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FOUR HEADS BENT CURIOUSLY DOWN. FOUR PAIRS OF EYEBALLS STARED AT THE LABEL
of relief, rose from his stool, wiping the gray sweat from his forehead, and went to the window, staring out into the maelstrom of the storm.
With unabated vigor, the rain beat down from the close, sullen sky, and the wind, an insane, distant thing, moaned and shrilled across the sodden world. In the heart of the storm, events were shaping swiftly.
A gray-faced woman bent above a sleeping baby in a lamp-lit bedroom, trying to fashion her whirling dreads and conjectures into a prayer.
At a crossing of the railroad and highway, in the thick blackness, arose a chorus of yells and curses and the crash of bodies in impact. The handcar, with its evil freight, tottered on the rails, slithered and rolled rackingly into the ditch, beside the wreckage of a farm-wagon and a frenzied, struggling horse. A red lantern, swinging from the rear of the cart, sent sinister flickers over the chaos of struggling, swearing men.
"Wot d'ye mean, ye blank rubes, runnin' us down?"
"Who did th' runnin ', I'd like t' know? Why wasn't yure blamed car lighted, anvhow?"
"Beat it, you fellers! beat it!"
"Land sakes! what's in this can?"
A match sputtered bluely in an uncertain hand. The occupants of the handcar stayed only for a glance; then, with wild yells of terror, were off into the darkness.
"Blame it! th' match's gone out.. Strike a glim, Hi."
The red lantern swung above the can, held in a drunken grasp. Four heads bent curiously down. Four pairs of eyeballs stared at the label. Four hoarse yells echoed, fleeing thru the night. Left alone, the countryman fumbled in his pockets, with uncouth imprecations. A second match cracked into light above the painted word. "Dynamite !" then fell, wavering, into the top of the can. Sobered, the man raised an arm, hurling the hissing menace away to