When Westy opened his eyes again he was in the Mitchell library--on the
divan.
A doctor sat by him, Mr. Wilde and Rip and Billy--also the Mitchells. In
the open doorway Lola and Mrs. Redmond stood smiling, then came forward.
“You’re tiptop now,” said the doctor, taking his case. “You must be made
of rubber. Only stunned, that was all.”
“Where’s the Mexicans?” Westy asked.
“In the lock-up!” Mr. Wilde said.
“Hello, Lola!”
“Hello yourself, Westy! You have almost broken your neck for us this
time, haven’t you?”
“That’s what he said he’d do!” piped up Rip, “if it would help you
people!”
“Aw, forget it!” Westy was embarrassed with all these admirers looking
on.
“I know I think you’re a fine boy,” said Mr. Mitchell, “and I want to
thank you for exposing an untrustworthy servant.”
“Your courage was splendid,” Mrs. Mitchell added.
“Well, come on, kid.” Billy was attempting to lift Westy as if to carry
him, but the scout frustrated his attempt and stood on his own feet.
“All right”--Billy was not a bit balked--“as long as you can walk. But
we must get to bed--it’s getting late!”
And as usual Billy busted up the party.
What thoughts crowded through Westy’s mind no one will ever know but
himself as he stood with his friends once again on the observation
platform--this time homeward-bound!
The Mitchells had bid him farewell and promised to visit him, especially
young Mitchell, who said he’d be Johnny on the spot in Bridgeboro after
he went back to school.
But Lola and Mrs. Redmond. It was different to bid them good-by with
their eyes moist and smiling faces. They also promised to visit them.
They weren’t going back to the mountains again--not for a while. They
were going to sup the joy out of the cup of Life. It was glorious to see
them--their happiness and joy emanating from their very expressions.
Only a few days until the matter would be settled and they would have
what belonged to them--never to want again!
The train moved out slowly and it seemed to them, standing on the moving
train, that all humanity was calling farewell. Then as the distance
widened between them the outline of their forms became blurred and faded
from view.
The shadows of twilight had stolen upon them. It was the witching hour
in the mountains--the time for rest, repose and meditation.
As Westy looked upward where the white peaks of the Sierra Sangre de
Cristo leaned majestically against the heavens, he listened
instinctively again for the murmur of the brook. What was it he heard
instead?
The train slowed down as they took a curve and from afar in the distance
came the sweet yet sad tinkle of the vesper bells.
“Must be that old Cathedral in Santa Fe we hear it from,” Mr. Wilde
said; “the air is so clear it carries.”
A porter looked out of the door and nodded to Billy.
“Youah berth’s made up, sir!”
“Got to get to bed, brothers! Good-night!”
They answered and he disappeared in the car.
Westy fell in a reverie again, as the tinkle of the bells were lost in
the noise of the speeding train.
“They’re beautiful, though,” he said dreamily, “those vesper bells!”
Mr. Wilde looked at him and then shook his head in perplexity.
“You’re a hard nut to crack, Westy!”
“There’s no need of trying to crack me at all.”
“Why?”
“I guess I was born that way!”
THE END