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.

"Oh, see here!" she cried, in amazement as well as fear. "See! What
can it mean? See what's drawn on this cloth--"

It was a single word-- a word smeared across the rag in shaking,
uneven letters:

"HELP!"

"By George!" exclaimed one of the brakemen. "The little girl's right.
That spells 'Help!' plain enough."