As he came more fully to himself he gave his audience an account of how the maple had fallen across the railroad; how he had realized what the terrible consequences must be unless it was removed and the engineer of the express warned of the danger; how he had been inspired to take his ax and hurry to the scene and work diligently as long as he could to remove the obstruction, and, when he found that would be impossible, he had run forward and waved his red handkerchief to stop the train.
His listeners were thrilled with admiration and gratitude in view of his heroism and the incalculable debt which they owed him. Their sympathies were also enlisted for him, for they saw that he was a fine, manly fellow, and capable of far better things than serving a farmer, as a bound boy, for a mere pittance.
One gentleman, a resident of New Haven, said he knew something of his history, having learned it through the principal of the academy in the town where he lived, and he had never heard anything but good of him, while he was sure he had been under a hard master during the last four years.
The result of this was a proposition to see what could be done in the way of a testimonial to manifest the appreciation of the passengers, who had been rescued from probable death.
Two gentlemen were appointed in every car to see what they could raise toward this end, and they worked so zealously and to such good purpose that a handsome sum had been realized before the train steamed into the New Haven station.
Pretty Mollie Heatherford had listened to the thrilling story with bated breath and gleaming eyes, her cheeks glowing with repressed excitement.
“Why, he is a hero!” she cried, enthusiastically, as she emptied her purse—after reserving simply a carriage-fare, in case no one should meet her in New York—into the hat of the gentleman who told the tale in her hearing. “I want to see him. I want to shake hands with him, and thank him personally,” and she secretly determined that she would do so. When the train stopped at New Haven she was the first one to alight from the coach, eager to catch a glimpse of the young hero.
She pushed her way toward the baggage-car, in which a couch had been extemporized for the youth, and stood close beside the steps as young Faxon came down.
He was still very pale, but was fast recovering his strength, and the girl thought his face—although his features were not as clear-cut or as regular as Philip Wentworth’s—the finest, the manliest she had ever seen.