One of the forward cars was a caldron of flame. A baby's cry swung out
from among the roar and smart of the living hell. There was a frantic
father and a demented mother. Both had to be thrown and pounded into
submission; held by sheer weight and muscle.

There were brave men there that night, but there was no sense in giving
two lives for one. Death was reaping more than enough. They would try to
save the "kid," but it looked hopeless. Was it a girl? Yes, and an only
child? She must be pinned under a seat. The fire would be about opening
up on her. Sure--sure they would see what could be done. Anyway, the
roof was due to smash down. But they'd see. But there were lots of
others who needed a hand; others who were not pinned under seats with
the flames hungry for them.

But Garrison had swung on to a near-by horse-cart, jammed into rubber
boots, coats, and helmet, tying a wet towel over nose and mouth. And as
some stared, some cursed, and some cheered feebly, he smashed his way
through the smother of flame to the choking screams of the child.

The roof fell in. A great crash and a spouting fire of flame. An
eternity, and then he emerged like one of the three prophets from the
fiery furnace. Only he was not a Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego. He
was not fashioned from providential asbestos. He was vulnerable. They
carried him to a near-by house. His head had been wonderfully smashed by
the falling roof. His eyebrows and hair were left behind in the smother
of flame. He was fire-licked from toe to heel. He was raving. But the
child was safe. And that wreck and that rescue went down in history.

For weeks Garrison was in the hospital. It was very like the rehearsal
of a past performance. He was completely out of his head. It was all