but there might have been if Fairbanks here wasn't quicker than lightning, and a brave young hero, besides!"
The crowd parted, a switchman came into view. He carried in his arms, white and limp, a little girl about ten years of age.
Hanging by the neck ribbon was her pretty summer hat, crushed and cut squarely in two. One temple was somewhat disfigured, and her dress was soiled with roadbed dust and grime.
Tim Forgan looked once and his jaws dropped. He shuddered as if some one had dealt him a blow, and staggered where he stood, his face turning to a sickly gray.
"Nora!" he gasped—"my little Nora! Denny—boys! she is hurt—dead!"
"Neither," answered the big watchman promptly, placing a soothing hand on the foreman's quivering arm. "Steady, old man, now!"
"Give her to me!" shouted Forgan, in a frenzy. "Nora, my little Nora! What has happened? what has happened?"
The big fellow had one idol, one warm corner in his heart—his little grandchild.
His rugged brow corrugated, and he was frantic beyond all reason as he covered the still white face with kisses, nestling the motionless child in his arms tenderly.
