“My name is Dave Dashaway,” he said, “but I have no address, and don’t know how soon I may have.”
“Oh, is that so?” observed the horseman, eyeing his companion curiously.
“Yes, sir. The truth is I’m leaving home in a hurry—but that cannot interest you.”
“Yes, it will,” echoed the horseman. “Tell us all about it, lad. Maybe I can give you some advice that will help you out.”
Dave told his story, and his auditor listened to it with great attention.
“I like your pluck, and your plan to get to Fairfield is all right,” said the horseman. “We’ll be at Brompton in three hours. You’ve now got money enough to carry you to Fairfield and a good deal farther. Your going to Brompton is carrying you directly out of your route, you can ride as far as that, though, get off there and take the first train for Fairfield, see?”
“I shall never forget all your kindness, Mr. Baker,” said Dave gratefully.
Just as a locomotive hitched onto the train of which the stock car was a part, Mr. Baker called in the colored boy. He gave him some orders, and in a few minutes quite a repast was spread out on the table from several hampers in the car.
The train reached Brompton after midnight. Mr. Baker shook hands heartily with Dave.
“I reckon nobody will be hanging around looking for you at this time of night,” he observed. “Good luck to you, youngster. If you have any further trouble with that pesky guardian of yours, drop me a line and I’ll appear on the scene. Write occasionally, anyhow. I’ll be glad to hear how you are getting along. If some mean people don’t interfere, it will be in a good way, for you’re the right kind of a boy to make a success, Dave Dashaway, and Amos Baker says it.”