Wayne had the grippe, although as neither he nor June had ever had any experience of that complaint neither of them named it that. For four days he was a pretty sick boy, with fever and aches and inflamed eyes, and June was far more worried than he allowed the other to see. June had a mortal fear of “pneumony,” and there was scarcely an hour when he was at home when Wayne wasn’t required to assure him that his chest wasn’t sore and that it didn’t hurt him to breathe. Two of the four nights June got almost no sleep, only dozing for a few minutes at a time as he sat huddled in the corner by the stove. The first day of the illness he stayed at home, after walking to the nearest telephone and explaining his absence from duty to the Union Hotel. After that he took himself off each morning only because Wayne insisted, and was far from happy until he had got back again. He invested in three different varieties of patent medicine and administered them alternately in heroic doses, and one of Wayne’s chief interests was the attempt to decide which of the three was the nastiest. It was a difficult question to decide, for the last one taken always seemed the worst. June also attempted the concoction of some “yarb tea” such as he had so often seen his mother make, but while it smelled the place up in a most satisfactory manner, June was never quite certain that it contained all it should have, and distrusted it accordingly. There was one day, the second of the attack, when Wayne was in such agony with an aching head and body that June was all for finding a doctor and haling him posthaste to “Carhurst.” Wayne, however, refused to listen to the plan, declaring that he would be all right tomorrow. “Besides,” he added weakly, “you couldn’t get a doctor to come away out here, anyhow.”

“Say I couldn’? Reckon if I tell a doctor man I got to have him and show him the money right in my fist, he goin’ to come where I say!” declared June sturdily. “Jus’ you let me fetch one, please, sir, Mas’ Wayne.”

But Wayne insisted on waiting a little longer, and June rubbed the lame and achy spots and doubled the doses and, sure enough, after a most wretched night, Wayne felt better in the morning. The nights were always the worst, for, while he slept for an hour now and then during the day, at night he was always wakeful. Illness always seems worse at night, anyway, and there was no exception in Wayne’s case. Poor June was driven nearly to his wits’ end some nights. Wayne was not, I fear, a very patient patient. He had never been as sick before in all his life and he resented it now forcibly and seemed inclined to hold June in some way accountable for it. But that was only when he had really begun to get better, and June was so thankful for his recovery that he bore the other’s crankiness quite cheerfully.

All things come to an end, and one day—it happened to be a Sunday—Wayne got up for the first time and ate some real food. June had been trying to entice him with soup and gruel and similar things which Wayne unkindly termed “hog-wash” for two days with little success, but today Wayne consumed a lamb chop and two slices of toast and a cup of tea with gusto. And after it he went to sleep again and awoke in the afternoon quite himself, save for an astonishing wabbliness in his legs. The next day he was out on the “front porch” in the warm sunlight when June departed to town, and still later he walked around some, to Sam’s vociferous delight, and cooked some lunch for himself and discovered a returning interest in the garden. And the next day he reported to Mr. Callahan for work again and was curtly informed that his place had been given to someone else.

As June had visited the stable and told the liveryman of Wayne’s illness as soon as it became evident that the latter couldn’t go to work, and as Mr. Callahan had given June to understand that the position would be kept open, Wayne was too astounded to even make a reply, and it wasn’t until he was a full block away that it occurred to him to be either indignant or disappointed. And then, as neither indignation nor disappointment promised any relief, he tried his best to swallow them and put his mind on the problem of finding other work. There was another livery stable in town that he knew of, and there might be still more that he didn’t know of, and, while driving a carriage wasn’t at all his idea of a satisfactory occupation, it brought money to his pocket and enabled him to live, and whereas he had not been particularly interested in living four days ago, today he was convinced that it was not only desirable but delightful. There is at least this to be said for an illness: after it is through with you it leaves you with a greater appreciation of life.

Wayne visited the stable he knew of but received no encouragement. The foreman told him that they had all the men they needed and that they didn’t expect to have a vacancy in the near future. He directed Wayne to another livery, however, at the farther side of town, and Wayne set off. His course took him over the railroad about a block beyond the freight sheds. It was nearly nine by then and the scene about him was a very busy one. Cars were loading and unloading beside the long, high platforms, while, on the other side of the sheds, trucks and drays were coming and going along the cobbled street. A switch engine was tooting frantically for a switch and a long train of day coaches and sleepers sent Wayne scurrying out of the way. Then an impatient engine clanged up with a couple of gondolas laden with machinery and contemptuously jerked them onto a side-track, spurting off again as though vastly relieved to be rid of such trifling company. There were many tracks where Wayne crossed and one had to keep one’s eyes opened. When he was half-way over a pounding of the rails caused him to look down the line. A long train of empty box cars was backing toward him at a brisk speed, the locomotive out of sight at the far end. Wayne hurried his pace and reached an empty track in plenty of time, and was for paying no more heed to the string of empties until a shout behind him brought his head quickly around.

On the roof of the first car a man was doing two things at once. He was yelling at the top of his voice and swinging himself over the end of the car to the ladder there as fast as he could. A few yards distant, squarely in the middle of the track, stood a boy of five or six years. Afterward Wayne wondered where he had come from, for surely he had not been in sight a moment before, but just now there was no time for speculation. The child, terrorised into immobility, stood as though rooted to the cinders between the rails. Wayne’s cry was uttered involuntarily as he leaped forward. Only one line of track separated him from the boy, but it seemed impossible for him to reach the latter before the bumper of the box car struck him.

As Wayne dashed forward with a horrified, sickening fear at his heart the brakeman dropped from the car ladder. But he staggered as his feet touched the ground, and had the boy’s safety depended on him he would never have escaped. It was Wayne who caught him up roughly and half lifted, half dragged him across the further rail to safety just as the end of the car swept over the spot on which he had stood. So close was the escape that the corner of the car struck Wayne’s hip and sent him reeling to fall on his knees against the end of the ties of the next track, the child sprawled beside him. Dazed, breathless, Wayne struggled to his feet, pulling the lad up with him. Twenty feet distant a switch engine had stopped with grinding brakes, and engineer and fireman were running toward him. The train of empty box cars rolled stolidly on, but in a moment began to slow down with much bumping and clatter of couplings, while back along the roofs sped the brakeman whose warning shout had alarmed Wayne. Just what happened during the next few minutes Wayne couldn’t recall afterward. The lad, his face crushed to Wayne’s worn coat, was sobbing hysterically. The engineer and fireman were there, and presently the brakeman dropped down beside them, and after that other men appeared as though by magic. Everyone talked at once and it was all very confused. Someone took the boy from Wayne and lifted him in arms and someone else propelled Wayne across toward the freight house. About that time the talk around him began to register itself on his brain.

“’Tis Jim Mason’s kid,” said one. “’Twould have broke his heart entirely had the lad been hurted!”

“Hurted!” scoffed another. “Sure, ’tis dead he’d be this minute save for this la-ad here! ’Twas a close shave at that, I’m telling you. Faith, I shut my eyes, I did so!” It was either the engineer or the fireman speaking. “Are you hurted, me boy?” This was to Wayne, and Wayne shook his head silently. “Your hands be cut a bit, but they’ll soon mend.”

“You’d better wash the dirt out,” advised another as they climbed the steps at the end of the platform. “I’ve known lockjaw to come from less, and——”

But just then they entered the dim twilight of the shed and Wayne, pushed ahead by his good-natured captors, lost the rest of the cheerful remark. Someone shouted for “Jim! Jim Mason!” and an answering hail came from further down the shed and a big man advanced toward them, illumined for a moment as he passed one of the wide, sunlit doorways.

“What’s wanted?” he shouted.

“’Tis your kid, Jim,” was the reply. “Nearly run over he was a minute back. All right, laddie, here’s your father comin’. Hush your cryin’ now.”

“Terry!” The big man’s voice held wonder and alarm and joy. He sprang across the intervening space and seized the child from the arms that held him. “Terry! Are you hurt, darling? What were you doing on the tracks? Don’t cry, son, it’s over now.” He turned questioningly to the sympathetic faces about him, faces that were grinning only because tears were so near the eyes. “How did it happen, fellows? Who saw it?”

“Him and me,” answered one man, “and Larry there. Larry was riding the roof on a string of empties when he seen the boy on the track——”

“Holy Saints, but I was scared stiff!” broke in the brakeman. “I gave a shout and tried to get down the ladder, but when I jumped I hit the end of a tie, Jim, and it was this fellow——”

“Grabbed him up in the nick o’ time,” went on another. “I seen it from the cab window. There wasn’t the width of an eyelash between the car and the child when he got him. Sure, even then I thought it was good night to the pair of them. The car hit the fellow as he jumped and——”

“So ’twas you?” said Jim Mason in his big, deep voice. “’Twas brave of you, sir, and God bless you for it.” He had the child on one big arm now and stretched his free hand toward Wayne. “I guess I don’t need to say I’m thankful to you. You know that, sir. I think a deal of this little kiddie, and as for his mother——” His voice trembled. “Heaven only knows what she would do if anything happened to him! She’ll thank you better than I can, but if there’s anything Jim Mason can do for you, why, you say it!”

“It was nothing,” stammered Wayne. “I’m glad that—that I was there, and that I—was in time, sir.”

“God be praised and so am I!” said the father fervently. “Hush your crying now, Terry. It’s your father that’s got you. Can you thank the brave lad for saving you?”

But Terry couldn’t. Terry was as yet incapable of anything but sobs. Wayne, wanting to go, scarcely knew how. Mechanically he raised a bruised knuckle to his lips and Jim Mason was all solicitude.

“You’ve cut your fist!” he exclaimed. “Come to the office with me till I fix it up for you. There’s dirt in it, likely. Larry, I’m thanking you, too, for what you did,” he added, turning to the brakeman. “I’ll not forget it.”

“Sure, I did nothing,” laughed the brakeman embarrassedly, “only yell!”

“It was his shout that drew my attention,” said Wayne. “He tried hard to get to him.”

“What matter now?” muttered the brakeman. “’Tis all over, and ’twas you was Johnny-on-the-Spot, feller. ’Twas finely done, too, and no mistake! I take my hat off to you for a fine, quick-thinkin’ and quick-doin’ laddie!”

“Why, I know you now!” said Jim Mason at that moment. “I was thinking all the time I’d seen you before. You’re the kid—I mean the young gentleman—that spoke me one morning a couple of weeks ago. You had a nigger boy with you, and a dog. Ain’t I right?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason, but it was more than two weeks ago,” answered Wayne. “I—I’m glad to see you again.”

“Well, if you’re glad, what about me?” bellowed Jim Mason. “Thank you all, fellows. I’ll mend this gentleman’s hand now. Will you come with me, please?”

Wayne followed the man to the farther end of the freight house where, occupying a corner that afforded a view down the long stretch of shining tracks, there was a cubby-hole of an office. A high desk, a correspondingly tall stool, a battered armchair, a straight-backed chair, a stove, and a small table made up the furnishings. The walls held many hooks on which were impaled various documents, a shelf filled with filing-cases, several highly-coloured calendars, a number of pictures cut from magazines and newspapers, and, over one of the two dusty-paned windows, a yard-long framed photograph of “The Lake-to-Coast Limited.” In spite of dust and confusion, a confusion which as Wayne later discovered was more apparent than real, the little office had a cosy, comfortable air, and the sunlight, flooding through the front window, made even the dust-motes glorious.

Jim Mason set the child in a chair, produced a first-aid kit from some place of concealment, and proceeded to repair the damages wrought by the cinders. There was running water outside, and the wounds, none of them more than surface scratches, were first thoroughly cleaned. Then peroxide was liberally applied, the man grunting with satisfaction when the stuff bubbled. Finally surgeon’s tape was put on, and Wayne was discharged. During his administrations Jim Mason asked questions at the rate of a dozen a minute, and soon had Wayne’s history down to date. The liveryman’s callousness wrought him to gruff indignation.

“Fired you because you was sick, did he, the pup? What do you know about that? Sit down and rest yourself, lad.” He perched himself on the stool and became busy with a pile of waybills on the desk, talking as he worked. “And so you’re out of a job again, are you? I suppose a smart lad like you can figure and write a good fist, maybe?”

“I can figure,” replied Wayne, “but I don’t believe my writing’s much to boast of.”

“Here, put your name and your address on that.” Jim pushed a slip of paper to the end of the desk and dipped a pen in ink.

Wayne wrote and handed the result back. “‘Wayne Torrence Sloan,’” read Jim, “‘Carhurst, Medfield, Pennsylvania.’ That’s not so bad. But what might ‘Carhurst’ mean?”

Wayne explained and the man chuckled. “It’s a fine-sounding name all right,” he said. “How’d you like a job here with me, Sloan? I been looking for a feller for a week. There’s a guy up to Springdale that wants the place, and he’s coming down this afternoon to see me, but—I don’t know.” Jim looked out the window and whistled a tune thoughtfully. “He mightn’t do at all,” he went on after a moment, “and if you say you want to try it——”

“I do!” said Wayne promptly. “That is, if you think I could.”

Jim turned and looked him over appraisingly. “I don’t see why not. If you can figure and write a bit and do as I tell you, you’d have no trouble. And you look like a strong, healthy lad, although your face is sort of pale. That comes of being sick, I guess. ’Tain’t all office work, for you’ll have to be out in the yard a good deal. You’d be here at eight in the morning—I’m here long before, but you wouldn’t need to be—and get off at five, with an hour for dinner. The pay ain’t much, only eight dollars, but if you got on there might be something better; maybe a place in the main office. Want to try it?”

“Very much,” said Wayne.

“All right then. Maybe I can head that feller at Springdale off and save him a trip.” He drew a telegram blank from a pigeonhole and wrote slowly and laboriously. “Maybe I’m taking a chance, lad, for I don’t know much about you, do you see, and you haven’t any references, but a feller that shows pluck like you did awhile ago can’t have much wrong with him, I’m thinking. There, I’ll put this on the wire. Be around at eight sharp in the morning, lad, and I’ll put you to work. Better come a bit before eight, though, so’s I can tell you what’s wanted before the rush starts. Got any money?”

“A little, sir.”

“Get yourself a suit of overalls; black like these. You’ll need ’em likely. Now I got to do something with this kid.” Jim turned and observed his offspring frowningly. Terry had at last stopped sobbing and was watching interestedly through the front window the operation of unloading a car. “How he came to be wandering about here I dunno. And maybe his mother’s worrying about him this minute. He ought to be home, but I don’t see how I can get him there.”

“Let me take him home,” offered Wayne eagerly. “Just tell me where the house is, Mr. Mason.”

The man’s face lightened. “Will you do it?” he exclaimed. “That’s fine, then. Will you go with the nice gentleman, Terry?”

Terry looked doubtful, but when Wayne smiled down at him he nodded shyly and summoned a smile in return.

“I live on Monmouth Street,” said Jim. “’Tis the fourth house from the corner of Railroad Avenue, the one with the sun-parlor on it.” There was pride in his voice when he mentioned the sun-parlor and Wayne was quite certain that it was the only sun-parlor on Monmouth Street. “Ask for Mrs. Mason and just tell her the kid was down to see me and I sent him home by you. Don’t tell her about what happened, lad. She’d be tied up in a knot. I’ll give her the story when I get home. Maybe you’d better go around to the back, for I dunno would she hear you knock, being busy in the kitchen likely. Do you want the nice gentleman to carry you, Terry, or will you walk along like a little man, eh?”

“Want to be carried,” said Terry promptly. “I’m tired, daddy.”

“’Tis a blessing you ain’t worse than tired, kiddie,” said his father feelingly. “How came it you were down here all alone, Terry?”

Terry studied his shoes intently for a moment. At last: “Wanted to see choo-choos,” he answered.

“Listen to me, Terry. Don’t you ever come around the choo-choos again without somebody’s with you. If you ever do I’ll whale you, kid. Remember that. Now go along with the gentleman and be a good boy.”

Wayne carried Terry until they were across the tracks and then the child demanded to be set down. “You don’t carry Terry like daddy does,” he complained. “Want to walk?” So they went the rest of the way hand in hand, Terry, now most communicative, talking incessantly. Wayne had a very hazy idea as to the location of Monmouth Street and Terry’s directions were difficult to follow, so he had to ask his way several times. But he found the house eventually, easily identifying it by the sun-parlor which stood out at one end of a tiny front porch like a sore thumb. Mrs. Mason proved to be a comely, smiling-faced woman apparently some years Jim’s senior. Terry, she explained, as she wiped her hands on her apron in the back doorway, had been turned out to play in the yard, and he was a bad boy to run away like that. “You might have been killed,” she told the child severely, “and the Lord only knows why you wasn’t. Thank you, sir, for bringin’ him back, and I hope he was no trouble to you.”

“Not a bit, Mrs. Mason. He behaved beautifully. Good-bye, Terry. Be a good boy now and don’t run off again.”

“Good-bye,” answered Terry, politely but indifferently. “I got a hen, I have, an’ she’s going to have a lot of little chickens pretty soon. Want to see her?”

“Not today, Terry, thanks,” laughed Wayne. “Maybe I’ll come and see her after the chickens are hatched.”

“All right. Mama, can I have some bread and sugar?”

Wayne left while that question was being debated and hurried off uptown, first to tell June the wonderful news and then to purchase that black jumper. There was a new quality in the April sunshine now and Wayne discovered for the first time that Medfield was an attractive place after all. The folks he passed on the street looked friendly, the clanging of the trolley car gongs fell pleasantly on his ear; in short, the world had quite changed since early morning and was now a cheerful, hopeful place, filled with sunshine and bustle and ambition. Wayne’s spirits soared like the billowing white clouds of steam above the buildings and he whistled a gay little tune as he went along.