e!" John said to Dora. "I must get down there and try to help."

She nodded mutely, and he darted away. Other men followed him through
the weeds and bushes down the rugged declivity. Dora watched him till he
had vanished among the trees and boulders. The sound of escaping steam
had ceased. Human cries were now audible, groans, prayers, and the
pounding of feet and hands against parched car-walls. Faint blows they
were and futile--hoarse prayers and unanswered. The highest car in the
heap was toppling over and settled down more snugly into the mass.
Between the upper coaches blue smoke was issuing, and from the under
ones fierce flames were bursting. Dora suddenly descried John. He was on
the slanting side of one of the cars, kicking in a wired window. The
heart of the child was in her mouth, for he was in the gravest peril.
Within twenty feet of him the flames were lapping the paint from the
thin woodwork on which he stood.

"That man that was with you is a fool!" a stylishly dressed woman said
to Dora. "He will be burned to death."

"He is a workman--a brick-mason," Dora said, "and able to--"

"I don't care what he is--he is crazy, simply crazy!"

What had become of John, Dora did not know, for in a cloud of swirling
smoke and flames she suddenly lost sight of him. Also the men who had
descended with him could not be seen, and the whole mass of cars were
now aflame. The blaze and heat drove the awed spectators back farther
from the edge of the fiery gorge. Some were moving away to look after
their belongings in the undestroyed cars. Dora wondered what she ought
to do. She began to fear the worst in regard to John. She wanted to cry,
but the tear-founts seemed to have dried up. The sun was down. The
thickening darkness made the flames in the ravine all the brighter.

Presently she felt some one grasp her arm. It was John. He was covered
with black as to his hands, face, and neck. His clothing was torn and
scorched; there was a bleeding scratch across his right cheek and chin
which had been made by a piece of flying glass. He was now mopping it
with a soiled handkerchief.

"It is hell!" she heard him say, more to himself than her. "It is
hell!"

Dora clung to him joyously.

"Think of it," he panted. "I got one woman out at a window and was
reaching down for a little boy. I could see him holding up his hands
from the burning seats, but he could not reach me. God! I'll never
forget that kid's eyes and his last sc