"A priest. Somebody get me a priest!" the man gasps. A policeman checks the crowd----no priest, no minister, no representative of God of any kind.
"A PRIEST, PLEASE!" the dying man says again. Then out of the crowd steps Herb, a little old Jewish man of at least seventy years of age.
"Mr. Policeman," says Herb, "I'm not a priest. I'm not even a Catholic.
But for fifty years now I'm living behind St. Joseph's Catholic Church on 18th Avenue, and every night I'm listening to the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man."
The policeman agreed and brought Herb over to where the dying man lay. Herb kneels down, leans over the injured and says in a solemn voice:
"B-4. I-19. N-38. G-54. O-72. . ."
