"One," muttered Martin to himself, as he lay frozen with fear, flat on his back, biting his trembling lips, "two.... God, that was near!"
A dragging instant of suspense, and the shriek growing loud out of the distance.
"This is us." He clutched the sides of the stretcher.
A snorting roar rocked the dugout. Dirt fell in his face. He looked about, dazed. The lamp was still burning. One of the wounded men, with a bandage like an Arab's turban about his head, sat up in his stretcher with wide, terrified eyes.
"God watches over drunkards and the feeble-minded. Don't let's worry, Howe," shouted Randolph from his bunk.
"That probably bitched car No. 4 for evermore," he answered, turning on his stretcher, relieved for some reason from the icy suspense.
"We should worry! We'll foot it home, that's all."
The casting of the dice began again, farther away this time.
"We won that throw," thought Martin.