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A man is struck by a bus on a busy New York City street. 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 clergy of any kind.

"A priest. Please!" the dying man says again.

Then out of the crowd steps a rather short, elderly Jewish man of at least
eighty years of age.

"Officer," says the man, "I'm not a priest. I'm not even a Catholic. My name is
Max Abrams and for fifty years now I've lived behind St. Mary's Catholic Church
on Third Avenue. Every night I've listened to the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be
of some comfort to this man."

The officer agreed and brought the octogenarian over to where the dying man lay.

Mr. Abrams kneels down, leans over the injured and says in a solemn voice:
"B - 4. I - 19. N - 38. G - 54. O - 72."

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