“Where is Aunt Winnie?” demanded Dorothy, suddenly.
“She is at the hotel. And she’s gone to bed,” said Ned, gloomily. “You girls will give Little Mum the conniptions, if you’re not careful. She was awfully worried.”
“But you got our telegram?” cried Dorothy.
“Sure. But it read a good deal like the Irish foreman’s message to the widow of his fellow-countryman suddenly killed in the stone quarry: ‘Don’t worry about Pat. He’s only lost both legs and one arm; and if it wasn’t that his head was cut off, too, he’d be as good as ever.’ Your telegram gave just enough particulars to worry mother.”
“We’ll run and show her we are all right,” cried Tavia.
But Dorothy held back. Her eyes were fixed upon the ragged figure of the old tramp being led out of the station by the two policemen.
“Do you see that poor fellow, Ned?” she whispered. “He wears a Grand Army button—like father.”
“That tramp?” gasped Ned.
“Yes. But maybe he isn’t really a tramp. Only he stole a ride clear from Killock,” and she hastily told her cousins about the stowaway on the steps of the car. “And Ned!” added Dorothy Dale, “I want to save him from punishment. They are going to take him before the magistrate—and the conductor says the magistrate will send him to jail.”
“I expect so,” said Ned, slowly.