The wreck by which the terrific speed of the special had been so suddenly checked was one of those that may happen at any time even on the best and most carefully-managed of railroads.  The through freight, of which ex-Brakeman Joe was now conductor, had made its run safely and without incident to a point within twenty miles of New York.  It was jogging along at its usual rate of speed when suddenly and without the slightest warning an axle under a “foreign” car, near the rear of the train, snapped in two.  In an instant the car leaped from the rails and across the west-bound tracks, dragging the rear end of the freight, including the caboose, after it.  Before the dazed train-hands could realize what was happening, the heavy locomotive of a west-bound freight that was passing the east-bound train at that moment crashed into the wreck.  It struck a tank-car filled with oil.  Like a flash of lightning a vast column of fire shot high in the air and billows of flame were roaring in every direction.  These leaped from one to another of the derailed cars, until a dozen belonging to both trains, as well as the west-bound locomotive, were enveloped in their cruel embrace.

Conductor Joe escaped somehow, but he was bruised, shaken, and stunned by the suddenness and awfulness of the catastrophe.  In spite of his bewilderment, however, his years of training as a brakeman were not forgotten.  Casting but a single glance at the blazing wreck, he turned and ran back along the east-bound track.  He was no coward running away from duty and responsibility, though almost any one who saw him just then might have deemed him one.  No, indeed!  He was doing what none but a faithful and experienced railroad man would have thought of doing under the circumstances; doing his best to avert further calamity by warning approaching trains from the west of the danger before them.  He ran half a mile and then placed the torpedoes, which, with a brakeman’s instinct, he still carried in his pocket.

Bang-bang! Bang!  Engineman Newman, driving locomotive number 385 at nearer one hundred miles an hour than it had ever gone before, heard the sharp reports above the rattling roar of his train, and realized their dread significance.  It was a close call, and only cool-headed promptness could have checked the tremendous speed of that on-rushing train in the few seconds allowed for the purpose.  As it was, 385’s paint was blistering in the intense heat from the oil flames as it came to a halt and then slowly backed to a place of safety.

Conductor Joe had already returned to the scene of the wreck and was sending out other men with torpedoes and flags in both directions.  Then he joined the brave fellows who were fighting for the lives of those still imprisoned in the wrecked caboose.  Among these were Rod Blake, Conductor Tobin, and the sheriff.  Snyder Appleby had turned sick at the heartrending sights and sounds to be seen and heard on all sides, and had gone back to his car to escape them.  He did not believe a soul could be saved, and he had not the nerve to listen to the pitiful cries of those whom he considered doomed to a certain destruction.

In thus accepting defeat without a struggle, Snyder exhibited the worst form of cowardice, and if the world were made up of such as he, there would be no victories to record.  But it is not.  It not only contains those who will fight against overwhelming odds, but others who never know that they are beaten, and where indomitable wills often snatch victory from what appears to be defeat.  General Grant was one of these, and Rod Blake was made of the same stuff.

Again and again he and those with him plunged into the stifling smoke to battle with the fierce flames in their stronghold.  They smothered them with clods of earth and buckets of sand.  They cut away the blazing woodwork with keen-edged wrecking axes torn from their racks in the uninjured caboose and in Snyder Appleby’s special car.  One by one they released and dragged out the victims, of whom the fire had been so certain, until none was left, and a splendid victory had been snatched from what had promised to be a certain defeat.

There was a farm-house not far away, to which the victims of the disaster were tenderly borne.  Here, too, came their rescuers, scorched, blackened, and exhausted; but forgetful of their own plight in their desire to further relieve the sufferings of those for whom they had done such brave battle.  In one of the wounded men Rod Blake was especially interested, for the young brakeman had fought on with a stubborn determination to save him after the others had declared it to be impossible.  The man had been a passenger in the caboose of the through freight, and was so crushed and held by the shattered timbers of the car that, though the rescuing party reached his side, they were unable to drag him out.  A burst of flame drove them back and forced them to rush into the open air to save their own lives.  Above the roar of the fire they could distinguish his piteous cries, and this was more than Rod could stand.  With a wet cloth over his mouth and axe in hand he dashed back into the furnace.  He was gone before the others knew what he was about to attempt, and now they listened with bated breath to the sound of rapid blows coming from behind the impenetrable veil of swirling smoke.  As it eddied upward and was lifted for an instant they caught sight of him, and rushing to the spot, they dragged him out, with his arms tightly clasped about the helpless form he had succeeded in releasing from its fiery prison.

At that moment the young brakeman presented a sorry picture, blackened beyond recognition by his dearest friends, scorched, and with clothing hanging in charred shreds.  By some miracle he was so far uninjured that a few dashes of cold water gave him strength to walk, supported by Conductor Tobin, to the farm-house, whither the others bore the unconscious man whom he had saved.  The lad wished to help minister to the needs of the sufferer, but those who had cheered his act of successful bravery now insisted upon his taking absolute rest.  So they made him lie down in a dimly-lighted room, where the sheriff sat beside him, and, big rough man that he was, soothed the exhausted lad with such tender gentleness, that after awhile the latter fell asleep.  When this happened and the sheriff stole quietly out to where the others were assembled, he said emphatically: 

“Gentlemen, I am prouder to know that young fellow than I would be of the friendship of a president.”