"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.
Ezlizbeth's Catholic Church on First Avenue, and every night I'm
listening to the Catholic litany.  So maybe I can be of
some comfort to this poor dying 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 solem voice :

"B-4. I-19. N-38. G-54. O-72. . ."