We were an excited group around the train's crew, when the
trackman came up with his torch. Everybody asked the same
question as the man approached.
"What caused the accident?"
"Spread rails," he said. "These big brutes," he pointed to the
mammoth engine sprawling like a child's top on its side, the
gigantic wheels in the air, "and these new steel coaches, are
awful heavy. There's an upgrade here. When they struck it,
they just spread out the rails."
And he pushed his closed hands out before him, slowly apart, in
illustration.
The man knew Marion, for he spoke directly to her in reply to our
concerted query. Then he added "If you step down the track, Miss
Warfield, I'll show you exactly how it happened."
We followed the big workman with his torch. Marion walked beside
him, and I a few steps behind. The girl had been plunged, on the
instant, headlong into the horror she feared, into the ruin that
she had lain awake over - and yet she met it with no sign, except
that grim stiffening of the figure that disaster brings to
persons of courage. She gave no attention to her exquisite gown.
It was torn to pieces that night; my own was a ruin.
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