Joe’s spirited complaint slightly reassured Flash. If his friend could think of pictures, it was unlikely that he had suffered serious internal injuries. But there was no question about the leg. It was broken.
Stretching Joe out as comfortably as possible, he looked about for a board which could be used as a splint.
“Listen,” said Joe, “you can’t do me any good. Run to the nearest farmhouse and send out a call for ambulances and doctors!”
“I don’t like to leave you, Joe.”
“Go on, I say!”
Aroused to action, Flash started for the nearest house, a quarter of a mile away. Crawling beneath a barbed wire fence, he ran through a plowed field. The ground was soft from recent rains. He stumbled and fell flat. Scrambling up, his clothes covered with mud, he raced on, finally reaching the house.
The kitchen door was opened by a housewife who screamed when she saw him. In dramatic words, Flash told what had happened and begged the use of a telephone.
He called the nearest town of Columbia and was promised that all available aid would be rushed to the scene. Then, as an afterthought, he dispatched a telegram to the Brandale Ledger, providing the first news of the train disaster.
Followed by the excited housewife, her husband, and a hired man, Flash ran back to the wreck.
Confusion had increased. Frantic persons moved in a bewildered way from one place to another, searching for loved ones. Already a number of inert bodies had been removed from the wreckage. Only the trainmen seemed cool and effective in their actions.