doctor a young man drove up rapidly and sprang out of a
buggy, trusting to some one to catch his horse, pushed, through the ring
of people, and bent over the wounded farmer. In an instant he had whipped
out a knife, cut a stick from one of the alders, knotted his handkerchief
around the man's leg, ran the stick through the knot, and twisted the
handkerchief until the blood ceased to flow. They watched him, paralyzed,
as the helpless in this world watch the capable, and before he had
finished his task the train crew and some passengers began to arrive.

"Have you a doctor aboard, Charley?" the young man asked.

"No," answered the conductor, who had been addressed; "my God, not one,
Austen."

"Back up your train," said Austen, "and stop your baggage car here. And
go to the grove," he added to one of the 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