“A boy’s shot, and you’ve got to take him to Beaufort,” announced Tom, again.
“Where is he?” snapped the conductor, now taking hold of affairs.
“He’s coming. All right, Ned,” encouraged Tom, beckoning to Ned, who was walking as fast as he could, through the field, toward them.
“That him?” demanded the conductor, shortly.
“Yes, sir,” replied Tom. “He’s——”
“Go ahead,” ordered the conductor, turning on his heel, to the engineer. “Young man, this is a dangerous business you’re in—stopping limited trains just for the fun of it. I’ve a mind to take you to town and turn you over to the officers.”
He glared at Tom, and the brakeman glared at Tom, and the fireman and engineer glared at Tom, and all the faces stuck out of the windows of the line of coaches glared at Tom.
The engineer reached for the throttle, and Tom reached for the conductor’s coat-tail.
“Oh, but it’s true, it’s true!” cried Tom. “He is shot. I shot him myself. You look at his shoulder and you’ll see. Please wait! Please wait, just a second. If it isn’t so, you can do anything to me you like. See—how his left sleeve is all torn.”