As he staggered to his feet the thought of his mission came to him. How late was it? He looked at the sun. It seemed much higher in the heavens. Could it be possible that he was too late for the train? He glanced at his watch. It was no longer going. The force with which he had fallen had stopped it and the hands marked nine thirteen. He remembered that a few minutes before his fall it had been nine eight. How long had he lain there?

Suddenly a thrill ran through his veins. Over the hill came the shrill whistle of a locomotive. It must be the train that Flannigan was to meet. There wasn’t any other that morning. Could he possibly be in time? He knew that it would take him at least fifteen minutes, doing his best, to get there. The train would get to the station in less than five,—might be there now. Even yet, he told himself, he might be in time! Perhaps there would be a car to be shifted on a siding. Even after the train had gone, Flannigan might stop for a chat and gossip with the station agent. There might be some delay in signing for the express package. A dozen things might happen to help him. At least he might get near enough to wave his arms and attract attention.

While these thoughts rushed through his mind, now clearing from the effects of the fall, he had struggled to his feet and started dizzily on his way. At first he staggered, but with every step he felt himself getting stronger. Only a little part of the remaining distance was up a slight ascent but after that it would be easy sailing. All the way from that to the station would be down hill.

A groan passed from his lips as he reached the brow of the hill, half a mile from the Junction. The train had reached the station, let off a single passenger and, grunting and groaning, was just pulling out. Alongside the platform was a buckboard drawn by an old white horse. Holding the reins was a thick-set, sturdy figure, whom he recognized as Flannigan. Jack shouted but they could not hear him at that distance. He blew his Scout’s whistle but still there was no sign. He ran on, waving his hands wildly. Their backs were to him and no one saw him. A solitary passenger stepped into the buckboard, Flannigan gathered up the reins, the old white horse started off and disappeared around a turn of the road just as Jack rushed up to the station.

He was too late!

CHAPTER XVII
JACK’S RUN FOR LIFE

Too late! The horrible truth flashed across him as he flung himself on the platform, unable to speak and almost unable to breathe. He had failed! He had been entrusted with that mission and he had failed. A life, perhaps two lives now, could have been saved by a word from him and he had failed! The picture of the men jogging quietly along the road on that beautiful morning without a thought or dream of danger, going to a certain robbery and perhaps to death came before him. He put his hands over his eyes and groaned aloud.

What would Mr. Durland say? What would the Scouts say? Above all, what would his own conscience say to the last day of his life? He had never yet fallen short in any important mission and now on this day of all days he had come miserably short, and he felt that he could never forgive himself as long as he lived.

How bitterly he blamed his carelessness in crossing the brook! Of course it was an accident, and after it had happened he had done his best to remedy it. But why had the accident happened? Why had he not been more careful? Why had he trusted that treacherous stone in crossing the brook? His heart swelled up in bitter self-reproach. But what was the use of that now? That wouldn’t save a life. He was too late!

But was he too late? The thought came to him like an electric shock and roused him from his despair. How did he know but what he might yet save them? While there was life, there was hope. Was he, Jack Danby, to lie there like a coward and give up supinely while lives hung in the balance? No, a thousand times no! He sprang to his feet, pushed through the door and rushed into the little office.