“Was Reddy hurt?” asked Allan, who had listened to the story breathlessly.
“Hurt? Oh, no; he come down th’ chute, put th’ empty oil-cans back in their places, an’ went t’ work ag’in.”
“But didn’t the company do something for him?” persisted the boy. “Wasn’t he rewarded?”
“No,” said Jack, puffing away at his pipe with a very grim face; “but th’ superintendent was promoted.”
“The superintendent?”
“Yes; he got his promotion. Y’ see, in his report of th’ accident, he somehow fergot t’ mention Reddy.”
Allan flushed with a sudden generous anger.
“But,” he began, “that wasn’t—”
“Honest?” and Jack laughed a little bitterly. “No, maybe not; but what could a poor feller like Reddy do about it? Only,” he added, “it’s jest as well fer that superintendent he didn’t stay on this division. Th’ boys would ’a’ given him some mighty lively times. We’ve got a gentleman fer a superintendent now. He don’t try t’ stale nobody else’s thunder—he’s given Reddy a square deal this time.”
Truth to tell, Reddy’s family was being better provided for than it had ever been—the superintendent saw to that; and Reddy himself was receiving the best medical attention to be secured, though it seemed more and more certain that even the greatest skill would be unable to restore his memory.