MR. BINGHAM IS STERN
It was about a quarter to seven when the news reached Mr. Frost,
Assistant to the Principal at Wyndham, that a boy giving his name as
Bingham had been in an automobile accident at Ledyard and was now on
his way to Freeburg. The informant, a woman, was vague as to the extent
of the boy’s injuries; but thought he was pretty badly hurt. He had
been unconscious, she said, when they had picked him up. He had run
his car right into a tree. No, he wasn’t unconscious now; no, sir, not
when her husband had started off with him. They didn’t have a doctor at
Ledyard; the nearest one was four miles away, at Loomis; and so they
were taking the boy to Freeburg; yes, sir, to a doctor. No, she didn’t
know what doctor, but――
Mr. Frost hung up then and became active.
Twenty minutes later, a speeding car having been stopped at the end
of Stoddard Street and diverted up the driveway, Clif lay in his bed
in Number 40 West Hall and smiled grimly while the school physician,
hastily summoned to the scene, expertly determined the damages. In
the room were also Mr. Frost, Mr. McKnight and Tom. Tom looked much
whiter and sicker than Clif did, even if not so disreputable as to
countenance. Clif had a red lump on the side of his head and a number
of scratches that, while superficial, gave him a decidedly battered
appearance. Finally the doctor stood up and smiled genially.
“Well, my friend, you came off pretty well,” he informed Clif. “You’ve
got a broken left clavicle and a sprained thumb. Nice, clean break,
too. Any other sore places you’ve forgotten to mention?”
“No, sir. What’s a clavicle, doctor? Collar bone?”
“Exactly.” The doctor’s fingers settled again on Clif’s left shoulder
and the boy winced. “You’ll probably be rather stiff all over
to-morrow, but you got out of it pretty luckily. All right. Now we’ll
truss you up.” The doctor opened his bag wide and began to set out an
appalling array of bandages and splints. “We’ll have you as good as new
in two or three weeks, my boy.”
“Two or three weeks!” cried Clif. “Gosh, I’ve got to be fixed up a
whole lot quicker than that, sir!”
The doctor paused in unrolling a bandage and lifted his eyebrows
inquiringly. “That so? What’s the hurry?”
“Why――why――I’m on the team, sir!”
“Oh.” The doctor shrugged, smiled and went on with his preparations.
“That’s it, eh? Well, the team will just have to worry along without
you for a while. Now, then, let’s have this arm up here. Easy! Hold it!”
“But――but――” Clif’s expostulations died away. What was the use? He
realized that the doctor knew what he was talking about. He met Tom’s
troubled gaze and tried heroically to smile. But the smile wasn’t a
great success. Mr. McKnight――“Lovey” out of his hearing――said: “Hard
luck, Clif, but you must try and look on the bright side of it, you
know. It’s rather a miracle, I fancy, that you’ll be in shape again at
all. Better consider that, eh?”
Clif agreed without enthusiasm, frowning a bit as the doctor swathed
him in yards and yards of bandage. Mr. Frost said: “I’ll drop a line
to your father, Bingham, when I go down. I’ll see you in the morning
and let you explain how you came to be running about in an automobile
this evening.” Mr. Frost smiled as he spoke, and Clif wasn’t worried.
Mr. Frost was a good scout, he reflected. He did wish, though, that
his father didn’t have to be informed. Dad would think him such an
ass to do a thing like that! He ventured the suggestion that it might
not be necessary to trouble his father with the tidings, at least not
just yet, but Mr. Frost wouldn’t entertain it. He went off then, and
presently the doctor finished his work, wrote a prescription and gave
it to Mr. McKnight and shook Clif’s good hand gently.
“Well, there you are, my friend,” he said cheerfully. “You’re going
to be a trifle uncomfortable for a few days, but you’ll have the
satisfaction of knowing that nature is on the job every minute. A
couple of days in the room will be best, I think. I’ll drop around
to-morrow afternoon and see that the bandages are holding. Good night,
my boy. Take it patiently.” Then, to Tom: “You’re his roommate, eh?
Well, here’s a word to you. See that he stays right where he is until
I see him on Friday, and don’t let him move that arm any.”
“Gosh, I couldn’t if I wanted to!” grumbled Clif.
“Well, don’t want to,” chuckled the doctor. “Oh, by the way, a little
iodine on that goose egg there might help. Have you any?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom. “I’ll attend to it, sir.” Then he added in a
weak attempt at facetiousness: “That’s nothing to what a fellow did to
him in practice last week, doctor!”
When the two were alone, Tom seated himself gingerly on the side of
Clif’s bed and the two stared at each other for a long moment without a
word. Then Tom shook his head dejectedly and Clif sighed. “I’m dished
for this season, Tom,” he muttered.
“Looks like it,” Tom acknowledged. “Tough luck, old scout. Wish it had
been me.”
Clif considered that. Then he shook his head. “No, if one of us had to
do it, it’s lucky I was the one. You’re a good deal more valuable to
the team than I am, Tom. Does Loring know?”
“I guess so. It’s all over school. I haven’t seen him since supper,
though.”
“Maybe you’d better drop around there and tell him that I’m all right.”
“I’ll see him right after study hour. The gong’s about due. ‘Lovey’
will be in again presently, Clif, and I’ll be back as soon as I see
Loring. Are you all right? Does it hurt a lot?”
“N-no, not much. My head’s the worst. It――it sort of buzzes. I guess
I’ll try to take a nap. Gosh, this thing’s awkward! I don’t see why he
has to tie me up like――like a――”
“Here, I’ll pull that pillow up a bit. That better? Well, I’ll have to
beat it.” Tom approached the door slowly, remembered his books, came
back for them and paused to stare sorrowfully at his chum.
Clif smiled. “Chase yourself, Tom. I’m all right. Oh, by the way, I
forgot! Tell Loring I ran the Camel to his lair, will you?”
“You did? I’ll have to hear about it when I get back!” Then the
eagerness died out of Tom’s voice. “Heck,” he growled; “I wish Loring
had never seen the coot!”
Mr. Bingham arrived at Wyndham the next afternoon, proving conclusively
that Mr. Frost had performed his duty promptly. He looked very
sympathetic as he sat down by Clif’s bed and made anxious inquiries,
but Clif had a disturbing suspicion that there was a twinkle lurking in
his dad’s eye. He had always been the counselor of caution, protesting
against his father’s recklessness on the road, and now see what had
happened! He shifted restively, bringing a sharp twinge to the injured
shoulder, when Mr. Bingham said: “Now tell me just what happened, son.
You were driving some one’s car and――”
So Clif told his story and Mr. Bingham listened gravely to the end.
Then: “Well, of course, it isn’t necessary for me to tell you, Clif,
that you shouldn’t have been going through the village at thirty miles
an hour,” he said. “Ordinary precaution would have spared you the
accident. Certainly you couldn’t have seen the second car, but if you
had been traveling at a――ah――moderate speed you could have stopped in
time to avoid a smash-up.” There was more of it, and Clif listened
patiently and in silence. But it didn’t somehow sound just like his
father, and he was puzzled. It sounded a whole lot like a speech
composed beforehand. He sent several suspicious glances across and
became more certain than ever that something was up. At last, when the
homily was ended, Clif had an idea.
“Did you drive over, dad?” he asked carelessly.
“Er――no. No, as a matter of fact, Clif, I didn’t. You see, Mr. Frost’s
letter didn’t reach me until eleven, and it’s quite a ways by road.
After all, the train does get you there fully as quick, doesn’t it?”
“Not the trains on this road,” answered Clif. “Not when you have to
change and then stop at every telegraph pole! You’ll have to think up a
better alibi than that, dad!”
Mr. Bingham was frankly chuckling now. “Well, I suppose I’d better
confess, son,” he answered. “The reason I didn’t drive is that the car
isn’t――that is, it needs overhauling.”
“How come? It was in the shop only five weeks ago.”
“Was it? It seems longer.” Mr. Bingham sounded quite surprised. “How
time doesn’t fly, eh?”
“You’d better come clean, sir,” said Clif severely. “What happened to
the car?”
“Hardly anything at all, really! You see, Clif――say, you remember that
turn just before you get into Pawtucket?” Mr. Bingham specified the
location at length and with much detail in spite of Clif’s nodded
assurance that he did remember. “Well, yesterday afternoon I was coming
around that corner――”
“How fast, dad?”
“Oh, not very fast. Maybe twenty or twenty-five. And――”
“Or maybe thirty-five. All right. Then what?”
“Why, there was one of those infernal oil wagons backing out of a side
street. You know how big they are. Well, there was just about room to
get around him and I’d have done it before he hit me if this other
dummy hadn’t been coming the other way. Really, the way some men drive
is a crime, Clif! Mind you――”
“Which did you hit, dad? The oil wagon or the other one?”
“I didn’t hit either of them,” said Mr. Bingham indignantly. “They hit
me. Both of them. At once and simultaneous.”
“Geewhillickens! And you mean to say the car isn’t hurt much?”
“Oh, of course it got scratched a bit. Lamps and front bumper. And one
running board. And a dent in the left-hand rear door. Still, a hundred
and fifty dollars will cover it. And the insurance folks will look
after everything.”
“What happened to you, sir?”
“Not a thing. I sat tight. I honestly think that’s the best thing to
do, Clif. Sit tight, eh? Now if you had sat tight last night――”
“I like your nerve! And――and lecturing me like you did about being
careful! And you running into two things at once in broad daylight――”
“No, no, Clif! Not _broad_ daylight, really! It was getting along
toward five o’clock.”
“That’s broad daylight,” said Clif uncompromisingly. “I had my trouble
when it was pitch dark! Gee, you’ve got a crust, dad!”
“Have I?” laughed Mr. Bingham. “But didn’t I do it pretty well, son? I
was more than an hour getting that speech together on the train coming
up here. Had to write it on an envelope and commit it to memory――most
of it. I did add a few impromptu touches, however. Now, honest, wasn’t
it――well, pretty fair?”
Clif’s indignation held for a moment longer and then his lips trembled
and after that he laughed until he had to hold on to his injured
shoulder. And Mr. Bingham laughed, too, and found a cigar in his case
and almost lighted it before he remembered where he was. Finally Clif
sobered again.
“Just the same,” he said severely, “it’s no laughing matter. You’re
going to get smashed up some day, dad, if you don’t use more sense
in driving. How many times have I told you you ought to slow down at
corners? Gosh, you come around a turn like there was no one else owned
a car! When you can’t see what’s ahead of you you ought to――” But just
then Mr. Bingham’s grin brought him up. “Well, it’s so,” he ended
rather lamely.
His father laughed. “Son,” he said, “it looks like a tie. Let’s call it
off. What do you say?”
Clif nodded, smiling. “Guess we’d better. Just the same, I’m going to
feel a heap happier as long as the car’s in the shop, and I hope they
keep it for months!”
“Well, they told me six days,” said Mr. Bingham. “And, look here, what
about the Lizzie you were driving? Who settles for that?”
“I do,” answered Clif promptly. “It’s sort of folded up, like an
accordion, Tom says; but they’re going to pull it out again for forty
dollars, and I’m going to settle out of my pocket money.”
“Hm, forty dollars is a lot of money. Look here, how would it do if
they only pulled it out halfway, say about twenty-five dollars’ worth?”
“It isn’t all for pulling it out,” Clif laughed. “It got busted up
pretty well, I guess.”
“Well, I think you’re right about paying for it yourself, son. Maybe
it will teach you to be more――” But he caught the warning gleam in his
son’s eye and broke off with a cough. “What I started to say was you’re
likely to be rather hard up after settling for the wreck and so I’ll
just leave a little check to carry you on.”
“No, sir, I don’t want――”
“Of course not! I understand that. But there’s Christmas coming along
pretty soon――”
“Six weeks and more,” jeered Clif.
“I know, but six weeks goes before you realize it.” Mr. Bingham was
already busy with check book and fountain pen. “I’m expecting something
particularly nice from you this year and――” His voice trailed away as
he tore the check from the book and waved it.
“You’re going to get an edition de luxe of the _Rules of the Road_,”
said Clif sternly. “That’s what you’re going to get from me.” He
accepted the check, looked at the amount and frowned. “What’s the good
of giving me fifty dollars?” he demanded. “It’s only going to be forty.
And, anyhow, I want to pay it myself, dad.”
“I’m not stopping you. That check hasn’t a thing in the world to do
with that busted flivver, son. It’s just a little present from a
grateful parent.”
“Grateful for what?” asked Clif suspiciously.
“Grateful to find you with nothing worse than a broken collar bone,
Clifton,” answered Mr. Bingham gently.
Clif looked away. Then he said, a bit gruffly: “Don’t see that I ought
to get the check, though. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t get killed.”
“Some one’s got to take it,” replied his father lightly.
“Well, I’ll use some of it for the doctor. Thanks, dad.”
Mr. Bingham waved the thanks aside with a hand which again held the
absent-minded cigar and laid his other hand on Clif’s. “Now I’m going
down for a short smoke,” he said. “It’s been rather a trying day, son.
Then I’ll come back and have supper with you.”
“Up here?” exclaimed Clif incredulously.
Mr. Bingham nodded. “Little idea of my own. Rather clever, don’t you
think?”
“Well, but――will they let you?”
“Oh, yes, I made the suggestion to Mr. Frost and he agreed to it. Not
with enthusiasm, perhaps, but――he agreed. Back in ten minutes, son.”