The second day of Markham’s residence in Greenville, he had done quite an heroic act. It had made the railroad men his friends. One of their number had celebrated pay day too freely. He had stumbled across a track.
Markham had run at the top of his speed, and had even risked life and limb to reach him in time to drag him out of the way of a freight train backing down upon him.
“Mr. Young,” said Markham, running into the depot by one side door as Sherry left it by another, “you remember me?”
“Sure, I do. How are you?” said the depot master heartily.
“I’m worried to death to find out what that man who was just here is up to,” said Markham, hurriedly.
“Up to? Down to, you mean,” flared out Young. “He’s served a paper on me as the representative of the railway company, notifying me that we are to hold the car containing Mrs. Ismond’s furniture until the matter of a debt she owes old Dorsett is settled in court.”
“Mrs. Ismond does not rightfully owe him a cent,” asserted Markham. “It’s a mean, malicious trick of the old reprobate to persecute my friend, Frank Newton. Can they stop the car?”
The station agent shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
“They won’t get any help from me,” he said. “That man asked me where the car was. I told him to find out—I wasn’t hunting for it. I’d like nothing better than to delay him for two hours. By five o’clock the north freights will have left the yards. Once out of the county, that furniture would be safe.”
“Thank you,” said Markham. “I’ll see what I can do.”