Slowly Burke’s wandering reason returned.  Seeing Shea at his feet, bloodless and apparently unhurt, he kicked him, gently at first, and then harder, and Shea stood up.  Mechanically the waking man took his place by Burke’s side and began pumping, Lucien lying limp between them.  Kelly, they reasoned, must have been dead some time, by the way he was pillowed.

When Shea was reasonably sure that he was alive, he looked at his mate.

“Phat way ar’re ye feelin’?” asked Burke.

“Purty good fur a corpse.  How’s yourself?”

“Oh, so-so!”

“Th’ Lord is good to the Irish.”

“But luck ut poor Kelly.”

“‘Tis too bad,” said Shea, “an’ him dyin’ a Republican.”

“’Tis the way a man lives he must die.”

“Yes,” said Shea, thoughtfully, “thim that lives be the sword must go be the board.”

When they had pumped on silently for awhile, Shea asked, “How did ye load thim, Burke?”

“Why—­I—­I suppose I lifted them aboard.  I had no derrick.”

“Did ye lift me, Burke?”

“I’m damned if I know, Shea,” said Burke, staring ahead, for Kelly had moved.  “Keep her goin’,” he added, and then he bent over the prostrate foreman.  He lifted Kelly’s head, and the eyes opened.  He raised the head a little higher, and Kelly saw the blood upon his beard, on his coat, on his hands.

“Are yez hurted, Kelly?” he asked.

“Hurted!  Man, I’m dyin’.  Can’t you see me heart’s blood ebbin’ over me?” And then Burke, crossing himself, laid the wounded head gently down again.

By this time they were nearing their destination.  Burke, seeing Lucien beyond human aid, took hold again and helped pump, hoping to reach Charlevoix in time to secure medical aid, or a priest at least, for Kelly.

When the hand-car stopped in front of the station at Charlevoix, the employees watching, and the prospective passengers waiting, for the express train gathered about the car.

“Get a docther!” shouted Burke, as the crowd closed in on them.

In a few moments a man with black whiskers, a small hand-grip, and bicycle trousers panted up to the crowd and pushed his way to the car.

“What’s up?” he asked; for he was the company’s surgeon.

“Well, there’s wan dead, wan dying, and we’re all more or less kilt,” said Shea, pushing the mob back to give the doctor room.

Lifting Lucien’s head, the doctor held a small bottle under his nose, and the wounded man came out.  Strong, and the reporter would say “willing hands,” now lifted the car bodily from the track and put it down on the platform near the baggage-room.

When the doctor had revived the French-Canadian and stopped the flow of blood, he took the boss in hand.  Opening the man’s clothes, he searched for the wound, but found none.

They literally stripped Kelly to the waist; but there was not a scratch to be found upon his body.  When the doctor declared it to be his opinion that Kelly was not hurt at all, but had merely fainted, Kelly was indignant.