Two figures stood there so daubed with mud, so bedraggled with dirty water, so torn and bruised and soiled as scarcely to resemble human beings. One was tall and thin, the other not so tall and much heavier. The shorter figure held the tall one by the back of the neck in a grip so tight and merciless that such of the latter's face as was visible through its coating of mud was convulsed and purple. One eye was closed and swollen, while the other seemed starting from its socket. Both men had lost their hats, and their hair was matted with mud, reddened, in the case of the shorter one, with blood. All this Allan saw at a glance, for in the next instant, the tall figure had been flung violently into the room, while the other entered after him, closed the door, and stood leaning against it, breathing heavily. For a moment, not a word was spoken. The trainmaster and Allan stared in amazement from one of these strange figures to the other. The tall one lay where he had fallen, gasping for breath; the other, having recovered somewhat, got out a handkerchief from some recess, and made an ineffectual effort to blow his nose. Then, as he caught the expression of the others' faces, he grinned so broadly that some of the mud on his cheeks cracked and scaled off. "Ye don't happen t' have a bath-tub handy, do ye, Allan?" he inquired, in a voice so familiar that the boy jumped in his chair, and even Mr. Schofield started perceptibly. "Jack!" cried Allan. "Why, what--" He stopped, unable to go on, breathless with sheer astonishment. "Is it really you, Welsh?" asked the trainmaster. "Yes, Misther Schofield; it's me, or what's left o' me," said Jack, passing his hand ruefully over his head, and gazing down at his tattered garments. "And who's this?" asked the trainmaster, with a gesture toward the prostrate figure on the floor. "I don't know th' dirty scoundrel's name," answered Jack, "but you'll know him, I reckon, as soon as we scrape th' mud off. But afore I tell th' story, I _would_ loike t' wash up." "All right," said Allan, starting from his chair, "here you are," and he poured some water from a bucket into a wash-pan which stood on a soap-box beside the window. A towel hung from a roller on the wall, and a piece of soap lay on the window-sill. It was here he washed up every night before he ate his midnight lunch. Jack took off the remains of his coat, one sleeve of which had been torn out at the shoulder, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and plunged his head into the water with a grunt of satisfaction. He got off the worst of the mud, threw out the dirty water, and filled the pan with fresh. From this he emerged fairly like his old self, and rubbed face and head violently with the towel. When he had finished, an ugly cut was visible high on his forehead, near the roots of his hair. He touched it tenderly, and held the towel against it, for the washing had started it to bleeding again.