Whatever of coldness had grown into his heart melted away in that instant, and left him sobbing on his father’s breast. Then, suddenly remembering that his father was injured, he attempted to draw away; but those strong arms held him close.
“You’re not hurtin’ me, boy,” he said. “I ain’t hurt up here. It’s in th’ legs. One of ’em had t’ come off, Tommy. I’m ’feard my minin’ days is over.”
“There, now,” said Mrs. Remington, soothingly, “don’t you worry. All you’ve got t’ do is t’ git well. Now go t’ sleep. Come away, Tommy”; and she drew him from the bed.
It was only then, as they sat on the front porch with Miss Andrews, that he heard the story of the accident. His father, it seemed, had, by some chance, been working alone at the face of a new chamber, some distance from the other men. In some way a great mass of coal, loosened, perhaps, by a previous blast, had fallen upon him, pinning him to the floor. Fortunately, a pile of refuse at the side of the chamber had kept it from pressing with its full weight upon his head or body, but his legs had been crushed under it, and after trying in vain to extricate himself or attract the attention of some of the other men by hallooing, he had fainted from the pain and loss of blood. He had been discovered, at last, by a driver-boy, and it seemed quite certain he was dying. He was borne tenderly to his home, and it was then that Mr. Bayliss had sent the telegram to Tommy. A further examination showed, however, that only his legs had been injured. The left one had been crushed so badly that the surgeon found it necessary to amputate it just above the knee. The patient had rallied from the operation nicely, there were no bad symptoms, and it seemed certain he would recover.
There was a long silence when the story was told, and all of them sat looking down into the valley, each busy with his own thoughts. Suddenly Mrs. Remington’s housewifely instinct asserted itself.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “What hev I been thinkin’ of? Tommy ain’t hed a bite o’ breakfast!”
“I’m not hungry, mother,” he protested. “I’ll wait till dinner. It’ll soon be noon. You can get it a little earlier than usual,” he added, seeing that she was still bent on making him eat. “I want to go up on the mountain awhile. I can’t be of any use here, can I?”
“No,” answered his mother, regarding him doubtfully. “Your pa’s asleep, and even if he wakes up, I kin ’tend t’ him.”
“All right. I won’t be gone long”; and anxious to get away with only his thoughts for company, he started quickly up the hill.
“Now I wonder—” began his mother, looking after his retreating figure.