"You haven't heard anything from Nolan?" he asked. "No," said Jack; "but I'd like t' bet them fellys'll soon find out where he is. They ain't a tramp'll stand by him arter what he did, an' they'll pass th' word along where he's likely t' be found. I reckon Nolan went south fer th' winter, but it wouldn't surprise me t' see him show up around here afore th' summer's over." "Maybe he's not a tramp," objected Allan. "Maybe he's working somewhere." "Workin' nothin'!" exclaimed Jack, disgustedly. "Why, he's fergot how." "Well, anyway," said Allan, "I don't believe he'll ever come around here again. He's broken his parole and he knows the minute he sets foot in this State he's in danger of being clapped back into prison." "Yes, he knows that," admitted Jack, "an' yet I don't believe even that'll keep him away. They's a kind o' fascination seems t' draw a man back t' th' place where he's committed a crime. If they wasn't, lots more'd escape than do." "Well," laughed Allan, "I hope no fascination will draw our friends the train-wreckers back to this neighbourhood. But perhaps they're safe in jail again before this." The morning papers, however, showed that they were anything but safe in jail. They had disappeared completely, and there seemed every reason to believe that confederates had been waiting to assist them, and that they had been able to discard their convict garb as soon as they reached the street. This conjecture became a certainty on the following day, when a labourer, cleaning one of the sewer inlets near the prison, had fished out four suits of convict clothing. All the mechanism of the law was set in motion in the effort to recapture them; descriptions and photographs were sent to every police-station in the middle west, a large reward was offered, the police drag-nets were drawn in, heavy with suspects, but the four fugitives were not among them. At the end of a week, the public, diverted by new sensations, had nearly forgotten the episode, and Allan himself had long since ceased to think about it. * * * * * Allan had just finished up his work for the day. The hook was clear, and with a little sigh of relief, he closed his key after sending the last message. It had been a hard day, for all of the officers were out on the road at various points, and many of the messages that came to headquarters for them had to be repeated to the station where they happened to be at the moment. The boy glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly six; then he rose, stretched himself, and was putting on his coat when the door opened and the chief-dispatcher came in. One glance at his worried countenance told the boy that something was wrong. "I just got a 'phone from the hospital," he said, "that Roscoe, the night man at Coalville, was hurt awhile ago. He was coming down to catch his train, when a runaway horse knocked him down and broke his leg." "Who's going out?" inquired one of the dispatchers.