THE ACCIDENT.
“YOU will have to amuse yourself indoors to-day,” said Clinton to his
cousin, the next morning, as he looked out of the window, soon after the
accustomed triple rap had aroused him from his slumbers. The rain was
falling fast, and the direction of the wind betokened a storm rather
than a shower. Whistler was somewhat disappointed, as he and Clinton had
planned a ride; but he concluded to make the best of it, and find such
amusement as he could in the barn, the shop, and the house.
After breakfast the boys went out to the barn, Clinton having several
jobs to attend to. Whistler, not liking to be idle, took it into his
head to cut up some hay for the horse,—a kind of work which he could do
as well as Clinton. The hay-cutter, as most of you know, consists of a
sort of shallow wooden trough, with a cylinder, in which are several
sharp knives, at one end of it. The cylinder is made to revolve very
fast, by means of an iron wheel and crank turned by the hand; and as the
hay is pushed slowly against the knives, it is cut into short pieces,
and falls into the vessel placed to receive it. Whistler had worked at
the machine but a few minutes, when some drops of fresh blood on the hay
attracted his attention. He looked at his left hand, which was feeding
the machine, and found, to his astonishment, that the end of the fore
finger was missing! For an instant, he could hardly believe his eyes,
for the knife had done its work so neatly that he felt no pain nor
unusual sensation in the mutilated finger; but the flowing blood quickly
dispelled all doubt as to what had happened.
“Clinton!” he called, “come here, quick! I’ve cut my finger off!”
Clinton, pale with fright, ran to his aid; but he seemed somewhat
relieved when he found that his cousin had not lost the whole finger,
but only about half an inch of it. It was bad enough, however, as it
was; and he sympathized most tenderly with Whistler. They were about to
go into the house, when a new idea occurred to Clinton.
“Where is the piece that came off? Have you found it?” he inquired.
“No,” replied Whistler.
“We must find it, then, and put it on before it gets cold. I shouldn’t
wonder if it would grow on again. I believe I’ve heard of such things,”
said Clinton.
“You look for it, then,—I can’t. I don’t want to see it,” said Whistler,
who began to feel faint and sick from the sight of blood. “O, dear!” he
added, “what shall I do? My visit is spoilt!—and I thought I should have
such a good time!” And the tears began to flow fast.
“Don’t say so, Willie,” said Clinton, who was looking among the hay for
the end of the finger. “This won’t be a very bad affair. I know you’ll
have a good time yet, before your vacation is over.”
“What will uncle say?” continued Whistler. “He cautioned me about the
hay-cutter this morning; and father did, too, before I came down here. I
thought I was careful, and I don’t see, now, how I did it.”
“Here’s the piece!” said Clinton, as he discovered the missing tip. “It
looks as natural as life, doesn’t it? Now, let me put it on, just as it
belongs, and then we’ll go in and get mother to do the finger up.”
Clinton carefully pressed the severed parts together, and put a
handkerchief over the hand, and they then went into the house. Willie’s
appearance, as he entered the room, gave his aunt quite a shock; but she
quickly recalled her presence of mind, and, on learning the nature of
his injury, took immediate measures for his relief. Clinton, in the
meantime, called his father. As his uncle entered, Whistler gave vent to
a new outburst of tears; but when Mr. Davenport, instead of alluding to
the warning he had given him, or charging him with carelessness, spoke
of the danger attending the use of the hay-cutter, and of the frequency
of accidents of this kind, Willie’s tears gradually dried up, and he
began to regain something of the self-command he had lost. It often
happens that the first shock of a misfortune unmans even the bravest of
spirits; and we need not wonder, therefore, that Whistler was at first
so much affected by what was after all not a very serious accident.
It was thought best to send for the physician at once; and Clinton was
despatched for him, in a covered wagon, as the rain was still falling
fast. Dr. Hart lived a mile or two from Mr. Davenport’s; and it was
nearly an hour before he drove up in his gig. He found his young patient
quite calm and cheerful, and received from him a minute account of the
accident. He then tenderly unbound the wounded finger, and examined into
the extent of the injury.
“This is not going to be a very bad affair, Willie,” said the doctor,
after he had completed his examination. “It isn’t near so serious as it
would be if you had cut off two or three of your fingers, as I have
frequently known boys to do when playing with a hay-cutter. I think the
tip will grow on again, and the finger will be about as good as it ever
was. It is very fortunate that you did not forget to put the piece on
again.”
“I must give Clinton the credit of that; I shouldn’t have thought of
it,” said Whistler.
“Suppose the piece shouldn’t grow on, what then?” inquired Clinton.
“Then his finger will always be half an inch short, and it will be
rather tender for a time,” replied the doctor. “But I feel quite
confident that it will knit together. I shall have to sew it on, to keep
it in its place; but that won’t hurt him much.”
The doctor drew from his coat pocket a small case of instruments, at the
sight of which little Annie retreated from the room. Clinton soon
followed her example, feeling that he had not the nerve to witness the
operation. Whistler himself looked rather anxious, but not more so than
his uncle and aunt. He promptly obeyed all the directions of the doctor,
however; and when the needle was inserted through his flesh, he did not
flinch, nor utter a single cry, although the pain sent the tears into
his eyes. No resistance being offered, and no time lost in coaxing the
patient, the operations of sewing and dressing were performed very
quickly and neatly.
“There,” said Dr. Hart, as he applied the last bandage, “you bore that
like a hero. There are few men who would behave so well as you did under
such an operation. Now, if you take good care of your finger, I have no
doubt it will heal up nicely. You must make a baby of it for a while,
and treat it very tenderly; if you don’t, it will be likely to let you
know it.”
The doctor then gave Mrs. Davenport some directions in regard to the
management of the wounded finger. Having thus fulfilled his professional
duty, he branched off to the topics of village news, as was his wont,
remarking to Mr. Davenport:
“Friend Walker met with a pretty serious loss last night.”
“What loss? I’ve heard nothing about it,” replied Mr. Davenport.
“Heard nothing about the fire!” exclaimed the doctor, with surprise.
“Why, his barn was burned flat last night, with everything in it.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mr. Davenport.
“Yes,” continued the doctor; “and his oxen, and one of his cows, and all
of his hogs, were burned to death. Then his barn was full of hay—about
twenty tons. It’s quite a sad loss to the old man, and he’s almost crazy
about it.”
“O, I am sorry for the old gentleman,” said Mrs. Davenport, with much
feeling. “It’s a great loss, at his time of life, and he has seen so
much trouble, too.”
“But where were we, that we knew nothing about this before?” inquired
Mr. Davenport.
“O, I don’t wonder at that at all,” replied his wife. “You know his
house is over a mile from us, and there’s quite a hill between us, so
that a fire in his neighborhood wouldn’t show very plain here.”
“How was it with his horse? I suppose he was in the pasture,” said Mr.
Davenport.
“Yes,—they turned him into the pasture last night; but they can’t find
anything of him this morning,” replied the doctor.
“That is very singular; it looks as if some roguery had been going on,”
observed Mr. Davenport.
“O, yes; the barn was set on fire,—there is no doubt of that,” continued
the doctor. “There hadn’t been any fire or light near it for several
months.”
“Who do they suppose did it?” inquired Clinton, who had returned to the
room while the doctor was telling the news.
“They don’t suspect anybody, that I know of,” replied the doctor. “Mr.
Walker says he hasn’t the slightest idea who did it, and other folks are
as much in the dark as he is. People can’t help thinking of that
drunken, vagrant son of his; but, then, I don’t believe Tom would do
such a fiendish act, bad as he is.”
“O, no; Tom Walker never could have done such a thing as that,” said
Mrs. Davenport.
“Well, I’m sorry it has happened,” said the doctor, as he arose to
depart, “not only on Mr. Walker’s account, but because it diminishes the
security of the whole community. There is no safety for any of us, when
such villains are prowling around. Good-by, Willie; I’ll call to see how
you are getting along, in a day or two. Good-day, all.”
Soon after the doctor departed, Clinton and his father rode over to Mr.
Walker’s to see the ruins, and to tender their sympathies to the
sufferers. It was indeed a sad, and, in that village, an unusual
spectacle, that they beheld. The smouldering heaps of half-burned grain
and hay, the blackened remains of the animals that perished, the
partially consumed carts, ploughs and implements, the iron of which only
remained, and the surrounding trees, stripped of every green leaf,
presented a gloomy picture of desolation, where peace and plenty smiled
but a few hours before. The family had not recovered from their alarm
and excitement, and seemed to feel their loss very deeply. Mr. Davenport
tendered his sympathies and his services to his afflicted neighbors, and
soon after returned home.
Whistler, during the absence of his uncle and cousin, talked quite
cheerfully with Annie, and seemed in his usual spirits.
“I’ve got a baby, now, that beats yours,” he said, as Annie brought out
her doll to play with it.
“Where is it?” inquired Annie.
“Here it is,” he said, pointing to his bandaged finger.
“O, I wouldn’t have such a baby as that!” exclaimed Annie.
“He’s a real good baby; he’s alive, and yours isn’t,” said Whistler.
“But his head is cut off,” suggested Annie.
“No matter; the doctor has sewed it on again,” replied Whistler.
“Well, it’s an ugly baby; I don’t like it,” said Annie.
“No, he isn’t ugly; he never cries, nor makes any fuss,” replied
Whistler.
“He makes _you_ cry, though,” retorted Annie, with a look so arch that
Whistler laughed merrily.
“I guess your finger doesn’t pain you much, Willie, does it?” inquired
Mrs. Davenport.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, “I don’t feel it hardly any, now; and it hasn’t
hurt me much yet, only when the doctor was fixing it.”
For the greater security of Whistler’s finger, which could not bear the
slightest touch, his aunt fixed a sling, in which he carried his arm.
During the day he experienced but very little pain from the wound, and
in this respect was most disagreeably disappointed. Mr. Davenport
suggested that his father ought to be informed of the accident; and
Whistler decided to write to him that afternoon, as he had the free use
of his right hand. The thought of doing this, however, brought a shadow
over his countenance.
“I wish I could get along without letting the folks at home know
anything about this,” he at length said.
“That would hardly be possible,” said his uncle, “as your finger will
not have time to heal up entirely before you go home; and, even if it
were possible, do you think it would be right to do so?”
“No, sir,—I did not think of doing so; but I dread to have them know
it,” replied Whistler. “Mother will worry about me, and father will say
that I was careless,—that’s what he always says when anything happens to
me.”
“Isn’t it possible that you were a trifle careless?” inquired Mr.
Davenport.
“I suppose I was,” he replied.
“Clinton has used that hay-cutter, more or less, for four or five years,
and he never hurt himself with it,” said Mr. Davenport, who really
thought that Willie was a little heedless, and wished this accident
should prove a valuable lesson to him.
The gathering tears in the boy’s eyes warned Mr. Davenport that he had
said enough, if not too much. Clinton, noticing his cousin’s
sensitiveness, came to his relief, saying:
“Well, father, I always thought that hay-cutter was a dangerous thing,
and I’ve come pretty near cutting my fingers with it more than once. But
I’ve thought of a way that I can fix it, so that it won’t cut off any
more fingers. I’m going to nail a strip of wood over the place where you
put the hay in, close up to the cylinder, so that you can’t reach the
knives with your fingers. I’ll go and do it now, and see how it works.”
Whistler proceeded with his letter. Clinton came in, after a short
absence, and reported that he had applied his safety-guard to the
hay-cutter, and that it worked admirably. He said it interfered but very
little with the operation of the machine, and he thought it would not
trouble him at all after he became accustomed to it. It was impossible,
he said, for a person to cut his fingers when this guard was on, unless
he did it with design.
When Whistler had finished his letter, Clinton took it over to the Cross
Roads, this being the nearest post-office. The rain had ceased, and Mrs.
Davenport, having an errand to do, accompanied Clinton, leaving the
house in charge of Whistler and Annie, who found plenty of ways of
amusing each other until the return of the absentees.
It was not until bed time that Whistler began to experience much
inconvenience from his cut finger. He then found that he should need
Clinton’s assistance in undressing; and he subsequently discovered that
it was not quite so easy to keep his finger from contact with
surrounding things in bed, as it was when sitting up.
As the boys talked over the incidents of the day, after they had got
into bed, Clinton inquired, in a low tone:
“Didn’t you think of Dick Sneider, Willie, when you heard of the fire?”
“Yes, I thought of him the very first thing, and I should have spoken of
it if we hadn’t promised not to,” replied Whistler.
“So should I,” added Clinton; “but, then, it isn’t likely he set the
fire, for he was so lame he couldn’t have got over to Mr. Walker’s.”
“No, I don’t imagine he did it,” said Whistler; “but there was something
about his looks that I didn’t like. How cross he looked when he first
saw us!”
“I know it; and how afraid he was that we should tell somebody we saw
him!” added Clinton.
“Well, if he wasn’t so lame I should have some suspicion of him,” said
Whistler.
“But, perhaps he wasn’t so very lame; he might have only made believe
so,” suggested Clinton.
“I wish we hadn’t bound ourselves not to say anything about him,” said
Whistler.
“They say a bad promise is better broken than kept,” added Clinton.
“Yes; but how do you know that was a bad promise?” inquired Whistler.
“I don’t think it was a very good one, even if the excuse he gave about
his owing Mr. Brown some money was the real one,” replied Clinton.
“Well, I hope they will catch the rascal that set the fire, whoever he
is,” said Whistler; “but, after all, I don’t think it could have been
the man we met in the woods.”
Whistler did not pass the night very comfortably. When he slept he was
visited by troubled dreams, the effect of the nervous excitement of the
day; and his wounded finger was continually receiving knocks, the
throbbing pain of which awoke him, sometimes keeping him in agony for
half an hour afterwards. Daybreak was never more welcome to him than it
was the next morning.
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