“How did you get here?” asked Custer.

“I fell off the railroad bridge, the current landed me here; where am I, anyhow?”

“At the brick slaughter-house,” said Custer.

“I thought so; can’t you get some one to help you?”

But Custer, his reasonable curiosity satisfied, was already on his way back to the road.  “If only pa has not driven off!” But the senior Shrimplin had not moved from the spot where Custer had left him five minutes before.

“Is that you, son?” he asked, as Custer appeared at the fence.

“Come here, quick!” commanded the boy.

“For what?” inquired Mr. Shrimplin.

“You needn’t be afraid, it’s only a man who’s fallen off the iron bridge.  He’s down in the bed of the slaughter-house run.  I can’t get him out alone!”

“I’ll bet he’s good and drunk!” said the little lamplighter.

“No, he ain’t, and he’s mighty badly hurt!” said the boy hotly.

“Of course, of course, Custer!” said Mr. Shrimplin.  “He’d a been killed though if he hadn’t been drunk.”

He climbed out of his cart, and clambered over the fence.  Something in Custer’s manner warned him that any allusions of a jocular nature would prove highly distasteful to his son, and he followed silently as Custer led the way down to the brook.

“Here’s where he is!” said the boy halting.  “You get down beside him—­you’re strongest, and I’ll stay here and help pull him up while you lift!”

“That’s the idea, son!” agreed Mr. Shrimplin genially.

And he slid down into the bed of the brook where he struggled to get the injured man to his feet.  The first and immediate result of his effort was that the latter swore fiercely at him, though in a whisper.

“We got to get you out of this, mister!” said the little lamplighter apologetically.

A second attempt was made in which they were aided by Custer from above, and this time the injured man was drawn to the top of the bank, where he collapsed in a heap.

“He’s fainted!” said Custer.  “Strike a match and see who it is!”

Mr. Shrimplin obeyed, bringing the light close to the bloody and disfigured face.

“Why, it’s Marsh Langham!” he cried.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

FAITH IS RESTORED

“Custer—­” began Mr. Shrimplin, and paused to clear his throat.  He was walking beside wild Bill’s head while Custer in the cart tried to support Langham, for the latter had not regained consciousness.  “Custer, I’m mighty well satisfied with you; I may say that while I always been proud of you, I am prouder this moment than I ever hoped to be!  How many boys in Mount Hope, do you think, would have the nerve to do what you just done?  I love nerve,” concluded Mr. Shrimplin with generous enthusiasm.

But Custer was silent, a sense of bitter shame kept him mute.