A Short Story.

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 91, 18 July 1918, Page 4

A Short Story.

All Eight- Reserved.) 4 In Two Parts. Hie First-Class Passenger," By EVELYN EVERETT GREEN, ttnthor of "The Secret of Wold Hall," ''The Magic Island," "The Man from the West," &c ..' PART T. / ■"Hang- it all!" exclaimed Everard tVale, as the creeping train drew up once again in a cutting, "I shall lose my connection at Bindon Junction if this sort of thing goes on, and I shan't get to town to-night." He was alone in his first-class carriage—a fine-looking- bronzed man of some eight and twenty to thirty years, broad-shouldered, muscular, carrying no superfluous flesh, with keen blue eyes and close-cropped fair hair, and a clean-shaved, forceful face. "Hillo! What in fortune's name is this ?" He had let down the carriage window", and was thrusting forth head i-rd shoulders. into the frosty rawness of the fog, when his quick eyes were arrested by the sight of something moving on the bank. The fog disguised the character of the object till it »>£s within a few yards of him. Then he saw that it was a girl, laboriously descending into the cutting, carrying in her arms a large white and black pointer dog. The astonished man heard ihe girl's sobbing breath, accompanied by little moans of pain from the poor beast. Next moment he had flung open the carriage door, leaped out, and risking the re-starting of the train without him, made one bound towards the panting girl. He gently lifted the dog into his own strong arms. "Come along in—jump into that carriage. The train will be starting and you might get into trouble on the line here."

i As though this was exactly the girl's object, she sprang light of foot up the steep steps into the railway-carriage, and sank down upon the cushioned 'seat with a long-drawn breath of exhaustion and relief. The traveller, 'with the dog, followed her. The animal was laid upon one of the seats, %he arms of which were turned up for his better accommodation, and Ever'ard, passing strong, friendly, capable :hands over the creature, gave his yerdict.

"He is badly bruised and knocked about, and one fore-leg is broken."

"I know—l know. O! It was wicked—cruel, hateful! And he left him there to die. He kicked him as he lay helpless, poor darling, and told iim he'd shoot him*if ever he found him sneaking about his place again! And it's his own dog, too —one of his sporting dogs. And he treated him like this just because he made a mis-i take with the guns ! 0 ! It's awfulit's too awful!" The girl was shaking all over, more unnerved than seemed quite to be accounted for by the nature of the adventure. Everard had never had much to do with girls or women in his life, and felt a bit puzzled how to act now. He busied himself with the poor dog. He rummaged out from his bag, some bits of stiff cardboard, and, tearing a •long muffler into lengths, he proseeded to set the broken leg, with no small skill, in the rough but effectual splint which he improvised. The girl, rousing herself to consciousness of what he was doing lent assistance. By the time the surgical operations were completed she had calmed down very considerably. Everard had had time to note how exceedingly pretty she was, with quantities of curly, ruffled brown hair framing the face beneath the cloth cap, fawnlike brown eyes, large and lustrous, wonderfully expressive; small delicate-ly-cut features, mobile and bewitching, with little dimples near the softly curling lips which added immensely to the piquancy of the radiant smile. Certainly that was rather an interesting happening in the fog. Everard began to find himself > singularly in■different as to whether he caught his connection at the junction or not. The dog had ceased to moan; Ee was trying to lick the kindly hands that ministered to his comfort. The girl bent down and kissed him betwejen the eyes. Everard found it in his heart [to think that the dog was a lucky 'fellow. "How good you are,'* she said, raising her lustrous eyes to his kindly, bronzed face.. "I was almost praying that the train'might stop and that somebody might fee kind to me. [Guards and. railway men are very inice generally; but of course it's [breaking the laws to be on the bank iike that. And even now, if they come [and ask for tickets, I haven' t| got one!" ' i ".OK yes you havel'i said Everard, flaughing, and extracting a saaall tmlong of pasteboard' from his own Ipocket he stuck it into the breast ipocket of her coat. "It's I and the "dog who are the illicit passengers. I'll show you how we get out of Scrapes of that sort, we old seasoned 'travellers, when "the awful '[comes."

"'•{ Site laughed deliriously; Her tremors <had subsided. She sat opposite &im with the dog's head upon her lap. sThe train was crawling on through the f °S at aoOUt two m * les an hour * Everard had no desire to hasten its irogress one jot.' "How good you are,'* she said. i«How can I Wank you for it alt?.'*

"By telling m& the story of this fit' cident," he said; "for I am simply bursting with curiosity. Can't you see the question marks sticking out on my head?" He wanted to hear her laugh", and the sound was like music; but then the little piquant face grew grave, and the brown eyes clouded over. "I'll tell you everything—bycause you have been so kind. I live at Bindon, and I wanted to take a long walk and see some of my friends in different places. I though!, if I was tired, I could take the train at Bindon Bottom—we are just getting therenow I paid my visits and had luncE with a friend, and then I started off through a nice woody piece of country, much nicer for walking than the muddy roads. And the railway cutting runs through it. I knew I should have to follow that by a little track along the top to get to the station." "Had you the dog with' you'?'* "Oh, no; he is Mr. Rain's doff. Rain's Hall is over yonder in the woods, and Mr. Rain was shooting. I heard the guns, and Hid in a biff hollow tree. I didn't want to be shot, and-1 didn't want to meet Mr. Rain, or any of them." A sudden crimson dyed her face, and Everard's curiosity received a sudden fresh filip. "And whilst you were in hiding something happened, and you saw it?" "Yes, yes. I don't know what the poor dog had done. It was getting very foggy. But I heard Mr. Rain's voice, very angry, shouting at him. Then the dog crouched down terrified, just where I could see, and Mr. Rain rushed at him with his gun and hit him again and again. O! it was dreadful, and the dog yelled. I knew he had hurt him horribly, and as he lay writhing on the ground he kicked him, and dared him ever to come home again. If he had shot him it would have been more merciful, for he meant him to lie there with his poor broken leg " "The brute—don't think air*? more about it. And when he was gone you stole out and carried that heavy creature away all by yourself?" "You see, the cutting was very near, and trains are often signalled to stop just there, and the fog made it all the more likely to-day. Only I didn't know if I could get into the train with the dog—he got heavier and heavier as we went on. I heard the train coming along, and then I heard it stop, and I hurried and hurried to be in time; and then—O! it was as if you were a sort of angel when you jumped down and came to help me!" "First time I've been called that!" confessed Everard with his frank, friendly smile. "Well, some fellows want a taste of the cat-o'-nine-tails across their backs! And now, about this poor old chap there. What are we going to do with him next?" Her big eyes lighted at the pronoun. "O! If you will help me through, I'm sure something can be done!" "O! I'll see you through, never fear. Do you mind telling mc your name, and where you live in Bindon?" "My name.is Beatrice Vale, and my father is the Vicar of St. Saviour's—the church belonging to the poor part of the town. We are quite poor people ourselves " She stopped, because he was gazing at her so hard. His eyes seemed full of surprise. "Vale—what an astonishing thing! My name is Everard Vale, and the name isn't a common one. What relations do you happen to have going about the world, Miss Vale?" "We haven't any that we know of. Father says that the only Vales except ourselves are most likely in Australia, if there are any left. His great-uncle went out there, but he never knew anything about him " "That so? Then little friend Beatrice, it strikes me very forcibly that you and I are cousins of a remote description. I come from Australia, where my grandfather made a modest pile. My father trekked to California and ranched there. He prospered, and and I'm his only child. When I was left alone in the world I had a fancy to come home—as we always call it. One of my objects was to see if I could unearth any relations over here. I guess this is the kind of thing the writing chaps call the long arm of coincidence." "0! Cousin Everard! o!'.'. cried Beatrice. "That's right, little 'un—take me as a cousin, as I've taken you I Mighty, pleasant to find a cousin so quick— > and such a pretty one too!"She blushed charmingly as she ben? over the dog-. ; "0, it's like a fairy tale—like tig* sort of game we used to play as littto' kiddies " I "What sort of game, little Beat* trice?" (To be Continued.)