄ!"
They come to a halt suddenly, before a little huddling figure, with its face hidden in its arms, crouched beside a crooked rail. An old horse, with traces hanging and harness a wreck, stands snorting beside the boy.
"Donny! Donny! Why, my sonny boy!"
The crowd parts for a thin, white-faced man,—the passenger who had been heard to say upon the way, "My little son is coming to meet me. I hope these shocks do not extend to the Summerville station."