As I have said, however, once the wreck-train rolled in surgeons and nurses leaped down, and men brought litters to carry away the wounded. In a moment the scene changed; the authorities of the road turned a frowning face upon inquiry and I was only too glad that I had thought to make my inquiries early. However, I managed in the excitement to install myself in the train just as it was leaving so as to reach Alton with the injured and dead and witness the transfer. Some died en route, others moaned in a soul-racking way. I was beside myself with pity and excitement, and yet I could think only of the manner in which I would describe, describe, describe, once the time came. Just now I scarcely dared to make notes. At Alton the scene transferred itself gradually to the Alton General Hospital, where in spite of the protests of railroad officials I demanded as my right that I be allowed to enter and was finally admitted. Once in the hospital I completed my canvass, being new assisted by doctors and nurses, who seemed to like my appearance and to respect my calling, possibly because they saw themselves mentioned in the morning paper. Having interviewed every injured man, obtaining his name and address where possible, I finally went out, and at the door encountered a great throng of people, men, women and children, who were weeping and clamoring for information. One glance, and I realized for all time what these tragedies of the world really mean to those dependent. The white drawn faces, the liquid appealing eyes, tragedy written in large human characters. “Do you know whether my John is in there?” cried one woman. “Your John?” I replied sympathetically. “Will you tell me who your John is?” “John Taylor. He works on that road. He was over there.” “Wait a moment,” I said, reaching down in my pocket for my pad and reading the names. “No, he isn’t here.” The woman heaved a great sigh. Others now crowded about me. In a moment I was the center of a clamoring throng. All wanted to know, each before the other. “Wait a moment,” I said, as an inspiration seized me. I raised my hand, and a silence fell over the little group. “You people want to know who is injured,” I called. “I have a list here which I made over at the wreck and here. It is almost complete. If you will be quiet I will read it.” A hush fell over the crowd. I stepped to one side, where there was a broad balustrade, mounted it and held up my paper. “Edward Reeves,” I began, “224 South Elm Street, Alton. Arms, legs and face seriously burned. He may die.” “Oh!” came a cry from a woman in the crowd. I decided to not say whether any one was seriously injured. “Charles Wingate, 415 North Tenth Street, St. Louis.” No voice answered this. “Richard Shortwood, 193 Thomas Street, Alton.” No answer.