"Mr. Hudson," faltered Chouchoute, "did you see my pony 'roun' yere anywhere? an'—an' the mail-sack?"
"Your pony's safe in the woods, Chou'te. The mail-bag's on its way to New Orleans"—
"Thank God!" breathed the boy.
"But that poor little fool darkey of yours has about done it for himself, I guess."
"Wash? Oh, Mr. Hudson! w'at's—w'at's happen' to Wash?"
"He's inside there, on my mattress. He's hurt, and he's hurt bad; that's what's the matter. You see the ten forty-five had come in, and she did n't make much of a stop; she was just pushing out, when bless me if that little chap of yours didn't come tearing along on Spunky as if Old Harry was behind him.
"You know how No. 22 can pull at the start; and there was that little imp keeping abreast of her 'most under the thing's wheels.
"I shouted at him. I could n't make out what he was up to, when blamed if he did n't pitch the mail-bag clean into the car! Buffalo Bill could n't have done it neater.
"Then Spunky, she shied; and Wash he bounced against the side of that car and back, like a rubber ball, and laid in the ditch till we carried him inside.
"I've wired down the road for Doctor Campbell to come up on 14 and do what he can for him."