The two spread their blankets on the cold, hard planking. They lay down, automatics within easy reach, and tried to sleep. It was torturous business.
“Well, old man,” cried Roach in grim humor, “if we don’t live to see morning, here’s good-by!”
They had employed such a “Good night” every evening since the fortunes of war had thrown them together. For the country was filled with bands of murderous Bolsheviki, striving to break through the Czech guard lines and cut the railroad at a vulnerable point in order to maroon enemy forces farther in-country.
“Same to you and many of them!” laughed Nat. And he pulled up his blanket to his chin, pillowed his arms behind his head and dozed off to the shrieking grind of the wheels.
Outside of one terrible shriek which Roach gave three hours later, they were the last words Nathan ever heard him utter.
My friend had dozed off—to dream as usual that he was back in Paris—in the box-shop with his father—going home to Milly and the Pine Street house furnished in mid-Victorian and Larkin Soap premiums—brooding over boyish troubles,—always introspecting—always worry-ridden—when in his dreams, half-way in the borderland of slumber, came a crash as though all hell had exploded and blown the earth to shreds in his face!
III
The crash was part of Nathan’s nightmare,—part of it until he felt himself rocking, bumping, knocking, billowing, hurled at a strange tangent he could not comprehend.
Then came another crash, more horrible than before. He was falling,—down, down, down. BUMP!
Roach uttered one long-drawn, grisly cry. A car beam had crushed his legs. When some ominous ripping sound followed, a portion of the iron underwork broke through the timbers where he lay impaled, crushing his skull in the inky dark.