I had got up on my uninjured elbow by that time, but the pain threw me back. “Don’t look at the wreck,” I entreated her. “It’s no sight for a woman. If—if there is any way to tie up this arm, I might be able to do something. There may be people under those cars!” “Then it is too late to help,” she replied solemnly. A little shower of feathers, each carrying its fiery lamp, blew over us from some burning pillow. A part of the wreck collapsed with a crash. In a resolute endeavor to play a man’s part in the tragedy going on around, I got to my knees. Then I realized what I had not noticed before: the hand and wrist of the broken left arm were jammed through the handle of the sealskin grip. I gasped and sat down suddenly. [Illustration] “You must not do that,” the girl insisted. I noticed now that she kept her back to the wreck, her eyes averted. “The weight of the traveling-bag must be agony. Let me support the valise until we get back a few yards. Then you must lie down until we can get it cut off.” “Will it have to be cut off?” I asked as calmly as possible. There were red-hot stabs of agony clear to my neck, but we were moving slowly away from the track. “Yes,” she replied, with dumfounding coolness. “If I had a knife I could do it myself. You might sit here and lean against this fence.” By that time my returning faculties had realized that she was going to cut off the satchel, not the arm. The dizziness was leaving and I was gradually becoming myself. “If you pull, it might come,” I suggested. “And with that weight gone, I think I will cease to be five feet eleven inches of baby.” She tried gently to loosen the handle, but it would not move, and at last, with great drops of cold perspiration over me, I had to give up. “I’m afraid I can’t stand it,” I said. “But there’s a knife somewhere around these clothes, and if I can find it, perhaps you can cut the leather.” As I gave her the knife she turned it over, examining it with a peculiar expression, bewilderment rather than surprise. But she said nothing. She set to work deftly, and in a few minutes the bag dropped free. “That’s better,” I declared, sitting up. “Now, if you can pin my sleeve to my coat, it will support the arm so we can get away from here.” “The pin might give,” she objected, “and the jerk would be terrible.” She looked around, puzzled; then she got up, coming back in a minute with a draggled, partly scorched sheet. This she tore into a large square, and after she had folded it, she slipped it under the broken arm and tied it securely at the back of my neck. The relief was immediate, and, picking up the sealskin bag, I walked slowly beside her, away from the track. The first act was over: the curtain fallen. The scene was “struck.” CHAPTER IX. THE HALCYON BREAKFAST