ture.

Bennett turned to me and said, "Bates, come here and help me lift poor
Borroughs out of this chair."

Gently and carefully we laid him down on the floor and sent one of the
badly frightened boys for a surgeon. Medical skill was powerless,
however, and the spirit of honest Pat Borroughs had crossed the dark
river to its final reckoning.

Work in the office was at a standstill on account of the tragic
occurrence, but all of a sudden I heard Monte Carlo calling "DS" and
using the signal "WK," which means "wreck." Bennett told me to sit down
and take the trick until the second trick man could be called. I went
over and sat down in the chair, still warm from the body of my late
friend, and wiping his blood off the train sheet with my handkerchief, I
answered.

It would be impossible to describe the state of my feelings as I first
touched the key; I had completely lost track of trains, orders and
everything else. However, I gradually pulled myself together, and got
the hang of the road again, and then I learned how the wreck had
occurred. About a minute after I went out, Borroughs had given a
right-of-track order to an express freight from Monte Carlo to
Johnsonville, and had told them to hurry up. Johnsonville is on the
outskirts of Chaminade, and Borroughs had completely forgotten that the
general superintendent's special had left there just five minutes before
with a clean sweep order. That he had known of it was evident from the
fact that it was recorded on the train sheet. Two minutes after the
freight had left Monte Carlo, poor Pat realized he had at last made his
mistake. He said not a word to any person, but quietly ordered out the
wrecking outfit, and then reaching in the drawer he took out a revolver
and--snuffed out his candle. He fell forward on the train sheet, as if
to cover up with his lifeless body, the terrible blunder he had just
made. Many other despatchers had made serious errors, and in a measure
outlived them; but here was a man who had grown gray in the service of
railroads, with never a bad mark against him. Day and night, in season
and out, he had given the best of his brain and life to the service, and
finally by one slip of the memory he had, as he thought, ruined himself;
and, too proud to bear the disgrace, he killed himself. He was
absolutely alone in the world and left none to mourn his loss save a
large number of operators he had helped over the rough places of the
profession.

Th