DOWN AT THE WRECK
CLASTER was a thriving town of four thousand inhabitants, with several
churches and schools, a bank, two weekly newspapers, and six blocks of
stores. There was a neat railroad station at which two score of trains
stopped daily, bound either north or south, for the line ran from
Philadelphia to Jersey City.
Barber’s Cut was a nasty curve on the line, just south of the town. Here
there was a rocky hill, and in one spot the cut was twenty feet deep. At
the end of the cut was a hollow where a railroad bridge crossed Claster
Creek.
Frank and his mother found a great many of the townspeople hurrying to
the scene of the wreck. All sorts of rumors were afloat, and it was said
the passenger cars were on fire, and the helpless inmates were being
roasted alive. The local fire department was called out, but fortunately
the fire was confined to a freight car loaded with unfinished wagon
wheels, so but comparatively little damage was done through the
conflagration.
The rumor that a dozen passengers had been killed or hurt was false. But
four people on the passenger train had been injured, and only one
severely—this man having several ribs crushed in and an arm broken.
“I don’t see anything of father,” said Frank, after he and his mother
had looked at three of the injured persons. “I guess he wasn’t on this
train after all.”
“It is very fortunate.”
“Your father was on this train,” said a man standing near. “I was
talking to him just a short while before the smash-up occurred.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy. “Then where is he now?”
“There he is!” burst out Frank, and pointed to a form which four men
were carrying from a wrecked car. “Mother, he is—is hurt. You had better
go back and I’ll—I’ll tend to him.” Frank found he could scarcely speak,
he was so agitated.
“My husband!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and ran forward with Frank at her
side. “Oh, tell me, he is not—not dead?”
“No, ma’am, he isn’t dead,” came promptly from one of the men. “He got
his foot crushed, and he’s fainted, that’s all.”
“Thank Heaven it is no worse!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and when the men
laid her husband on the grass above the cut, she knelt beside him, and
sent Frank down to the creek for some water with which to wash Mr.
Hardy’s face, for it was covered with dust and dirt.
As Frank ran down to the creek for the water he saw something shiny
lying in the grass. He picked the object up, and was surprised to learn
that it was a silver spectacle case, containing a fine pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Somebody dropped those in the excitement,” he reasoned. “I’ll have to
look for the owner later;” and he shoved the case into his pocket.
Of the four that had been hurt two were removed to the hospital and the
others were taken to their homes. Mr. Hardy was carried to his
residence, and there his physician and his family did all they could to
make him comfortable.
“The foot is in rather bad shape,” said Doctor Basswood. “Yet I feel
certain I can bring it around so you can walk on it as before. But it
will take time.”
“How much time, doctor?” questioned Mr. Hardy, faintly.
“Four or five months, and perhaps longer. But that is much better than
having your foot amputated.”
“True. But I can’t afford to lay around the house for six months.”
At this the physician shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s the best I can do, Mr. Hardy.”
“Oh, it is not your fault, doctor. But——” Mr. Hardy paused.
“You are thinking of your store?”
“Yes.”
“It is a pity your son, Frank, isn’t older. He might be able to run it
for you.”
“Unfortunately, Frank knows little or nothing about the business. I have
kept him at school.”
“Perhaps you can get a good man to run it for you.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know what I’ll do yet.”
“What do you do when you go away, as you did to-day?”
“I lock the place up, and leave a slate out for orders. Trade is not as
brisk as it used to be.”
“You mean as it was before Benning and Jack Peterson started in the
business?”
“That’s it. The town can’t support three flour and feed stores.”
“Won’t your old customers stick by you?”
“A few of them do; but both Benning and Peterson are doing their best to
get the trade away from me. They offer all sorts of inducements, and
sometimes sell at less than the goods cost, just to get a customer.”
“Nobody in business can afford to do that very long.”
“They want to drive me out, and each wants to drive out the other. Then
the one who is left will make prices to suit himself;” and here Mr.
Hardy had to stop talking, for he felt very much exhausted.
In the meantime Frank had been sent down to the drug store for several
articles which the doctor had said were needed for the injured man.
While he was waiting for the articles a burly and rather pleasant-faced
man came in and purchased a handful of cigars.
“Is there an optician in town?” questioned the man of the druggist. “I
was in that wreck, and somehow I lost my glasses, and I want to get
another pair.”
“The watchmaker across the way keeps spectacles,” answered the druggist.
“But if he can fit you or not I don’t know.”
“I’ll try him,” said the man, and started for the door.
“Excuse me,” put in Frank, stepping up. “What sort of spectacles did you
drop?”
“Did you find them?”
“Perhaps I did.”
“Mine were in a silver case. They are thick glasses, with a gold frame.”
“Then these must be yours,” and Frank drew the case from his pocket and
passed it over.
“They are mine!” cried the burly man, and looked well pleased to have
his property returned to him. “Where did you find them?”
“In the grass between the wreck and the creek. I was down at the creek
getting some water for my father, who was hurt. I almost stepped on the
case.”
“I see. So your father was hurt. Which one was he?”
“He had his foot crushed.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. They took him to your home up the street.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope the hurt isn’t serious?”
“It’s bad enough. But Doctor Basswood says he can save the foot.”
“Well, that’s a great consolation. It’s no fun to have a foot cut off.
May I ask your name?”
“Frank Hardy.”
“Mine is Philip Vincent. I am very much obliged for returning the
glasses to me.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Vincent. I was going to hunt up the owner as
soon as everything was all right at our house.”
“These glasses are a very fine pair, and I prize them exceedingly. Let
me reward you for returning them,” and Philip Vincent put his hand in
his pocket.
“I don’t want a reward, sir,” said Frank, promptly.
“But I want to show you that I appreciate having them returned,”
insisted the burly gentleman.
“It’s all right.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m in the book business in New York. I’ll
send you a good boy’s book. How will that suit you?” and the gentleman
smiled blandly.
“I must say I never go back on a good story book,” answered Frank,
honestly.
“Most boys like to read. I suppose you go to school here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I shan’t forget you,” concluded Philip Vincent, and shaking
hands, he left the drug store.
“What a pleasant kind of a man,” thought Frank. “I’d like to see more of
him.” And then he wondered what sort of a story book Mr. Vincent would
send him.
A little later Frank obtained the articles needed from the druggist, and
then he started for home. He did not dream of the disagreeable surprise
which was in store for him.
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