“Always supposing you have an orchestra capable of _playing_ them,” I said. “And that orchestra has yet to be found!” The old man smiled. “I have heard an air played,” he said, “and by no means a short one—played right through, variations and all, in three seconds!” “When? And how?” I asked eagerly, with a half-notion that I was dreaming again. “It was done by a little musical-box,” he quietly replied. “After it had been wound up, the regulator, or something, broke, and it ran down, as I said, in about three seconds. But it _must_ have played all the notes, you know!” “Did you _enjoy_ it?” I asked, with all the severity of a cross-examining barrister. “No, I didn’t!” he candidly confessed. “But then, you know, I hadn’t been trained to that kind of music!” “I should much like to _try_ your plan,” I said, and, as Sylvie and Bruno happened to run up to us at the moment, I left them to keep the Earl company, and strolled along the platform, making each person and event play its part in an _extempore_ drama for my especial benefit. “What, is the Earl tired of you already?” I said, as the children ran past me. “No!” Sylvie replied with great emphasis. “He wants the evening-paper. So Bruno’s going to be a little news-boy!” “Mind you charge a good price for it!” I called after them. Returning up the platform, I came upon Sylvie alone. “Well, child,” I said, “where’s your little news-boy? Couldn’t he get you an evening-paper?” “He went to get one at the book-stall at the other side,” said Sylvie; “and he’s coming across the line with it—oh, Bruno, you ought to cross by the bridge!” for the distant thud, thud, of the Express was already audible. Suddenly a look of horror came over her face. “Oh, he’s fallen down on the rails!” she cried, and darted past me at a speed that quite defied the hasty effort I made to stop her. But the wheezy old Station-Master happened to be close behind me: he wasn’t good for much, poor old man, but he was good for this; and, before I could turn round, he had the child clasped in his arms, saved from the certain death she was rushing to. So intent was I in watching this scene, that I hardly saw a flying figure in a light grey suit, who shot across from the back of the platform, and was on the line in another second. So far as one could take note of time in such a moment of horror he had about ten clear seconds, before the Express would be upon him, in which to cross the rails and to pick up Bruno. Whether he did so or not it was quite impossible to guess: the next thing one knew was that the Express had passed, and that, whether for life or death, all was over. When the cloud of dust had cleared away, and the line was once more visible, we saw with thankful hearts that the child and his deliverer were safe. “All right!” Eric called to us cheerfully, as he recrossed the line. “He’s more frightened than hurt!” [Illustration: CROSSING THE LINE]