mile beyond the wreck, with the engineer and fireman clinging to it.
The lighter portion of the train had struck the embankment of the narrow river. The day cars were piled across the track beyond; the threes Pullmans, smashed and heaped on top of one another, hung on the edge of the broken bridge.
Gordon, with the two women and children, finally found a man who had some sense—a fat drummer seated on his sample-cases calmly putting on his shoes by the light of the burning cars.
He was talking to a younger drummer sitting near, who fidgeted and kept looking about nervously.
"Take it easy, sonny. Put on your shoes," he said, soothingly.
"This is awful!" the young one sighed.
"Well, we're all right, top side up, marked 'with care.' Don't worry. Put on your shoes. You can't walk in this glass barefoot."
When he saw Gordon and his party he stopped tying his shoes and laughed.
"Well, partner, you look like a patriarch who's lost his way. Ain't none of your family got shoes?"
He looked at Gordon's bleeding feet and at Kate and Ruth shivering behind him in the rain.
Gordon smiled and shook his head.
The fat man hastily pulled off his own shoes, snatched off those of the younger man beside him and offered them to the ladies.
"They won't be what you might call a stylish fit,
