e road. He finally discovered
a side path through the woods that led him to the farm-house where, on
account of his readily concocted tale, he received and accepted a cordial
invitation to breakfast.

As for Rod, his disappointment at not finding the proof of which he had
been so confident was so great that he hardly uttered a protest, when
instead of carrying him to Millbank or any other station on the line where
he might have found friends, his captors turned into a cross-road from the
left and journeyed directly away from the railroad.

In about an hour they reached the village of Center where the young
brakeman, escorted by half the population of the place, was conducted
through the main street to the county jail. Here he was delivered to the
custody of the sheriff with such an account of his terrible deeds, and
strict injunctions as to his safe keeping, that the official locked him
into the very strongest of all his cells. As the heavy door clanged in
his face, and Rod realized that he was actually a prisoner, he vaguely
wondered if railroad men often got into such scrapes while attempting the
faithful discharge of their duties.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A WELCOME VISITOR.

To be cast into jail and locked up in a cell is not a pleasant experience
even for one who deserves such a fate; while to an honest lad like Rodman
Blake who had only tried to perform what he considered his duty to the
best of his ability, it was terrible. In vain did he assure himself that
his friends would soon discover his predicament and release him from it.
He could not shake off the depressing influence of that narrow room, of
the forbidding white walls, and the grim grating of the massive door. He
was too sensible to feel any sense of disgrace in being thus wrongfully
imprisoned; but the horror of the situation remained, and it seemed as
though he should suffocate behind those bars if not speedily released.

In the meantime the sheriff, whose breakfast had been interrupted by the
arrival of the self-appointed constables and their prisoner, returned to
his own pleasant dining-room to finish that meal. He was a bachelor, and
the only other occupant of the room was his mother, who kept house for
him, and was one of the dearest old ladies in the world. She was a
Quakeress, and did not at all approve of her son's occupation. As she
could not change it, however, she made the best use of the opportunities
for doing good afforded by his posit