the rail. The murderous rock, standing in the middle of the deep stream, showed still three or four feet above the surface of the river.
The roadmaster, another Irishman, whose name, I think, was Hickey, came from the smoking car, took in the situation at a glance, and being used to such wrecks, ran along the bank below to be at hand if either of the engine-men came to the surface.
Hickey, overjoyed at finding Ryan, dazed and dripping, seated upon a rock, caught the wet driver in his arms,—for they were very dear friends,—and, turning the pale face up to the moon, asked anxiously: "Tom, are yez hurted? I say, Tom, spake to me. Tom, tell me, are yez hurted?"
Tom, upon hearing the voice of his friend, realized that he was really alive, and said coolly: "Hurted, now why the devil should I be hurted?"
"That's so," said Hickey, whose wit was as handy as was that of his friend. "That's so, I wonder yez got wetted."
They worked for two days and nights before the Rockaway could be lifted, then she came
