It was only a memory now, that gray, wet Christmas morning when Allan had been brought home pale and limp, on a stretcher. They had started from bed at the first tap on the door, for his prolonged absence had begun to worry them, and Jack, unheeding his sprained ankle, had hobbled to it and flung it open. He stood silent as they brought the boy in and set the stretcher on the floor. He watched the doctor strip back his clothing, remove the rude bandage that had been hastily placed over the wound, wipe away the blood, and begin to probe for the bullet. Mary, too, had thrown on her gown and stood watching the operation with white face.

“Doctor,” burst out Jack, at last, almost fiercely, “don’t tell me he’s dead! Don’t tell me he’s goin’ t’ die! He saved my little girl. Don’t tell me I let him go t’ his death!”

“He’ll not die,” said the doctor, reassuringly. “The bullet seems to have been deflected from its course and to have made only a bad flesh wound.”

But it turned the watchers sick to see the probe sink in deeper and deeper. Suddenly the surgeon gave a little exclamation and ran his hand under the boy’s shoulder.

“Here,” he said to his assistant, “turn him over.”

He made a quick cut with a knife under the shoulder-blade, and a little flattened piece of lead fell into his hand.

“There’s the bullet,” and he handed it to Welsh. “Maybe he’ll want it for a keepsake.” And he proceeded skilfully to bandage up the wound.

But it was not until Allan opened his eyes and smiled faintly up at them that Jack and Mary believed that he could live. They fell on their knees beside his bed, but the doctor hurried them away.

“What he needs now is sleep,” he said. “Let him sleep as long as he can.”

“But look at his poor face, doctor,” whispered Mary, “an’ at his hands, all tore and scratched. Do ye suppose them devils did that to him, too?”

“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “Those scratches won’t hurt him; it’s that wound in the breast that’s dangerous. Now, let him sleep.”

And sleep he did, all through that Christmas Day. The story of his exploit had got about, and a constant stream of railroad men came softly up the path to ask how he was doing, and to stand around afterward and discuss the story. All night he slept, with Mary watching by his bedside, and, when he opened his eyes next morning, she was still sitting there.

The doctor came an hour later, looked at the wound, felt his pulse, and nodded encouragingly.

“He’ll pull through all right,” he said. “He’s got a little fever, but that was to be expected. But he’s in first-class shape and will soon rally from that wound. Keep him quiet for a day or two.”

Before that time, the fever had subsided, the wound was healing nicely, and the doctor pronounced his patient out of danger.

“He’s pretty weak,” he said, “and must take things easy. Don’t let him strain himself any way, or he may open the wound. Keep him quiet and cheerful—his youth will do the rest.”

How they vied with one another to nurse Allan back to strength again. Reddy, his old self, was the first caller, with his heart going out to the boy with a love that was well-nigh worship.

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout how it happened, Allan,” he said, wringing the hand of the white-faced boy, “but I think I can count on y’ not to be layin’ it up ag’in me.”

Allan leaned back and laughed.

“I think if you can cry quits, I can,” he said. How the great load rolled from off his heart as he saw Reddy, whom he had last beheld lying prone at his feet, now his genial old self again!

“But, oh, Reddy, I did hate to hit you!”

“Ho, ho!” cried Reddy; “if it had kilt me intirely, Oi’d ’a’ been th’ last to complain! Is it true, Allan, that I was runnin’ around with tramps?”

“Yes, that’s true, Reddy.”

“An’ hobnobbin’ with Dan Nolan?”

“Yes.”

“An’ abusin’ my missus?”

“You didn’t abuse her, Reddy.”

“An’ fightin’ my best friends, an’ wreckin’ railroad property, an’ actin’ generally loike a low-down haythen?” went on Reddy, rapidly. “Why, th’ only thing I can’t forgive y’ fer, Allan, is thet y’ didn’t knock me over th’ head long afore!”

“I would, Reddy,” laughed Allan, “if I’d thought it would cure you.”

“If it hadn’t cured me,” said Reddy, “it might ’a’ kilt me-an’ thet was what I deserved!”

Joy is the best of all medicines, and Allan’s improvement was rapid. At the end of a week he could spend hours lying back in a padded chair, and Jack was finally prevailed upon to go regularly to work and leave the care of the invalid to his wife.

It was on the platform before the station that the superintendent stopped him one evening, as he was hurrying home from work.

“How are things out on the line?” he asked.

“All right, sir.”

“Going to win the track prize again this spring?”

“No, sir,” and Jack grew suddenly grave. “One of my best men is laid up, y’ know.”

“Ah, yes,” and the superintendent nodded. “How is the boy getting along, Jack?”

“He’ll pull through,” said the other, slowly, “but he had a mighty close call. If th’ bullet hadn’t struck a rib an’ glanced off, he’d ’a’ been done fer. I went down t’ look at th’ place he got acrost th’ ravine, an’ I don’t see how he done it.”

“Neither do I,” agreed the superintendent. “I took a look at it, too.”

“Well,” continued Jack, “th’ fever’s over now, an’ he’s gittin’ his strength back.”

“And his appetite, too, I dare say.”

“Yes,” assented Jack, with a quick smile of enjoyment, “an’ his appetite, too. Why, it does us more good t’ see him eat than to eat ourselves.”

“I don’t doubt it; but you mustn’t spoil the boy with too much coddling.”

“Spoil him!” retorted Jack. “Not fer a minute! Why, y’ couldn’t spoil him, sir. He’s pure gold, all th’ way through.”

The superintendent started on, stopped for an instant to chew his moustache, then turned back.

“Jack!” he called.

“Yes, sir,” and the foreman stopped.

“You were saying,” began the superintendent, a little awkwardly, “that the boy’s eating again. He ought to have some dainties, Welsh; oysters and chicken and fruit, and that sort of thing.”

“We hope t’ be able t’ git ’em fer him, sir,” answered Jack, with dignity.

“Well, the road won’t let you get them,” said the superintendent. “We owe him a good deal, and we’re going to pay some of it this way. I’m going to stop in over here at the store and tell Fisher to send the boy whatever he wants and send the bill in to the road. I’ll see that it’s paid. Of course, we’ll take care of the doctor and drug bills, too. Now, maybe he’d like some oranges or pineapple or something of that sort right away. Anyway, I’ll tell Fisher,” and he hurried on, as though fearing to hear what the other might say.

Welsh looked after him for a moment without saying anything, then turned toward home.

And Mr. Heywood, hurrying on, stopped at the grocery and gave certain directions.

“And see here, Fisher,” he concluded, “you’ll send the bill to me, but that’s nobody’s business but our own. I want them to think that the road’s paying for it.”

Half an hour later, a grocer’s boy knocked at the door of the Welsh cottage and handed in a great basket of dainties, and Allan was soon smiling over a bowl of steaming oyster soup, with Jack and his wife and Mamie grouped about the bed watching him enjoy it. And I don’t believe there is any more exquisite pleasure in the world than that which they experienced in that moment!

The winter days were clear and bright, and Allan found a rare enjoyment in lying back in the great chair which Mrs. Welsh had padded expressly for him, and looking out over the yards and watching the busy life there. He was sitting so one afternoon when some one turned in at the gate and mounted the path to the house.

“Why, it’s Misther Schofield!” cried Mary, and hastily dusted off a chair with her apron, in honour of the distinguished visitor,—not that it needed dusting.

The train-master came up with smiling face.

“How are you, Mrs. Welsh?” he asked. “And how is the invalid?”

He sat down by the side of the chair, and, reaching over, gave Allan’s hand a hearty clasp.

“Do you know, I am ashamed of myself for not getting here before this,” he went on, genially, “but I have kept posted about you, because I wanted to know when you were ready to go back to work.”

“I’ll be ready before long, sir,” said Allan, smiling in sympathy with his guest’s good humour. “I’m getting quite strong again.”

But Mrs. Welsh interrupted him.

“Listen at th’ boy!” she cried, indignantly. “Why, Misther Schofield, an’ him with a bullethole clear through him t’ think o’ goin’ out an’ workin’ on section!”

The train-master was smiling more broadly than ever.

“It does seem pretty tough, doesn’t it?” he said. “Here’s a boy who’s saved the company’s pay-car with two hundred thousand dollars in it, and the lives of ten or fifteen men, and came within a hair’s breadth of getting killed. And yet he has to work on section for forty dollars a month. But then, there’s not so much danger on section any more; we’ve routed the tramps, you know, for good and all. Still, it’s pretty tough.”

“Tough!” and Mrs. Welsh looked at him with flaming eyes. “It’s worse ’n that, beggin’ your pardon, sir. It’s a sin an’ a shame! It’s a disgrace t’ th’ company!”

Allan tried to silence her, but she would not be silenced. He stole a horrified glance at Mr. Schofield, and was astonished to see that he was still smiling.

“A disgrace!” repeated that official. “Well, I agree with you, Mrs. Welsh. So we’re not going to let him go back on section. We can’t afford to waste a good man that way. It’s a little late for a Christmas gift, maybe, but he’s earned it and he’s going to get it.”

Mary stared at the speaker, speechless.

“There’s a job open in my office, young man,” he went on, turning to Allan. “It’s yours if you want it. It’s not such a very good job, for it pays only fifty dollars a month, but you’ll learn more about railroading there in a month than you can ever do on section, and you’ll be in line for promotion, and you’ll get promoted when you merit it. What do you say?”

What could Allan say, with a heart too full for utterance? He reached out his hands blindly, and the other, understanding, clasped them in his strong, steady ones.

And that was how it came about that Allan got the place in the offices which he had longed for, under the eye of the best train-master in the West, where, as he had promised, there was more railroading to be learned in a month than in a lifetime of section work. He became a part of the brain which ruled and directed the whole wonderful system. He came to know what the instruments ticking madly away on every table were saying. He proved himself worthy of the trust reposed in him, and on two critical occasions, at least, he displayed a nerve and quickness of judgment which caused the general manager to ask the train-master:

“Who is this fellow named West you’ve got down there in your office, Schofield? He seems a good one.”

“He is a good one,” Mr. Schofield had responded, earnestly. “You’ll hear from him again.”

How the prophecy came true and what adventures befell Allan in his new position will be told in “The Young Train-despatcher”; but, whatever his successes, I doubt if he ever knew happier days than those he spent with Reddy and Jack Welsh on Section Twenty-one.