But he was badly “fixed,” and “hurted” unto death also, as we now found, and as he insisted he was not.  His hip was severely crushed by the timbers and his legs broken, as well as his internal organs disarranged, although we did not know how badly at the time.  Only after we had removed all the weight did he collapse and perhaps personally realize how serious was his plight.  He was laid on a canvas tarpaulin brought by the yard-master and spread on the chip-strewn ground, while the doctors from two ambulances worked over him.  While they were examining his wounds he took a critical and quizzical interest in what they were doing, and offered one or two humorous suggestions.  Finally, when they were ready to move him he asked how he was, and on being told that he was all right, looked curiously about until he caught my eye.  I could see that he realized how critical it was with him.

“I’d like to see a priest, Teddy,” he whispered, “and, if ye don’t mind, I’d like ye to go up to Mount Vernon an’ tell me wife.  They’ll be after telegraphin’ her if ye don’t.  Break it aisy, if ye will.  Don’t let ’er think there’s anything serious.  There’s no need av it.  I’m naht hurted so bad as aall that.”

I promised, and the next moment one of the doctors shot a spray of cocaine into his hip to relieve what he knew must be his dreadful pain.  A few moments later he lost consciousness, after which I left him to the care of the hospital authorities and hurried away to send the priest and to tell his wife.

For a week thereafter he lingered in a very serious condition and finally died, blood-poisoning having set in.  I saw him at the hospital a day or two before, and, trying to sympathize with his condition, I frequently spoke of what I deemed the dreadful uncertainty of life and the seeming carelessness of the engineer in charge of the hoisting engine.  He, however, had no complaint to make.

“Ye must expect thim things,” was his only comment.  “Ye can’t aalways expect to go unhurted.  I niver lost a man before, nor had one come to haarm.  ’Tis the way av things, ye see.”

Mighty Rourke!  You would have thought the whole Italian population of Mount Vernon knew and loved him, the way they turned out at his funeral.  It was a state affair for most of them, and they came in scores, packing the little brick church at which he was accustomed to worship full to overflowing.  Matt was there, bandaged and sore, but sorrowful; and Jimmie, artful and scheming in the past, but now thoroughly subdued.  He was all sorrow, and sniveled and blubbered and wept hot, blinding tears through the dark, leathery fingers of his hands.

“Misha Rook!  Misha Rook!” I heard him say, as they bore the body in; and when they carried it out of the church, he followed, head down.  As they lowered it to the grave he was inconsolable.

“Misha Rook!  Misha Rook!  I work-a for him fifteen year!”

A Mayor and His People