Bob tried to speak. His voice came almost in a sob.
“Don’t go! The track—the robbers have loosened a rail and——”
“Hullo! it ain’t Boswell at all! Why, what’s the matter with you? Rivers! Jones! Come here!”
The engineer and one of the brakemen came at the call, and all three gazed at the young photographer, whose eyes were closed, and whose form was gradually slipping down on the platform.
“He’s fainting!” went on the conductor. “Here, help me place him on this baggage truck.”
“What did he stop the train for?” asked the engineer, as he assisted in making Bob comfortable.
“I don’t know. He said something about robbers and a loosened rail.”
“Is that so? Wait till I get a bit of water and dash it into his face.”
“He’s been cut on the forehead,” put in the brakeman, “and he seems completely exhausted. You can bet he didn’t stop the train for nothing.”
Water was procured and dashed into Bob’s face. With something of a shudder he came to his senses.