# Bound to Succeed/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI
A FRIEND IN NEED
"Hands off!" cried Frank.
His assailant laughed coarsely. He had Frank firmly in his grasp. Pushing him against the steps of one of the coaches, still gripping his two wrists in one hand he bent him back flat.
No one was in sight down the long, poorly-illuminated passenger platform. Frank at once guessed that the fellow had seen him counting over his money in the waiting room and had followed him to this spot.
Frank twisted his lower limbs to one side. His assailant was trying with his free hand to reach the pocket in which he had seen Frank place his little cash capital. Frank's movement disconcerted the would-be thief. He grew angry as his captive wriggled onto one side, holding his pocket pinned up against the car step.
"Hi, you, turn over," growled the fellow.
He gave Frank a jerk and then slapped him hard against the side of the head. He managed ​to thrust his hand into his pocket containing the money.
"Ouch!" he yelled, just as his eager fingers touched the roil of bank notes. "Zounds! who did that?"
"Whack—Frank caught this sound, preceded by the air-cutting whistle of some swiftly-directed object.
Whack—whack! the sound was repeated. Frank was free. His assailant had relaxed his grasp. His hands were now busy warding off mysterious blows in the face.
Frank darted to one side, his precious savings clasped by one hand. He stared in wonder.
Some one on the roof of the front passenger coach was leaning over its rounding edge. He was armed with a jointed piece of iron. This he plied whip-fashion. Twice its end had struck the robber's face, leavng two great red welts.
Then a spry, nimble form dropped from the car roof to the platform. Frank made out a boy about his own age. He was dressed wretchedly, and was thin and weak-looking, and his face was grimed, but he must have had pluck, for, running straight up to the would-be thief, he plied the weapon in his grasp like a flail.
A sharp blow made the ruffian roar with pain. ​Holding a hand to his eye, he retreated down the platform, fairly beaten off.
"There's a police officer," said Frank suddenly, noticing a man wearing a uniform come running down the platform from the direction of the waiting room.
"Oh, pshaw!" ejaculated his rescuer, springing nimbly to the platform of the nearest coach.
"Hold on, hold on," cried Frank—"I want to thank you, I—"
But his mysterious friend had sprung across the car platform in a jiffy. He was swallowed up in the darkness beyond.
"What's up?" hailed the policeman, running up breathlessly.
"A man tried to rob me," explained Frank.
"Thought I made out a struggle. Did he get anything?"
"No."
"Where did he go?"
Frank pointed towards the fan-shaped network of tracks melting into the gloom of the switchyards.
The policeman ran in that direction. Frank did not accompany him. He did not believe the officer would catch the thief. Besides, Frank was more interested in the strange young fellow who ​had done him such good service in his time of need.
Frank stepped up on the coach platform and peered up and down the sidings near by. His rescuer was nowhere in sight. Frank was sorry for this. The boy had struck him as a hard-luck object. His manifest reluctance against being seen by the officer suggested something sinister about him.
Frank stood waiting for the return of the policeman, a vivid picture of his rescuer in his mind. The boy had worn a cap pulled far down over his eyes. He seemed young, yet Frank recalled that he wore a moustache.
"I'd like to give him something for saving me the loss of all that money," said Frank. "The poor fellow looked as if he needed it. Any trace of the man, sir?"
"No," answered the policeman, coming back from a fruitless search. "Better keep nearer the lights, young fellow. All kinds of rough characters hang around here, on the lookout for somebody to rob."
Frank walked with the policeman to the depot rotunda. He stayed outside, however. Once or twice he walked the whole breadth of the rotunda, peering down the passenger tracks and wishing he could find the boy who had beaten off the thief.
​"There is some one now," suddenly exclaimed Frank to himself. He made a dash down a lonely platform and ran across a couple of tracks.
"Yes, it's him," declared Frank. "Hey, just a minute. Why, what are you running away from me for?"
The person Frank was after had started up quickly at the first hail. Frank overtook him, cornering him where some milk cars blocked the way south.
The strange boy braced back against the side of a car, pulled his cap down further over his eyes, and said.
"Want me?"
"Sure, I want you," cried Frank spiritedly. "First, to shake hands with you and thank you for your bravery in my behalf."
"Oh, that wasn't anything," observed the strange boy.
"No, only the saving of all the money I've got in the world," retorted Frank.
He shook the boy's hand warmly. The latter at last slightly returned the hand pressure, but kept looking about him furtively and uneasily.
"By the way," said Frank, "what was that you hit that man with?"
​"A loose-jointed ventilator slide bar I found on top of the coach."
"And, if I may ask, what was you ever doing perched up there?"
"Well, if you must know, I was waiting for the train to start out. In fact," confessed the speaker in a low, constrained tone, "beating my way, stealing a ride."
"Whereto?" asked Frank.
"Oh—anywhere, anywhere away from the city."
The boy said this in such a forlorn way that Frank felt there was some pathetic cause for the despair expressed.
"You ran away from the policeman, too," suggested Frank.
"Yes, he wouldn't have much use for my kind," observed the boy.
Frank was silent for a moment, Intensely studying as far as the dim light would allow the figure and face of his companion.
"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.
"My name—oh," sort of stammered the boy, "why, it's Markham."
"Well, Markham," said Frank very kindly, placing a gentle hand on the lad's arm, "you and I should be good friends. Don't edge away from ​me. You say you were trying to get out of the city. Had you no idea of where you were bound for?"
"Nowhere, but the country. Some place where I'd be safe—I mean where they couldn't find—that is, oh, just to get to some quiet little country town where I could get work."
"I've got the town and I'll guarantee the work," cried Frank heartily, slapping Markham on the shoulder. "See here, no secrets between friends now. You've got no money, or you wouldn't be riding on car tops."
"That's true enough," admitted the boy, forcing a laugh.
"And maybe you're hungry."
There was no reply to this, but Markham's eager eyes strayed in the direction of the lighted waiting room and its gleaming coffee tank and polished lunch counter.
"Come on," urged Frank, keeping up a cheery, good-fellow air. "I'm ready for a bite, too."
Markham held back as Frank tried to pull him along with him.
"See here—"
"Newton—Frank Newton, that's me."
"Well, I can't go with you. In the first place, I'm a sight for respectable people. In the next ​place," went on Markham, "there's some people I don't want to risk meeting."
Frank reflected for a moment or two.
"Will you stay here for five minutes till I come back?" he asked.
"Why, yes, if you want me to," was the reply.
"All right. Be sure, now."
Frank was gone less than the five minutes. He returned with a little tin pail holding a pint of hot coffee, a picnic plate containing two sandwiches, a piece of pie and some doughnuts.
"There, try that," he said, placing the things on a bumper post.
"Say," choked up Markham—but Frank strode away, whistling to himself. He did not approach Markham until every vestige of the lunch had disappeared.
"That's the first square meal I've had for two days," said Markham in a grateful, contented tone. "Say, you're good."
"Am I?" smiled Frank. "I'm good for your railroad fare to where I live, and a job right on top of it for you, if you say so."
"Do you honestly mean that?" asked Markham, almost solemnly, his voice quite tremulous.
"Every word of it," declared Frank. "I live at Greenville. It's about a hundred and fifty miles ​down state. Say the word, Markham. I can see you're In trouble or distress of some kind. I'm not prying to find out what it is. I only want to show what I think of you for saving my money, and maybe my life with a courage that has got to belong to a first-class fellow."
Markham bowed his head as if in deep thought. Frank saw a tear fall to the platform. Finally his companion spoke again.
"If you will advance my fare," he said, "I'll pay you back first money I earn."
"That's a bargain," said Frank. "Come on. We'll buy your ticket right now."
"No," demurred Markham, holding back in a timorous way. "You get both tickets. I'll be somewhere on the train. I'd rather sort of hang around the smoker and the platforms till we get beyond the city limits."
"All right," said Frank.
He had a vague idea in his mind that Markham was afraid to show himself publicly in the city, for some reason or other. Frank even speculated as to the possibility of Markham being disguised. He looked, acted and talked like a boy about his own age. The moustache, however, suggested that he was a young man of about twenty.
Frank made his new acquaintance promise ​positively he would be on the train. He went back to the depot and bought another ticket to Greenville. He was somewhat anxious and impatient until the train started up.
There was a first stop at the limits of the city. Just as the train steamed ahead again, some one entered at the rear door of the coach.
"Hello—good," exclaimed Frank, as Markham quietly sat down in the seat beside him. "Why—"
Frank paused there, staring at his fellow-passenger. Markham had washed the grime from his face. He no longer wore the cap pulled down over his eyes. Looking bright as a dollar, he smiled, pleasantly.
"Pretty grimy, wasn't I?" he laughed.
"Why, yes," stammed the puzzled Frank, "but say—what has become of your moustache?"