dash—brave youth at the trestle—forlorn hope of an unerring marksman'—and all that."
"Oh, he's not writing for a newspaper," laughed Ralph; "he's making up a melodrama."
"Well, he'll make you famous, just the same, and here's some government photographs for you lucky fellows," added the conductor, tossing the envelope in his hand into the cab.
Fogg grinned over his share of the fifty-dollar donation and accepted it as a matter of course. Ralph said nothing, but he was somewhat affected. He was pleased at the recognition of his earnest services. At the same time the exploit of the night had shaken his nerves naturally, and reminded him of all the perils that accompanied a practical railroad career. A stern sense of responsibility made him thoughtful and grave, and he had in mind many a brave, loyal fellow whose fame had been unheralded and unsung, who had stuck to his post in time of danger and had given up his life to save others.
No. 999 was back at Stanley Junction by eight o'clock the next morning. When Ralph reached home he was so tired out he did not even wait for breakfast, but went straightway to his bed.
He came down the stairs in the morning bright as a dollar, to hear his mother humming a happy song in the dining-room, and Fred Porter softly
