was but the thought. He would fight to make it reality; fight to keep
it.

And that night as the train was leaping out of the darkness toward
the lights of the great city, racing toward its haven, rushing like a
falling comet, some one blundered. The world called it a disaster; the
official statement, an accident, an open switch; the press called it
an outrage. Pessimism called it fate--stern mother of the unsavory.
Optimism called it Providence. At all events, the train jammed shut
like a closing telescope. Undiluted Hades was very prevalent for over an
hour. There were groans, screams, prayers--all the jargon of those about
to precipitately return from whence they came. It was not a pleasant
scene. Ghouls were there. But mercy, charity, and great courage were
also there. And Garrison was there.

Fate, the unsavory, had been with him. He had been thrown clear at the
first crash; thrown through his sleeping-berth window. Physically he was
not very presentable. But he fought a good fight against the flames and
the general chaos.

One of the forward cars was a caldron of flame. A baby's cry swung out
from among the roar and smart of the living hell. There was a frantic
father and a demented mother. Both had to be thrown and pounded into
submission; held by sheer weight and muscle.

There were brave men there that night, but there was no sense in giving
two lives for one. Death was reaping more than enough. They would try to
save the "kid," but it looked hopeless. Was it a girl? Yes, and an only
child? She must be pinned under a seat. The fire would be about opening
up on her. Sure--sure they would see what could be done. Anyway, the
roof was due to smash down. But they'd see. But there were lots of
others who needed a hand; others who were not pinned under seats with
the flames hungry for them.

But Garrison had swung on to a near-by horse-cart, jammed into rubber
boots, coats, and helmet, tying a wet towel over nose and mouth. And as
some stared, some cursed, and some cheered feebly, he smashed his way
through the smother of flame to the choking screams of the child.

The roof fell in. A great crash and a spouting fire of flame. An
eternity, and then he emerged like one of the three prophets from the
fiery furnace. Only he was not a Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego. He
was not fashioned from providential asbestos. He was vulnerable. They
carried him to a near-by house. His head had been wonderfully smashed by
the fa