S peeding more than 1000 travelers homeward from New York City, The Broker, crack Jersey-shore commuter train, was nearing a tem porary trestle at Woodbridge, N. J. Six trains had previously passed over this newly built trestle safely. But The Broker did not. With a flash of sparks and a giant roar, the train jumped the track, plunged down a 25-foot embankment. Coaches piled up in a tangled mass of grotesque wreckage. This disaster of February 6, 1951, was to prove the fourth-worst train wreck in American history: 85 killed, 500 injured. Here is the amazing story of one man among the injured —Bob Stout, of Locust, N. J.—and of the abounding and contagious faith of one woman—his wife, Mildred. Mildred Stout had just started cooking dinner. She only half heard the radio on the shelf above the sink: ‘‘Passengers mangled . . . Some of The Broker’s victims identified . . .” The Broker! Bob was on that train! The Rev.’ Roger J. Squire, pastor of the First Methodist Church of nearby Red Bank, N. J., had many parishioners on The Broker. His wife, listening to the radio, took down the names of those mentioned. Then the pastor went from house to house, lending sympathy and offering what help he could. He came to the Stout home as Mildred was kneeling by the crib of her child. The Rev. Mr. Squire offered a
and deeper into unconsciousness. He responded to no stimuli, no tests. His condition was too critical to permit X rays, but severe brain injury was susjfected. Mildred stayed in his room, praying almost constantly. The Rev. Mr. Squire was one of the few callers allowed. Wednesday passed. And Thursday. Every feeble pulse beat, every faint breath could have been the last. But, incredibly, Bob hung on. On Friday an eminent neurosur geon was called in. He scheduled an exp lora tory operation for Sunday noon. He didn’t mince words: the T he story, Master, Heal Him, is one we believe every Christian should read. There isn’t a per son who doesn’t have some need. And Jesus Christ is vitally inter ested in our every need. He cares far more for us than we could ever possibly care for ourselves. He is more anxious to answer than we are to ask. These things we know on the authority of His word. Each morning the editorial staff of the K in g ’ s B u s in e s s magazine gathers for prayer. Over the years God has answered the heart-cry of thousands. Should you have a request we would count it a priv-
brief prayer for Bob and his family. Then he went on to others. Mildred felt a little better. Tall, lanky, -red- 11eaded, Bob was beloved in the church. Both Stouts sang in the choir, and Mildred remembered that she was to sing a solo on Sunday. The radio droned on. Some sur vivors were reaching their homes. To other families telephones were bring ing the wonderful words: I’m safe. But the Stout phone didn’t ring. And Bob didn’t come home. Mildred set out for Woodbridge. Snow was taking on the eerie colors of the scene as she approached the wreck. She heard the hiss of cutting torches, saw stretcher after stretcher being carried away. She joined the crowd seeking information at the nearby police station. There were women with twisted handkerchiefs, men trying hard to conceal tears, the incessant loudspeaker. Finally at 12:30 a.m. the beloved name came over the speaker: Robert Stout, in jured, Perth Amboy General Hospital. The three-mile drive to Perth Am boy was endless, the search through the hospital terrifying. Everywhere the injured, the dying, the dead. Bob, when Mildred found him, was tied in a strait jacket, crazed from a head injury. On his chart was the prelim inary diagnosis: Possible skull frac ture. And then: Last rites given at 10 p.m. Some kindly priest had done all he could. Next day Bob Stout sank deeper
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