e buggy."

"What did he want?" asked Austen, curiously. Mr. Tooting winked.

"Say, those millionaires are queer, and no mistake. You'd think a fellow
that only had to cut coupons wouldn't be lookin' for another job,
wouldn't you? He made me hitch my horse, and had me into his study, as he
called it, and gave me a big glass of whiskey and soda. A fellow with
buttons and a striped vest brought it on tiptoe. Then this Crewe gave me
a long yellow cigar with a band on it and told me what the State needed,
--macadam roads, farmers' institutes, forests, and God knows what. I told
him all he had to do was to get permission from old man Flint, and he
could have 'em."

"What did he say to that?"

"He said Flint was an intimate friend of his. Then he asked me a whole
raft of questions about fellows in the neighbourhood I didn't know he'd
ever heard of. Say, he wants to go from Leith to the Legislature."

"He can go for all I care," said Austen, as he pushed open the door of
the restaurant.

For a few days Mr. Meader hung between life and death. But he came of a
stock which had for generations thrust its roots into the crevices of
granite, and was not easily killed by steam-engines. Austen Vane called
twice, and then made an arrangement with young Dr. Tredway (one of the
numerous Ripton Tredways whose money had founded the hospital) that he
was to see Mr. Meader as soon as he was able to sustain a conversation.
Dr. Tredway, by the way, was a bachelor, and had been Austen's companion
on many a boisterous expedition.

When Austen, in response to the doctor's telephone message, stood over
the iron bed in the spick-and-span men's ward of St. Mary's, a wave of
that intense feeling he had experienced at the accident swept over him.
The farmer's beard was overgrown, and the eyes looked up at him as from
caverns of suffering below the bandage. They were shrewd eyes, however,
and proved that Mr. Meader had possession of the five senses--nay, of the
six. Austen sat down beside the bed.

"Dr. Tredway tells me you are getting along finely," he said.

"No thanks to the railrud," answered Mr. Meader; "they done their best."

"Did you hear any whistle or any bell?" Austen asked.

"Not a sound," said Mr. Meader; "they even shut off their steam on that
grade."

Austen Vane, like most men who are really capable of a deep sympathy, was
not an adept at expressing it verbally. Moreover, he knew enough of his
fellow-men to realize that a P