As Wayne dashed forward with a horrified, sickening fear at his heart the brakeman dropped from the car ladder. But he staggered as his feet touched the ground, and had the boy’s safety depended on him he would never have escaped. It was Wayne who caught him up roughly and half lifted, half dragged him across the further rail to safety just as the end of the car swept over the spot on which he had stood. So close was the escape that the corner of the car struck Wayne’s hip and sent him reeling to fall on his knees against the end of the ties of the next track, the child sprawled beside him. Dazed, breathless, Wayne struggled to his feet, pulling the lad up with him. Twenty feet distant a switch engine had stopped with grinding brakes, and engineer and fireman were running toward him. The train of empty box cars rolled stolidly on, but in a moment began to slow down with much bumping and clatter of couplings, while back along the roofs sped the brakeman whose warning shout had alarmed Wayne. Just what happened during the next few minutes Wayne couldn’t recall afterward. The lad, his face crushed to Wayne’s worn coat, was sobbing hysterically. The engineer and fireman were there, and presently the brakeman dropped down beside them, and after that other men appeared as though by magic. Everyone talked at once and it was all very confused. Someone took the boy from Wayne and lifted him in arms and someone else propelled Wayne across toward the freight house. About that time the talk around him began to register itself on his brain. “’Tis Jim Mason’s kid,” said one. “’Twould have broke his heart entirely had the lad been hurted!” “Hurted!” scoffed another. “Sure, ’tis dead he’d be this minute save for this la-ad here! ’Twas a close shave at that, I’m telling you. Faith, I shut my eyes, I did so!” It was either the engineer or the fireman speaking. “Are you hurted, me boy?” This was to Wayne, and Wayne shook his head silently. “Your hands be cut a bit, but they’ll soon mend.” “You’d better wash the dirt out,” advised another as they climbed the steps at the end of the platform. “I’ve known lockjaw to come from less, and----” But just then they entered the dim twilight of the shed and Wayne, pushed ahead by his good-natured captors, lost the rest of the cheerful remark. Someone shouted for “Jim! Jim Mason!” and an answering hail came from further down the shed and a big man advanced toward them, illumined for a moment as he passed one of the wide, sunlit doorways. “What’s wanted?” he shouted. “’Tis your kid, Jim,” was the reply. “Nearly run over he was a minute back. All right, laddie, here’s your father comin’. Hush your cryin’ now.”