“Here’s the kid that signaled us,” announced the conductor, picking him up. “I guess if it hadn’t been for him we’d have been late getting in to-night. Much obliged, kid. What’s your name?”
“You’re welcome, sir. James Fairchild’s my name.”
“What? What?” a nervous, officious-looking little man with bushy side whiskers pushed his way through the group. “Did I hear you say this boy saved the train, Conductor?”
“That’s about what it amounts to, I guess.”
The bewhiskered man wrung Kid’s hand until it hurt. The throng—and it seemed now that the entire train of five cars had emptied itself of passengers—crowded closer, voicing admiration and gratitude. Kid, growing more embarrassed and uncomfortable every moment, strove to back away, but he was surrounded on all sides. Others began to shake his hand, and one very large, motherly looking lady actually kissed him, in spite of his struggles! The bewhiskered man was talking a steady stream of words in which the phrase “young hero” occurred at intervals. Kid didn’t follow his discourse very closely; for one thing, he couldn’t because folks kept crowding around and shaking his hand and asking questions, and for another thing he was much too uncomfortable. What he wanted was to rescue his ulster and jacket and get away. Evidently the bewhiskered one had ended in a real burst of eloquence, for something very like a cheer went up from the crowd. The speaker removed his derby hat and it began to circulate from one to another. There came the jingle of coins. It took Kid a minute to realize that a collection was being taken up, and when he did realize it he wanted to get away more than ever. He even muttered something about his coat and tried to squeeze through the throng, but there was always someone to shake him by the hand and tell him what a fine, brave boy he was. The black derby came into sight and disappeared again, jingling louder than before, and the voice of the man with the bushy whiskers still kept on.
“Give generously, good people! This is a time for practical gratitude! Let us show that we fully appreciate the heroic conduct of this brave lad!” And so on and on until Kid hated the bewhiskered one with a great hatred. Finally the hat came back for good just as the fireman finished clearing the rail and the conductor summoned them back to the cars. The bewhiskered man, the derby in one hand and a firm grip of Kid’s sweater in the other, hurried back to the nearest car. At the steps Kid made a stand.
“I—I’ve got to go back and get my things,” he declared.
“Eh? What things, my boy?”
“My jacket and ulster. I left them by the track back there.” Kid nodded toward the end of the cut. At that instant the whistle summoned the flagman in.