we were wrong,
but there was the red light. I yelled, 'Jump, Dad!' and he yelled,
'Jump, son!' Didn't you, Dad?

"He jumped; but I wasn't ever going to jump and my engine going full
against a red lamp. Not much.

"I kind of dodged down behind the head; when she struck it was biff, and
she jumped about twenty feet up straight. She didn't? Well, it seemed
like it. Then it was biff, biff, biff, one after another. With that
train behind her she'd have gone through Beverly Hill. Did you ever buck
snow with a rotary, Mr. Reed? Well, that was about it, even to the
rolling and heaving. Dad, want to lie down? Le' me get another pillow
behind you. Isn't that better? Poor Musgrave!" he added, speaking of the
engineer of 55, who was instantly killed. "He and the fireman both. Hard
lines; but I'd rather have it that way, I guess, if I was wrong. Eh,
Dad?"

Even after Georgie went to work, Dad lay in the hospital. We knew he
would never shovel coal again. It cost him his good back to lift Georgie
loose, so the surgeon told us; and I could believe it, for when they got
the jacks under the cab next morning, and Neighbor told the
wrecking-gang that Hamilton alone had lifted it six inches the night
before, on his back, the wrecking-boss fairly snorted at the statement;
but Hamilton did, just the same.

"Son," muttered Dad, one night to Georgie, sitting with him, "I want you
to write a letter for me."

"Sure."

"I've been sending money to my boy back East," explained Dad, feebly. "I
told you he's in school."

"I know, Dad."

"I haven't been able to send any since I've been by, but I'm going to
send some when I get my relief. Not so much as I used to send. I want
you to kind of explain why."

"What's his first name, Dad, and where does he live?"

"It's a lawyer that looks after him--a man that 'tends to my business
back there."

"Well, what's his name?"

"Scaylor--Ephraim Scaylor."

"Scaylor?" echoed Georgie, in amazement.

"Yes. Why, do you know him?"

"Why, that's the man mother and I had so much trouble with. I wouldn't
write to that man. He's a rascal, Dad."

"What did he ever do to you and your mother?"

"I'll tell you, Dad; though it's a matter I don't talk about much. My
father had trouble back there fifteen or sixteen years ago. He was
running an engine, and had a wreck; there were some passengers killed.
The dispatcher managed to throw the blame on father, and they indicted
him for man-slaughter. He pretty