There were plenty of old friends in Fardale who were ready and willing to take Bernard Burrage in and do all in their power for him, but Alvin Brander was on hand with a comfortable sleigh to bear Inza’s father from the station when the next train came in over the line from the place of the wreck. Inza accompanied her father, of course. Frank Merriwell, Roy Swift, and Walter Burrage, the latter with his left arm in a sling, were also on the train, but they decided to stop at the hotel. Of course, they were heroes to the villagers, who had thousands of questions to ask about the wreck. Not a few of the injured had belonged in Fardale, or were known there, and one among the four killed outright had once lived in the little village. It was a mighty sensation for a town of that size. Frank was remembered and recognized by many. Some recognized Swift. But no one seemed to know Walter Burrage, who registered at the hotel under a fictitious name. Mr. Burrage, strange to say, had received very few bodily injuries in the catastrophe; but mentally he had been given a terrible shock, and his condition was regarded as critical. The following morning, however, the inquiring and solicitous villagers learned that he seemed somewhat better. Walter Burrage tried to avoid Swift, but this he found rather difficult, for the young soldier refused to be dodged. And so, biding his time, Swift caught Walter alone in his room after the latter had visited his father and Inza that morning. The young man in uniform walked right into the room, with an air of easy assurance that was a trifle annoying. “Good morning, Burrage,” he said loudly. “If you don’t mind, it will please me for you to call me by the name I have registered under—Burton,” said Walter, in a low tone. “You know I do not care about being recognized here, and I depend on this beard to serve as a disguise.” “Rather careless of you, to say the least,” declared Swift. “But I’m perfectly willing to call you any old thing you like. It doesn’t matter to me, and I’m your friend, you know.” “I hope you are.” “Oh, I am—your particular friend. How is your arm this morning, old man?” “Well, you may be sure it doesn’t feel pleasant.” “Sorry. But you were lucky to get off so easy.” “That’s right,” agreed Walter. “You have a way of bumping into hard luck, you know,” said Swift, taking a seat and lighting a cigar before offering one to his companion. “Have a smoke?” Walter declined. “That little affair which obliterated you from the map of the United States was very unfortunate,” pursued the soldier, without guarding his voice in the least. “What are you trying to do, man?” demanded Walter, a flush in his cheeks and his eyes flashing. “Are you determined to tell these people here who I am?”