Judge Tiffany glanced at the other reporters, clustered about the conductor, at the photographers, holding animated wrangle with the physicians about flashlights.
“Keep her out of your story—you can do that. Say I found him on the train—put me in—that’s a good story enough. Keep my niece out. Keep the others off. Keep those flashlights muffled!”
Mark hurried forward. One look, a look which contorted his face, he bent on Bertram. Then he spoke puzzles to Eleanor.
“You’re Miss Brown, a camper at Santa Eliza, if anyone asks you—and when we leave this train you stay by me and do everything I tell you.”
“Very well.”
Mark touched Bertram’s face with a tenderness 253 almost feminine. “Poor old man!” he whispered; and he hurried back.
A shock-headed youth accosted him.
“What’s up there?” he asked.
“Good story,” answered Mark. “I’ve got it all—don’t you fellows bother. Bertram Chester, old California Varsity tackle, real estate manager for Northrup and Co., seriously injured, may not recover. Get his injuries from the doctor. His late employer, Judge Edward C. Tiffany, reached this train at Santa Eliza and has been taking care of him.”
A voice came from the group of reporters: