picnickers, "and bring four or
five carriage cushions. And you hold this."

The man beside him took the tourniquet, as he was bid. Austen Vane drew
a note-book from his pocket.

"I want this man's name and address," he said, "and the names and
addresses of every person here, quickly."

He did not lift his voice, but the man who had taken charge of such
a situation was not to be denied. They obeyed him, some eagerly, some
reluctantly, and by that time the train had backed down and the cushions
had arrived. They laid these on the floor of the baggage car and
lifted the man on to them. His name was Zeb Meader, and he was still
insensible. Austen Vane, with a peculiar set look upon his face, sat
beside him all the way into Ripton. He spoke only once, and that was to
tell the conductor to telegraph from Avalon to have the ambulance from
St. Mary's Hospital meet the train at Ripton.

The next day Hilary Vane, returning from one of his periodical trips to
the northern part of the State, invaded his son's office.

"What's this they tell me about your saving a man's life?" he asked,
sinking into one of the vacant chairs and regarding Austen with his
twinkling eyes.

"I don't know what they tell you," Austen answered. "I didn't do
anything but get a tourniquet on his leg and have him put on the train."

The Honourable Hilary grunted, and continued to regard his son. Then he
cut a piece of Honey Dew.

"Looks bad, does it?" he said.

"Well," replied Austen, "it might have been done better. It was bungled.
In a death-trap as cleverly conceived as that crossing, with a down
grade approaching it, they ought to have got the horse too."

The Honourable Hilary grunted again, and inserted the Honey Dew. He
resolved to ignore the palpable challenge in this remark, which was in
keeping with this new and serious mien in Austen.

"Get the names of witnesses?" was his next question.

"I took particular pains to do so."

"Hand 'em over to Tooting. What kind of man is this Meagre?"

"He is rather meagre now," said Austen, smiling a little. "His name's
Meader."

"Is he likely to make a fuss?"

"I think he is," said Austen.

"Well," said the Honourable Hilary, "we must have Ham Tooting hurry
'round and fix it up with him as soon as he can talk, before one of
these cormorant lawyers gets his claw in him."

Austen said nothing, and after some desultory conversation, in which
he knew how to indulge when he wished to conceal the