ard, tipped a little, and slowly came to an uncertain stop.
People were hurled from their seats with a great violence as the
emergency brake was set. A baby cried out from a seat near the front of
the car, and a woman screamed as a satchel from the luggage rack above
her head dropped down upon her. Willis Thornton raised his arms above his
head just in time to save a heavy leather suitcase from striking his
mother full in the face. Through the broken windows was heard the shrill
warning notes of the engine's trouble whistle, but so intense was the
storm that the sound seemed rather a part of the raging gale. The
brakeman rushed through the car, and as he passed Willis heard him
exclaim half-aloud, "The freight!" Then in a loud, shaky voice, not meant
to betray excitement, he shouted, "All out; train off the track!"

He need not have spoken, however, for the people who had not already
gotten out were close upon him. First in the rush was the mother of the
babe that had screamed when the first jolts came. She was wild-eyed and
hysterical. A piece of flying glass had struck her on the face, and the
warm, trickling blood had frightened her. She rushed up to the nearest
man and shouted, "Is my husband safe?" Just then a sickly, dudish little
man, with a lighted cigar in his mouth, rushed toward her.

"Ba Jove, my dear, you are 'urt," he said as she hurried toward him and
fainted in his arms.

The word had been passed around that a heavy freight was expected at any
moment. The passenger whistle blew in long, shrill tones, while the
brakeman hurried up the hill in the direction of the expected freight to
give the danger signal. Hardly had he reached the top when there came
the faint sound of a whistle. He heard the three blasts. The train had
left Eastonville! Could he save a wreck? Lantern in hand, he hurried down
the track as fast as he could with the wind and rain beating him back.
Suddenly a black form loomed up in the mist ahead. Full blast she came,
the black smoke from her stack running ahead as if to coax her on to
greater speed. The brakeman waved his red lantern frantically in the air.
There was a screeching sound of brake-shoes on the wheels, a long, shrill
whistle, and the train sped past him, a misty dull serpent in the storm.
He turned and followed as fast as he could.

Women with disheveled hair stood and wrung their hands. Men cursed and
swore as they ran back and forth about the derailed passenger. The wind