True to his Colours | Page 9

the bridge, had dropped close to the prostrate body, and then sprung to his feet. It was too late; the instrument of death was upon them. A moment more, and the train had passed over their miserable companion.
In a few minutes the horror-stricken group were gathered round the poor, bleeding, mangled mass of humanity. The sight was too terrible to describe. One thing there could be no doubt about--their unhappy comrade was entirely past their help; the work of destruction had been complete; and what was now to be done? Silently all crept back again to the little stile. A hasty consultation was held.
"Mates," said the chief speaker, "it's a bad job, but it's plain enough we can't do him no good; it's past that. It's no fault of ours. Poor Joe!"
"Shall we go down and drag him off the rails on to the bank?" asked Ned.
"Where's the use, man?" replied the other; "we shall only be getting ourselves into trouble: it'll seem then as if some one else had been having a hand in it, and we shall be getting his blood on our clothes. It's all over with him--that's certain; and now we must take care of ourselves: what's done can't be undone. Pity we ever meddled with that bag. But that's all past now. Not a word about this to living soul, mates. I'm sure we all see as that's our line; and a blessed thing it'll be if we manage to keep clear of another scrape. This one's been bad enough, I'm sure."
So all slunk quietly back to their own homes. And next day all Crossbourne was horrified to hear that Joe Wright had been found on the line cut to pieces by some train that had run over him.
An inquest, of course, was held; but as it was well-known that poor Joe was sadly addicted to drink, and was often away from his home for nights together on drunken sprees, it was thought, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that he had wandered on to the line in a state of intoxication, and had been overtaken and killed by the express or stopping train. A verdict of "accidental death" was given accordingly.
But poor Wright's sad end made no difference in the drunkenness of Crossbourne; indeed, Ned and his two companions in that awful night's adventure dared not leave their old haunts and ways, even had they wished to do so, lest any change in their habits should arouse suspicion against them. So Alcohol still maintained his sway over a vast body of loyal subjects in the busy town, and gathered in the spoils of desolate homes, broken hearts, and shattered constitutions.
CHAPTER THREE.
DOCTOR JOHN PROSSER.
The express train which passed through Crossbourne station between ten and eleven o'clock on the night when Joe Wright met with his sad end, arrived in London about three a.m. the following morning. It was heavily laden, for it conveyed a large number of persons from the north, who were coming up to the metropolis to spend Christmas with their friends.
From a first-class carriage about the middle of the train there emerged a heap of coats and wraps, surmounted by a fur cap, the whole enclosing a gentleman of middle age and middle height, with black beard and moustache, and gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Cab, sir?" asked the porter who opened the door.
"If you please."
"Any luggage, sir?"
"Yes; it was put on the roof of my carriage."
"All right, sir; I'll see to it if you'll get into the cab."
So the gentleman, who was John Prosser, PhD, got into the cab which was waiting for him; and having seen that his luggage was all brought to the conveyance, threw himself into a corner and closed his eyes, having given his direction to the driver as he was stepping into the vehicle.
"Stop a moment, Jim," said the porter to the cabman, as the latter was just jerking his reins for a start. "Here, catch hold of this bag; it was on the top of this gent's carriage: no one else owns to it, so it must be his'n. The gent's forgotten it, I dessay."
So saying, he threw a light, shabby-looking carpet-bag up to the driver, who deposited it by his side, and drove off.
After sleeping for a few hours at a hotel where he was well-known, and having urgent business in the city next morning, the doctor deposited his luggage, which he had left with sundry rugs and shawls in charge of the hotel night porter, at his own door on his way to keep his business appointment, leaving word that he should be at home in the afternoon. With the other luggage there was handed in the shabby-looking carpet-bag which had come with it.
"What's this?" asked the boy-in-buttons, in a tone of disgust, of