“How far are we from Cheslow, please?” she asked of the rear brakeman (whom she knew was called the flagman) as he came down the car with his lantern.

“Not above a mile, Miss,” he replied.

His smile, and his way of speaking, encouraged her to ask: 

“Can you tell me why we have stopped?”

“Something on the track, Miss.  I have set out my signal lamp and am going forward to inquire.”

Three or four of the male passengers followed him out of the car.  Ruth saw that quite a number had disembarked from the cars ahead, that a goodly company was moving forward, and that there were ladies among the curious crowd.  If it was perfectly safe for them to satisfy their curiosity, why not she?  She arose and hurried out of the car, following the swinging lamp of the brakeman as he strode on.

Ruth ran a little, seeing well enough to pick her way over the ends of the ties, and arrived to find at least half a hundred people grouped on the track ahead of the locomotive pilot.  The great, unblinking, white eye of the huge machine revealed the group clearly—­ and the object around which the curious passengers, as well as the train crew, had gathered.

It was a dog—­ a great, handsome, fawn-colored mastiff, sleek of coat and well fed, but muddied now along his flanks, evidently having waded through the mire of the wet meadow beside the tracks.  He had come under, or through, a barbed wire fence, too, for there was a long scratch upon his shoulder and another raw cut upon his muzzle.

To his broad collar was fastened a red lamp.  Nobody had taken it off, for both the train men and the passengers were excitedly discussing what his presence here might mean; and some of them seemed afraid of the great fellow.

But Ruth had been used to dogs, and this noble looking fellow had no terrors for her.  He seemed so woebegone, his great brown eyes pleaded so earnestly, that she could only pity and fondle him.

“Look out, Miss; maybe he bites,” warned the anxious conductor.  “I wager this is some boy’s trick to stop the train.  And yet—­”

Ruth bent down, still patting the dog’s head, and turned the great silver plate on his collar so that she could read, in the light of the lanterns, that which was engraved upon it.  She read the words aloud: 

“‘This is Reno, Tom Cameron’s Dog.’”

“Cameron?” repeated some man behind her.  “That Tom Cameron lives just outside of Cheslow.  His father is the rich dry-goods merchant, Macy Cameron.  What’s his dog doing here?”

“And with a red light tied to his collar?” propounded somebody else.

“It’s some boy’s trick, I tell you,” stormed the conductor.  “I’ll have to report this at headquarters.”

Just then Ruth made a discovery.  Wound about the collar was a bit of twisted cloth—­ a strip of linen—­ part of a white handkerchief.  Her nimble fingers unwound it quickly and she spread out the soiled rag.