Paul brought down his club on the man's arm with such force that he howled with pain.

He had the prostrate manufacturer's pocket-book in his hand as he spoke, and was about transferring it to his pocket, when Paul, perceiving that no time was to be lost, brought down his club on the man's arm with such force that he howled with pain and dropped the pocket-book, exclaiming:

"You've broken my arm, you young vagabond! I'll kill you for that!"

But he was in too great pain to set about it at once. He began to nurse his injured arm, casting the while black looks of hatred at the intrepid train boy.

Just then Mr. Bradford opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, in a bewildered voice.

Paul bent over him, and asked, anxiously:

"Are you much hurt, Mr. Bradford?"

"Is it you, my boy. Tell me where I am."

"An accident has happened. The train ran off the track."

"I understand now. It was all so sudden. I was reading, and must have become unconscious."

"Are you hurt? Are any of your limbs broken, sir?" asked Paul, anxiously.

As Paul was bending over Mr. Bradford, the boy saw a quick expression of terror on the rich man's face.

"Look out!" he said, in agitation.

Paul, instinctively guessing that the danger came from the villain he had foiled, sprang aside just in time to avoid a terrible blow which had been aimed at his head by the very club he had himself used. The blow falling on empty air, by its very impetuosity upset the wretch who sought to inflict it, and he tumbled prone over the body of Bradford.

But he had made a serious mistake. The engineer of the train, a man of immense strength, had seen the abortive attempt, and he sprang forward.

When the train-wrecker was attempting to rise, he found himself seized by the collar by an iron hand. He was jerked to his feet with a power against which he was powerless to contend, and shaken till his bones seemed to rattle.

"What are you trying to do, you rascal?" he exclaimed.

"Stop shaking me, and I will tell you," said the man, sullenly.

"There; now tell me at once," said the engineer, still grasping him firmly, but ceasing to shake him.

"That boy almost broke my arm," said the train-wrecker, with a look of furious malice, "and I mean to get even with him; that's the whole of it."

"No; it isn't quite the whole," said Paul. "What were you doing when I struck you?"

"Taking care of this man."

"Taking care of him!" retorted the train boy, in a tone of sarcasm. "I'll tell you how he was taking care of him, Mr. Barnes; he was rifling his pockets."

"You lie!" said the man, ferociously.

"I tell the truth. You had in your hand Mr. Bradford's wallet, which you had taken from his pocket, and you were about transferring it to your own."

"Ha!" exclaimed the engineer, a sudden light breaking upon him. "Were you a passenger on this train?"

"Yes.""Did you see him, Paul, in your rounds?" asked the official.

"No. I am sure he was not on the train."

"The boy lies! As if he could remember all the passengers!"

"Here is a man that will remember," said Paul, as the conductor came up. "Mr. Bingham, was this man a passenger?"

The conductor scanned the face of the wrecker, and promptly answered:

"No. If I had collected fare from him I should have remembered him."

"I believe this is the man that wrecked the train," said the engineer.

"It's a base lie!" exclaimed the train-wrecker, growing pale, as he saw his crime brought home to him. "You are all in a conspiracy against me."

As two other passengers came up, the engineer asked:

"Is there any one here that remembers seeing this man?"

"I do," said a plain, farmer-looking man, who had just come up.

"You were not on the train yourself," said the conductor, suspiciously, thinking it was one of the wrecker's confederates.

"Of course I wasn't," was the prompt reply. "I was forty rods away, in yonder field. I saw this man placing the rails on the track, just before the train came along; and surmising mischief, I hurried to the road to see if I could signal the train and save it. But I came too late. The scoundrel had done his work."

The brawny engineer, at this confirmation of his suspicions, shook the hapless wrecker as if he would shake him to pieces, and was about to order him bound, when a shot from some unknown quarter penetrated the forehead of the villain, and with a half-uttered cry he fell to the earth.

Who fired the fatal shot was never discovered, but only two rods away stood a tall man, rough in aspect, who looked like a Western hunter. He stood motionless and impassive, but it was generally supposed that it was he who dealt swift retribution to the fiend whose success only brought him death. It was felt that his fate was deserved, and no troublesome inquiries were made. No one could pity the wretch who died amid the ruin he had wrought.