"Mr. Vane, sir," he said, "do you know the meaning of the word courage?"
"Yes," answered Laurie, promptly.
"And sense—good, hard, barnyard sense, Mr. Vane, sir?"
"Yes," again replied Laurie.
"And, Mr. Vane, sir, do you think you're treatin' your father right?"
"N-n-no," said Laurie, not at all promptly.
"Well, Mr. Vane, sir," continued Blundon, rising, and getting his lantern, "I don't think you can lay any extravagant claims to either sense or courage as long as you don't know how to make the first advance toward your own father, when you know you ain't treatin' him right. There's the express going in the tunnel."
Laurie rose too with a grave face. Blundon's words were few, but Laurie had learned to know the man, and to respect him deeply; and Laurie knew that Blundon's words were a strong condemnation.
The two went out upon the little platform to see the express pass. The night was very dark, without moon or stars. In a minute or two the train, a blaze of light from end to end, dashed out of the tunnel, and with one wild scream took the three-mile straight stretch down-grade like a streak of lightning. Not half the distance had been covered, when Blundon, almost dropping the lantern in his surprise, shouted, "She's slowing up to stop!"
Almost by the time the words were out of his mouth the locomotive was within fifty yards of them, and with a clang, a bang, and a snort it came to a full stop. The conductor had jumped off while the train was still moving, and he ran up to Blundon and Laurie.