Allan sat down obediently and placed the mangled head tenderly in his lap. As he looked at the pale face and closed eyes, it was all he could do to keep himself from breaking down. Poor Reddy—good old Reddy—a hero, Allan told himself, with quickening heart, a hero who had not hesitated to risk his life for others.
But they were off!
And how the men worked, pumping up and down until the car fairly flew along the track. They knew the way was clear, since the flier had just passed, and up and down they pumped, up and down, knowing that a few minutes might mean life or death to their comrade. Down the grade they flashed, along the embankment by the river, through the town and into the yards, where a dozen willing hands lifted the inanimate form from the car and bore it tenderly into the baggage-room.
“How did it happen, Welsh?” asked the train-master, after a surgeon had been summoned and an ambulance had taken the still unconscious Reddy to his home.
And Jack told him, while the train-master listened, with only a little nod now and then to show that he understood. At the end he drew a deep breath.
“I thought the flier was gone for sure,” he said. “It would have been the worst wreck in the history of the road. Thank God it was spared us!”
“Yes, thank God,” said Jack, a little hoarsely; “but don’t fergit t’ thank Reddy Magraw, too!”
“We won’t!” said the train-master, with another little nod. “We’ll never forget Reddy.”
“More especially,” added Jack, a little bitterly, “since it’s not th’ first time he’s saved th’ road a bad wreck. He was fergot th’ first time!”
“Yes, I know,” agreed the train-master. “But he wouldn’t have been if I’d had anything to do with it.”