“Have you a doctor aboard, Charley?” the young man asked.
“No,” answered the conductor, who had been addressed; “my God, not one, Austen.”
“Back up your train,” said Austen, “and stop your baggage car here. And go to the grove,” he added to one of the picnickers, “and bring four or five carriage cushions. And you hold this.”
The man beside him took the tourniquet, as he was bid. Austen Vane drew a note-book from his pocket.
“I want this man's name and address,” he said, “and the names and addresses of every person here, quickly.”
He did not lift his voice, but the man who had taken charge of such a situation was not to be denied. They obeyed him, some eagerly, some reluctantly, and by that time the train had backed down and the cushions had arrived. They laid these on the floor of the baggage car and lifted the man on to them. His name was Zeb Meader, and he was still insensible. Austen Vane, with a peculiar set look upon his face, sat beside him all the way into Ripton. He spoke only once, and that was to tell the conductor to telegraph from Avalon to have the ambulance from St. Mary's Hospital meet the train at Ripton.
The next day Hilary Vane, returning from one of his periodical trips to the northern part of the State, invaded his son's office.
“What's this they tell me about your saving a man's life?” he asked, sinking into one of the vacant chairs and regarding Austen with his twinkling eyes.
“I don't know what they tell you,” Austen answered. “I didn't do anything but get a tourniquet on his leg and have him put on the train.”
The Honourable Hilary grunted, and continued to regard his son. Then he cut a piece of Honey Dew.