A man is crossing a busy street in New York City when he is unexpectedly struck by a bus. As the man lies dying on the sidewalk, a crowd of spectators gathers around.
“A priest. Somebody get me a priest!” the man gasps.
A policeman looks around, checks the crowd. No priest, no minister, no man of God of any kind.
“A PRIEST, PLEASE!” the dying man says again.
Suddenly, out of the crowd steps a little old scruffy 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 old fellow 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 the O, 72. . .”
