“‘What?’ he says, lifting up his head, and staring at me a horribly stiff, hard look, as of one half-dead.
“‘See what a mess you’ll make,’ I says, ‘and I shall have to clean it up.’
“‘Mess?’ he says, raising himself, and kneeling there in the six-foot on the ballast.
“‘Yes, mess,’ I says,—‘tatters, rags of clothes, and something so horrid all over the line, that it’s enough to make a strong man sick.’
“‘I never thought of that,’ he says, putting his hands to his head.
“And as he did so there was a shriek, a rush, a great wind, which sent the dust and sticks flying, and the express thundered by, with that poor chap staring hard.
“As it passed, he looked at it with a sort of shudder.
“‘You don’t know what a mess it makes,’ I said, as he got slowly up.
“‘No,’ he says, in a curious way—‘no, I never thought of that.’ And he began to brush the dirt and dust off his clothes. ‘But I thought it would not hurt.’
“‘Not you, perhaps,’ I said, trying to keep his attention; ‘but how about me?’