His courage was growing faint, and his heart sinking within him as he drew nearer and nearer. He dismounted, and holding the pony by the mane, approached with some trepidation the young station-master, who was taking note of some freight that had been deposited near the tracks. "Mr. Hudson," faltered Chouchoute, "did you see my pony 'roun' yere anywhere? an'--an' the mail-sack?" "Your pony's safe in the woods, Chou'te. The mail-bag's on its way to New Orleans"-- "Thank God!" breathed the boy. "But that poor little fool darkey of yours has about done it for himself, I guess." "Wash? Oh, Mr. Hudson! w'at's--w'at's happen' to Wash?" "He's inside there, on my mattress. He's hurt, and he's hurt bad; that's what's the matter. You see the ten forty-five had come in, and she did n't make much of a stop; she was just pushing out, when bless me if that little chap of yours didn't come tearing along on Spunky as if Old Harry was behind him. "You know how No. 22 can pull at the start; and there was that little imp keeping abreast of her 'most under the thing's wheels. "I shouted at him. I could n't make out what he was up to, when blamed if he did n't pitch the mail-bag clean into the car! Buffalo Bill could n't have done it neater. "Then Spunky, she shied; and Wash he bounced against the side of that car and back, like a rubber ball, and laid in the ditch till we carried him inside. "I've wired down the road for Doctor Campbell to come up on 14 and do what he can for him." Hudson had related these events to the distracted boy while they made their way toward the house. Inside, upon a low pallet, lay the little negro, breathing heavily, his black face pinched and ashen with approaching death. He had wanted no one to touch him further than to lay him upon the bed. The few men and colored women gathered in the room were looking upon him with pity mingled with curiosity. When he saw Chouchoute he closed his eyes, and a shiver passed through his small frame. Those about him thought he was dead. Chouchoute knelt, choking, at his side and held his hand. "O Wash, Wash! W'at you did that for? W'at made you, Wash?" "Marse Chouchoute," the boy whispered, so low that no one could hear him but his friend, "I was gwine 'long de big road, pas' Marse Gros-Léon's, an' I seed Spunky tied dah wid de mail. Dar warn't a minute--I 'clar', Marse Chouchoute, dar warn't a minute--to fotch you. W'at makes my head tu'n 'roun' dat away?" "Neva mine, Wash; keep still; don't you try to talk," entreated Chouchoute. "You ain't mad, Marse Chouchoute?" The lad could only answer with a hand pressure.