Three years passed, and two small boys crept about the yard behind the white rail fence.  Then—­when Duncan and his wife were “making a great go of matrimony” in typical Yankee fashion—­came the tragedy that took all the vim out of Cora, stole the ruddy glow from her girlish features and made her middle-aged in a twelvemonth.  In the infantile-paralysis epidemic which passed over New England three years ago the McBrides suffered the supreme sorrow—­twice.  Those small boys died within two weeks of each other.

Duncan of course kept on with his work at the garage.  He was quieter and steadier than ever.  But when we drove into the place to have a carburetor adjusted or a rattle tightened, we saw only too plainly that on his heart was a wound the scars of which would never heal.  As for Cora, she was rarely seen in the village.

Troubles rarely come singly.  One afternoon this past August, Duncan completed repairs on Doc Potter’s runabout.  Cranking the machine to run it from the workshop, the “dog” on the safety-clutch failed to hold.  The acceleration of the engine threw the machine into high.  Dunk was pinned in front while the roadster leaped ahead and rammed the delivery truck of the Red Front Grocery.

Duncan was taken to our memorial hospital with internal injuries and dislocation of his spine.  He remained there many weeks.  In fact, he had been home only a couple of days when the evening stage left in the McBride letter-box the daily paper containing the story of Ruggam’s “break” and of the reward offered for his capture.

Cora returned to the kitchen after obtaining the paper and sank wearily into a wooden chair beside the table with the red cloth.  Spreading out the paper, she sought the usual mental distraction in the three-and four-line bits which make up our local columns.

As the headlines caught her eye, she picked up the paper and entered the bedroom where Duncan lay.  There were telltale traces of tears on his unshaven face, and an ache in his discouraged heart that would not be assuaged, for it was becoming rumoured about the village that Dunk the Dauntless might never operate on the vitals of an ailing tin-Lizzie again.

“Dunnie,” cried his wife, “Hap Ruggam’s escaped!” Sinking down beside the bedroom lamp, she read him the article aloud.

Her husband’s name was mentioned therein; for when the sheriff had commandeered an automobile from the local garage to convey him and his posse to Lost Nation and secure Ruggam, Duncan had been called forth to preside at the steering-wheel.  He had thus assisted in the capture and later had been a witness at the trial.

The reading ended, the man rolled his head.

“If I wasn’t held here, I might go!” he said.  “I might try for that five thousand myself!”

Cora was sympathetic enough, of course, but she was fast approaching the stage where she needed sympathy herself.