Close by lay
the corpse of a child showing no wound or mark, and next that, something
so mangled that it might have been either man or woman--or neither. The
other victims were humped or sprawled upon the sand in postures of
exaggerated _abandon_; all but one, a blonde young girl whose upthrust
arm seemed to be reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
A group of the uninjured from the forward cars surrounded and enclosed a
confused sound of moaning and crying. Banneker pushed briskly through
the ring. About twenty wounded lay upon the ground or were propped
against the rock-wall. Over them two women were expertly working, one
tiny and beautiful, with jewels gleaming on her reddened hands; the
other brisk, homely, with a suggestion of the professional in her
precise motions. A broad, fat, white-bearded man seemed to be informally
in charge. At least he was giving directions in a growling voice as he
bent over the sufferers. Banneker went to him.
"Doctor?" he inquired.
The other did not even look up. "Don't bother me," he snapped.
The station-agent pushed his first-aid packet into the old man's hands.
"Good!" grunted the other. "Hold this fellow's head, will you? Hold it
hard."
Banneker's wrists were props of steel as he gripped the tossing head.
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