“I thought the flier was gone for sure,” he said. “It would have been the worst wreck in the history of the road. Thank God it was spared us!” “Yes, thank God,” said Jack, a little hoarsely; “but don’t fergit t’ thank Reddy Magraw, too!” “We won’t!” said the train-master, with another little nod. “We’ll never forget Reddy.” “More especially,” added Jack, a little bitterly, “since it’s not th’ first time he’s saved th’ road a bad wreck. He was fergot th’ first time!” “Yes, I know,” agreed the train-master. “But he wouldn’t have been if I’d had anything to do with it.” “I know it, sir,” said Jack, heartily. “I know it, Mr. Schofield. You’ve always treated us square. But I couldn’t help rememberin’!” Half an hour later Allan and Jack intercepted the doctor as he came out of the little house where Mrs. Magraw sat with her apron over her head, rocking back and forth in agony. “He’ll be all right, won’t he, doctor?” asked Jack, anxiously. “He ain’t a-goin’t’ die?” “No,” answered the doctor, “he’ll not die. But,” and he hesitated, “he got a mighty bad crack, and it will be a long time before he’s able to be out again.” “He’s come to all right, ain’t he, doctor?” questioned Jack, seeing the doctor’s hesitation. “Yes, he’s conscious again, but he’s not quite himself yet. But I think he’ll come around all right,” and the doctor walked briskly away, while Jack and Allan, assured that they could do nothing more for Reddy or his family, whom the neighbours had parcelled out among themselves, went slowly home. CHAPTER VII. THE IRISH BRIGADE It was not until they were seated around the table that evening that Allan remembered that the next day was to occur the great inspection by the Irish Brigade, and he straightened up suddenly as he thought of it. “Didn’t that engine tear things up some when she ran off the track?” he asked of Jack. “Yes,” answered the foreman, “but it was only at th’ end of th’ sidin’, an’ that won’t matter. Besides, th’ wreckin’ crew’s up there now gittin’ th’ engine back on th’ track an’ fixin’ things up ag’in. If th’ main line on Twenty-one ain’t in good shape, it’s because I don’t know what good shape is,” he added, with decision. “We couldn’t do anything more to it if we worked fer a week. I’ve asked th’ boys t’ take a run over it t’-morrer mornin’ jest as a matter o’ precaution. Do y’ think y’ kin git up at midnight?” he added, suddenly, giving his wife a knowing wink. “At midnight?” repeated Allan. “Why, yes, of course, if you want me to.” “Well, y’ll have t’ git up at midnight if y’ want t’ ketch Number Five fer Cincinnati.” Allan’s face flushed with quick pleasure. “Am I to go, too?” he asked, eagerly. “Can you take me, too?” Jack laughed in sympathy with his bright eyes.