turn, under clouds of vomiting steam and piled about with cairns of
living coal, lay what remained of the two engines, one upon the other.
On the heathy margin of the line were many people running to and fro,
and crying aloud as they ran, and many others lying motionless like
sleeping tramps.

Morris suddenly drew an inference. 'There has been an accident' thought
he, and was elated at his perspicacity. Almost at the same time his eye
lighted on John, who lay close by as white as paper. 'Poor old John!
poor old cove!' he thought, the schoolboy expression popping forth from
some forgotten treasury, and he took his brother's hand in his with
childish tenderness. It was perhaps the touch that recalled him;
at least John opened his eyes, sat suddenly up, and after several
ineffectual movements of his lips, 'What's the row?' said he, in a
phantom voice.

The din of that devil's smithy still thundered in their ears. 'Let us
get away from that,' Morris cried, and pointed to the vomit of steam
that still spouted from the broken engines. And the pair helped each
other up, and stood and quaked and wavered and stared about them at the
scene of death.

Just then they were approached by a party of men who had already
organized themselves for the purposes of rescue.

'Are you hurt?' cried one of these, a young fellow with the sweat
streaming down his pallid face, and who, by the way he was treated, was
evidently the doctor.

Morris shook his head, and the young man, nodding grimly, handed him a