PAGE 8
"Run To Seed"
by
“How do you do?” she held out her little gloved hand. She was going out over the road with her father. Jim took off his hat and shook hands with her. Dick Rail saw him, walked round the other side of the engine, and tried to take off his hat like that. It was not a success; Dick knew it.
Jim went.
“Who was that?” one of the elderly gentlemen asked Carry.
“An old friend of mine–a gentleman,” she said.
“Rather run to seed–hey?” the old fellow quoted, without knowing exactly why; for he only half recognized Jim, if he recognized him at all.
They started.
It was a bad trip. The weather was bad, the road was bad, the engine bad; Dick bad;–worse than all. Jim had a bad time: he was to be off when he got home. What would his mother and Kitty do?
Once Carry came (brought by the President) and rode in the engine for a little while. Jim helped her up and spread his coat for her to sit on, put his overcoat under her feet; his heart was in it. Dick was sullen, and Jim had to show her about the engine. When she got down to go back to the car she thanked him–she “had enjoyed it greatly”–she “would like to try it again.” Jim smiled. He was almost good-looking when he smiled.
Dick was meaner than ever after that, sneered at Jim–swore; but Jim didn’t mind it. He was thinking of some one else, and of the rain which would prevent her coming again.
They were on the return trip, and were half-way home when the accident happened. It was just “good dusk,” and it had been raining all night and all day, and the road was as rotten as mud. The special was behind and was making up. She had the right of way, and she was flying. She rounded a curve just above a small “fill,” under which was a little stream, nothing but a mere “branch.” In good weather it would never be noticed. The gay party behind were at dinner. The first thing they knew was the sudden jerk which came from reversing the engine at full speed, and the grind as the wheels slid along under the brakes. Then they stopped with a bump which jerked them out of their seats, set the lamps to swinging, and sent the things on the table crashing on the floor. No one was hurt, only shaken, and they crowded out of the car to learn the cause. They found it. The engine was half buried in wet earth on the other side of the little washout, with the tender jammed up into the cab. The whole was wrapped in a dense cloud of escaping steam. The roar was terrific. The big engineer, bare-headed and covered with mud, and with his face deadly white, was trying to get down to the engine. Some one was in there.
They got him out after a while (but it took some time), and laid him on the ground, while a mattress was got. It was Jim.
Carry had been weeping and praying. She sat down and took his head in her lap, and with her lace handkerchief wiped his blackened and bleeding face, and smoothed his wet hair.
The newspaper accounts, which are always reflections of what public sentiment is, or should be, spoke of it–some, as “a providential”–others, as “a miraculous”–and yet others as “a fortunate” escape on the part of the President and the Directors of the road, according to the tendencies, religious or otherwise, of their paragraphists.
They mentioned casually that “only one person was hurt–an employee, name not ascertained.” And one or two had some gush about the devotion of the beautiful young lady, the daughter of one of the directors of the road, who happened to be on the train, and who, “like a ministering angel, held the head of the wounded man in her lap after he was taken from the wreck.” A good deal was made of this picture, which was extensively copied.