“What’s up?” hailed the policeman, running up breathlessly.
“A man tried to rob me,” explained Frank.
“Thought I made out a struggle. Did he get anything?”
“No.”
“Where did he go?”
Frank pointed towards the fan-shaped network of tracks melting into the gloom of the switchyards.
The policeman ran in that direction. Frank did not accompany him. He did not believe the officer would catch the thief. Besides, Frank was more interested in the strange young fellow who had done him such good service in his time of need.
Frank stepped up on the coach platform and peered up and down the sidings near by. His rescuer was nowhere in sight. Frank was sorry for this. The boy had struck him as a hard-luck object. His manifest reluctance against being seen by the officer suggested something sinister about him.
Frank stood waiting for the return of the policeman, a vivid picture of his rescuer in his mind. The boy had worn a cap pulled far down over his eyes. He seemed young, yet Frank recalled that he wore a moustache.
“I’d like to give him something for saving me the loss of all that money,” said Frank. “The poor fellow looked as if he needed it. Any trace of the man, sir?”