Railway cars, too, were an old story to our hero. This time he sat openly on the red plush seat, for this conductor also knew Dr. Johns. The journey was not long. In an hour or two the brakeman shouted “Westchester!” and the train stopped.
Dr. Johns and Van climbed down on the wooden platform of a station at a small country village, and looked around.
A boy about ten years old, with honest blue eyes and many freckles, came up and said bashfully,
“This yer’s the dawg?”
“If you are Mr. Trimble’s boy, it is,” said Dr. Johns.
“Yessir, I’m Mr. Trimble’s Pete. Pa’s gone away to-day, and he told me to come fer the dawg.”
“All right, then. Now, this is Van, and you must take the best of care of him, for he’s a great pet at home. He has some bad habits that your father said he could break him of. I think I’ll go to the house, and see where he is to be; there is plenty of time before the return train.”
Pete led the way, and Dr. Johns followed, still holding to Van’s chain. Van gamboled happily along; there was no hint as yet of what was to follow. There was a walk of about ten minutes from the station, past two or three stores, four or five houses, then sunlit meadows. They paused at last before a closely latched gate in a high fence of palings. Pete unfastened the gate, closing it carefully after them, as they went in and up the path to a low frame house, yellow, with green blinds.
A woman, with a motherly face and eyes like Pete’s, came to the door.
“Mrs. Trimble, I suppose? I am Dr. Johns, from the Hospital.”