He was in fact a very sick boy. The dose of chloroform that had been given him would have been an overdose for a man. Notwithstanding his awakening, he might have relapsed into sleep and death, had not the skillful surgeon been there to devote himself to him. An antidote was forced down his throat. Willing volunteers, for of course the whole car was now awake in a hurly-burly of question and answer, rubbed life back into him. When he was a bit better, he was kept walking up and down the aisle, while two strong men held him up and his head swayed helplessly from side to side. But the final cure came when the surgeon who had kept catlike watch upon him saw that he could now begin to understand things. "Here is something of yours," he whispered into the lad's half-unconscious ear. "That scoundrel stole it from you. When he fell, he must have dropped it on the floor. I found it there after he had jumped off the platform." Tom's hand closed over the fateful envelope. His trembling fingers ran along its edges. It had not been opened. He had not betrayed his trust. A profound thankfulness and joy stirred within him. Within an hour he was practically himself again. Then he poured out his heart in thanks to the sturdy surgeon who had saved not only his life, but his honor. He asked his name and started at his reply: "Dr. Hans Rolf, of York, Pennsylvania." "Dr. Hans Rolf," repeated Tom, "but perhaps you are the grandson of the Hans Rolf I've heard about all my life. My father is always telling me of things Hans Rolf did for my grandfather and great-grandfather." "And what is _your_ name?" queried the doctor, surprised as may be imagined that this unknown boy should know him so well. "Tom Strong." "By the Powers," shouted the hearty doctor, seizing the boy's hand and wringing it as his grandfather used to wring the hand of the Tom Strongs he knew, "By the Powers, next to my own name there's none I know so well as yours. My grandfather never wearied of talking about the two Tom Strongs, father and son. The last day he lived, he told me how your great-grandfather saved his life." "And you know he saved great-grandfather's, too," answered Tom, "and now you have saved mine." He looked shyly at his preserver. He was still weak with the after-effects of the drug that had been given him. The Hans Rolf he saw was a bit blurred by the unshed tears through which he saw him. "Nonsense," said the surgeon, "whatever I've done is just in the day's work. But you must stop at York and rest. I can't let my patient travel just yet, you know. And this may be your last chance to see me at home. I go into the army next month." However, Tom was not to be persuaded to stop. Duty called him Westward and to the West he went, as fast as the slow trains of those days could carry him. But when Hans Rolf and he parted, a few hours after they had met, they were friends for life.