“You’ve cut your fist!” he exclaimed. “Come to the office with me till I fix it up for you. There’s dirt in it, likely. Larry, I’m thanking you, too, for what you did,” he added, turning to the brakeman. “I’ll not forget it.”
“Sure, I did nothing,” laughed the brakeman embarrassedly, “only yell!”
“It was his shout that drew my attention,” said Wayne. “He tried hard to get to him.”
“What matter now?” muttered the brakeman. “’Tis all over, and ’twas you was Johnny-on-the-Spot, feller. ’Twas finely done, too, and no mistake! I take my hat off to you for a fine, quick-thinkin’ and quick-doin’ laddie!”
“Why, I know you now!” said Jim Mason at that moment. “I was thinking all the time I’d seen you before. You’re the kid—I mean the young gentleman—that spoke me one morning a couple of weeks ago. You had a nigger boy with you, and a dog. Ain’t I right?”
“Yes, Mr. Mason, but it was more than two weeks ago,” answered Wayne. “I—I’m glad to see you again.”
“Well, if you’re glad, what about me?” bellowed Jim Mason. “Thank you all, fellows. I’ll mend this gentleman’s hand now. Will you come with me, please?”
Wayne followed the man to the farther end of the freight house where, occupying a corner that afforded a view down the long stretch of shining tracks, there was a cubby-hole of an office. A high desk, a correspondingly tall stool, a battered armchair, a straight-backed chair, a stove, and a small table made up the furnishings. The walls held many hooks on which were impaled various documents, a shelf filled with filing-cases, several highly-coloured calendars, a number of pictures cut from magazines and newspapers, and, over one of the two dusty-paned windows, a yard-long framed photograph of “The Lake-to-Coast Limited.” In spite of dust and confusion, a confusion which as Wayne later discovered was more apparent than real, the little office had a cosy, comfortable air, and the sunlight, flooding through the front window, made even the dust-motes glorious.
Jim Mason set the child in a chair, produced a first-aid kit from some place of concealment, and proceeded to repair the damages wrought by the cinders. There was running water outside, and the wounds, none of them more than surface scratches, were first thoroughly cleaned. Then peroxide was liberally applied, the man grunting with satisfaction when the stuff bubbled. Finally surgeon’s tape was put on, and Wayne was discharged. During his administrations Jim Mason asked questions at the rate of a dozen a minute, and soon had Wayne’s history down to date. The liveryman’s callousness wrought him to gruff indignation.