“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.”