Crosby was muddy to his knees, but his fair passenger was as
dry as toast when he lowered her to the platform.
"You are every bit as strong as the hero in the modern novel," she said
gaily. "After this, I'll believe every word the author says about his
stalwart, indomitable hero."
To say that Higgins was glad to be homeward bound would be putting it
too mildly. The sigh of relief that came from him as he drove out of
town a few minutes later was so audible that he heard it himself and
smiled contentedly. If he expected to meet the unlamented Harry Brown on
the home trip, he was to be agreeably disappointed. Mr. Brown was not on
the roadway. He was, instead, on the depot platform at Lonesomeville,
and when the westbound express train whistled for the station he was
standing grimly in front of two dumbfounded young people who sat
sleepily and unwarily on a baggage truck.
The feeble-eyed lantern sat on the platform near Crosby's swinging feet,
and the picture that it looked upon was one suggestive of the cheap,
sensational, and bloodcurdling border drama.
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