A man is
struck by a bus on a busy
street in in New York City.
He lies dying on the sidewalk as a crowd of
spectators gathers around.

“A priest. Somebody get me a priest!”
the man gasps. A policeman
checks the crowd—-no priest, no
minister, no man of God of any kind.

“A PRIEST, PLEASE!” the dying man
says again. Then out of the
crowd steps a little old Jewish man of
at least eighty years of age.

“Mr. Policeman,” says the man,
“I’m not a priest. I’m not even
a Catholic. But for fifty years now
I’m living behind St. Elizabeth’s
Catholic Church on First 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
the octogenarian over to where
the dying man lay. He kneels down,
leans over the injured and says
in a solemn voice:

“Under the B,
4. Under the I, 19. Under the N, 38.
Under the G, 54. Under th
e O, 72. . .”