"Nine-fifty, sir," said the butler. He wished this excited young man would
go after her. She needed some one. His heart had often stirred against
fate that this pearl among young mistresses should have no intimate friend
or lover now in her loneliness.
"Nine-fifty!" He looked at his watch. No chance! "Broad Street?" he asked
sharply.
"Yes, sir."
Would there be a chance if he had his automobile? Possibly, but hardly
unless the train was late. There would be a trifle more chance of catching
the train at West Philadelphia. O for his automobile! He turned to the
butler in despair.
"Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly can on board the
train, and I will try to get there. I must see her. It is important." He
started down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go?
The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would be
useless; it would take too long. Nevertheless, he sped down toward
Chestnut Street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him.
"O my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!"
Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile,
sounding its taunting menace, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedict
stopped not for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he rushed,
and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him over
on the ground. The machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted:
"Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you trying to do? Say,
but that was a close shave! Where you going in such a hurry, anyway?
Hustle in, and I'll take you there."
The young man sprang into the seat, and gasped: "West Philadelphia
station, Chicago Limited! Hurry! Train leaves Broad Street station at
nine-fifty. Get me there if you can, Billy. I'll be your friend forever."
By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the two had time to
consider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine was
headed toward West Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or
vainly shouting policemen.
George Benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fell
again. His nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. He tore into
the station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of the
ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up three
steps at a time. The guard shouted: "Hurry! You may get it; she's just
starting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the
platform of the last car.