"BERTHA'S ACCIDENT"
It had been decided that the party would go to New Orleans from San
Antonio, and then from there by boat to New York.
"It'll make a change from car-riding, and a very pleasant one, I'm
thinking," Mr. Hartley had said; and the others had enthusiastically
agreed with him.
It was on the five-hundred-and-seventy-two mile journey from San Antonio
to New Orleans that something happened. In the Chronicles of the Hexagon
Club it fell to Genevieve to tell the story; and this is what she wrote:
"It seems so strange to me that we should have traveled so many
thousands of miles on the railroad without anything happening; and then,
just on the last five hundred (we are going to take the boat at New
Orleans)--to have it happen.
"We have had all sorts of amusing experiences, of course, losing trains,
and missing connections; but nothing like this. Even when we had to take
that little bumpy accommodation for a few hours, and it was so
accommodating it stopped every few minutes 'to water the horses,' as
dear Tilly said, nothing happened--though, to be sure, we almost did get
left that time we all (except Aunt Julia) got off and went to pick
flowers while our train waited for a freight to go by. But we didn't get
quite left, and we did catch it. (Dear Tilly says we could have caught
it, anyway, even if it had started, and that we shouldn't have had to
walk very fast, at that! Tilly does make heaps of fun of all our trains
except the fast ones on the main lines. And I don't know as I wonder,
only I'd never tell her that, of course--that is, I _wouldn't_ have told
her before, perhaps.)
"Well, where was I? Oh, I know--on the sidetrack. (I had to laugh here,
for it occurred to me that that was just where I was in the story--on a
sidetrack! I'm not telling what I started out to tell at all. It's lucky
we can each take all the room we want, though, in these Chronicles.)
"Well, I'll tell it now, really, though I'm still so shaky and excited
my hand trembles awfully. It was in the night, a little past twelve
o'clock that it happened. I was lying in my berth above Elsie's, and was
wide-awake. I had been thinking about Father. He has been such a dear
all the way. I was thinking what a big, big dear he was, when IT
happened.
"Yes, I put IT in capitals on purpose, and I reckon you would, if
suddenly the car you were riding in began to sway horribly and bump up
and down, and then stop right off short with a bang that flung you into
the middle of the aisle! And that's what ours did.
"For a minute, of course, I was too dazed to know what had happened. But
the next moment I heard a scared voice wail right in my ear:
"'Girls, it's an accident--I know it's an accident! I told you we should
have an accident--and to think I took off my shoes to-night for the very
first time!'
"I knew then. It was Bertha, and it was an accident. And, do you know?
I'm ashamed to tell it, but the first thing I did right there and then
was to laugh--it seemed so funny about Bertha's shoes, and to hear her
say her usual 'I told you so!' But the next minute I began to realize
what it all really meant, and I didn't laugh any more.
"All around me, by that time, were frightened cries and shouts, and I
was so worried for Father and all the rest. I struggled, and tried to
get up; and then I heard Father's voice call: 'Genevieve, Genevieve,
where are you? Are you all right?' Oh, nobody will ever know how good
that dear voice sounded to me!
"We called for Aunt Julia, then, and for the girls; but it was ever so
long before we could find them. We weren't all together, anyway, and the
crash had separated us more than ever. Besides, everybody everywhere
all over the car was crying out by that time, and trying to find folks,
all in the dark.
"We found Aunt Julia. She was almost under the berth near me; but she
was so faint and dazed she could not answer when we first called. I was
all right, and so were Cordelia and Bertha, only Bertha bumped her head
pretty hard afterwards, looking for her shoes. Elsie Martin and Alma
Lane were a little bruised and bumped, too; but they declared they could
move all their legs and arms.
"We hadn't any of us found Tilly up to that time; but when Elsie said
that (about being able to move all her legs and arms), I heard a little
faint voice say 'You talk as if you were a centipede, Elsie Martin!'
"'Tilly!' I cried then. 'Where are you?' The others called, too, until
we were all shouting frantically for Tilly. We knew it must be Tilly for
nobody but Tilly Mack could have made that speech!
"At last we found her. She was wedged in under a broken seat almost at
our feet. It was at the forward end of the car--the only part that
seemed to be really smashed. She could not crawl out, and we could not
pull her out. She gave a moaning little cry when Father tried to.
"'I guess--some of my legs and arms don't go,' she called out to us
with a little sob in her voice.
"We were crazy then, of course--all of us; and we all talked at once,
and tried to find out just where she was hurt. The trainmen had come by
this time with lanterns, and were helping every one out of the car. Then
they came to us and Tilly.
"And we were so proud of Tilly--she was so brave and cheery! I never
found out before what her nonsense was for, but I did find it out then.
It was the only thing that kept us all from going just wild. She said
such queer little things when they were trying to get her out, and she
told them if there was any one hurt worse than she to get them out
first. She told Father that she knew now just how Reddy felt when his
broncho went see-saw up in the air, because that was what her berth did.
"Well, they got the poor dear out at last, and a doctor from the rear
car examined her at once. Her left arm was broken, and she had two or
three painful bruises. Of course that was bad--but not anywhere near so
bad as it might have been, and we were all so relieved. The doctor did
what he could for her, then we all made ourselves as comfortable as
possible while we waited for the relief train.
"We found out then about the wreck, and the chief thing we could find
out anywhere was what a 'fortunate' wreck it was! The engine and six
cars went off the track on a curve. Just ahead was a steep bank with a
river below it, and of course it _was_ fortunate that we did not go down
that. No one was killed, and only a few much injured. The car ahead and
ours were the only ones that were smashed any. Yes, I suppose it was a
'fortunate wreck'--but I never want to see an unfortunate one. Certainly
we all felt pretty thankful that we had come out of it as well as we
did.
"The relief train came at last, and took us to the next city, and to-day
we are started on our journey once again. We expect to reach New Orleans
to-night, and take the boat for New York Saturday. We all feel a little
stiff and sore, but of course dear Tilly feels the worst. But she tries
to be just as bright and smiling as ever. She looks pretty white,
though, and what the storybooks call 'wan,' I reckon. She says, anyhow,
she wishes she _were_ a centipede--in _arms_--because perhaps then she
wouldn't miss her left one so much, if she had plenty more of them.
There seems to be such a lot of things she wants her left arm to do. The
doctor says it wasn't a _bad_ break--as if any break could be _good_!
"And here endeth my record of 'Bertha's accident'--as Tilly insists upon
calling it, until she's made Bertha almost ready to cry over it."
* * * * *
Owing to the delay of the accident, Mr. Hartley and his party had only
one day in New Orleans before the boat sailed; but they made the most
of that, for they wanted to see what they could of the quaint,
picturesque city.
"We'll take carriages, dearie. We won't walk anywhere," said Mr. Hartley
to Genevieve that morning. "In the first place, Mrs. Kennedy and Miss
Tilly couldn't, and the rest of us don't want to. We can see more, too,
in the short space of time we have."
So in carriages, bright and early Friday morning, the party started out
to "do" New Orleans, as Genevieve termed it. Leaving the "American
portion," where were situated their hotel and most of the other big
hotels and business houses of American type, they trailed happily along
through Prytania Street and St. Charles Avenue to the beautiful "Garden
District" which they had been warned not to miss. They found, indeed,
much to delight them in the stately, palatial homes set in the midst of
exquisitely kept lawns and wonderful groves of magnolia and oak. Quite
as interesting to them all, however, was the old French or Latin Quarter
below Canal Street, where were the Creole homes and business houses.
Here they ate their luncheon, too, in one of the curious French
restaurants, famous the world over for its delicious dishes.
With the disappearance of the last mouthful on her plate, Tilly drew a
long breath.
"I've always heard Creoles were awfully interesting," she sighed. "Do
you know--I don't think I'd mind much being a Creole myself!"
"You look so much like one, too," laughed Genevieve, affectionately,
patting the soft, fluffy red hair above the piquant, freckled little
face.
At five o'clock that afternoon a tired but happy party reached the hotel
in time to rest and dress for dinner.
"Well," sighed Genevieve, "I'd have liked a week here, but a day has
been pretty good. We've seen enough 'Quarters' to make a 'whole,' and
the Cathedral, and dozens of other churches, and we've driven along
those lovely lakes with the unpronounceable names; and now I'm ready for
dinner."
"And we saw a statue--the Margaret Statue," cut in Cordelia, anxiously.
"You know it's the _first_ statue ever erected to a woman's memory in
the United States. We wouldn't want to forget that!"
"Well, I should like to," retorted Genevieve, perversely. "It's only so
much the worse for the United States--that it wasn't done before!"
"I think Genevieve is going to be a suffragette," observed Tilly,
cheerfully, as they trooped into the hotel together.
It was from New Orleans that Cordelia Wilson wrote a letter to Mr.
William Hodges. She had decided that it would be easier to write her bad
news than to tell it. Then, too, she disliked to keep the old man any
longer in suspense. She made her letter as comforting as she could.
"MR. WILLIAM HODGES, SIR:--" she wrote. "I am very
sorry to have to tell you that I have looked, but
cannot find your oil well anywhere. I did find a
man who had heard about it, but he said there
wasn't any well at all like what the Boston man
told you there was. He said it was a bad swindle
and he knew many others who had lost their money,
too, which I thought would please you. O dear, no,
I don't mean that, of course. I only mean that you
might like to know that others besides you hadn't
known any more than to put money in it, too. (That
doesn't sound quite right yet, but perhaps you
know what I mean.)
"I hope you won't feel too bad about it, Mr.
Hodges. I saw some oil wells when we came through
Beaumont, and I am quite sure you would not like
them at all. They are not one bit like Bertha's
aunt's well on her farm, with the bucket. In fact,
they don't look like wells at all, and I never
should have known what they were if Mr. Hartley
had not told me. They are tall towers _standing
up_ out of the ground instead of stone holes sunk
down in the ground. (It is just as if you should
call the cupola on your house your cellar--and you
know how queer that would be!) I saw a lot of
them--oil wells, not cupolas, I mean--and they
looked more like a whole lot of little Eiffel
Towers than anything else I can think of. (If you
will get your grandson, Tony, to show you the
Eiffel Tower in his geography, you will see what I
mean.) Mr. Hartley says they _do_ bore for
them--wells, I mean, not Eiffel Towers--and so I
suppose they do go down before they go up.
"I saw the wells on the way between San Antonio
and New Orleans. One was on fire. (Just think of a
well being on fire!) Of course we were riding
through a most wonderful country, anyway. We saw a
great many things growing besides oil wells, too,
as you must know--rice, and cotton, and tobacco,
and sugar cane, and onions, and quantities of
other things. I picked some cotton bolls. (I spelt
that right. This kind isn't b-a-ll.) I am sending
you a few in a little box. It takes 75,000 of them
to make one bale of cotton, so I'm afraid you
couldn't make even a handkerchief out of these.
"I am so sorry about the oil well, but I did the
best that I could to find it.
"Respectfully yours,
"CORDELIA WILSON."