In a frantic effort he reached still higher toward the opening. Cold hands touched his, slipped off, then touched again. One clamped heavily about his wrist, another reached downward and fastened onto his sleeve. He felt himself lifted upward. Then he knew no more.
Jeff Thatcher came to with the feeling that there was something urgent he wanted to do, something he must do before he could rest quietly. He opened his eyes and looked about and after a moment he realized that he was lying on one of the bunks in the wrecking train caboose.
Hastily he sat up and looked about. Across the car in another bunk he saw another man lying under blankets, his white face turned toward him and heavy eyes watching him. There was something hauntingly familiar about the face.
The stranger spoke.
“You all right now? Feeling better?”
“I’m all right, thank you. And you?”
“I’m done for, I guess. It’s too bad you went to the trouble and risk of saving me. I’m going to pass out anyway. Something wrong inside my chest. But I’d rather die here than be burned to death down there. It was a heroic thing you did, boy. They told me all about it.”
“It was nothing. I mean I—I—just had to do it. It was my job. Say, haven’t I seen you before? Haven’t I—say, I know who you are. You’re Roderick Hammond, the—the—cashier of the First National.”