Turning his camera and holders over to his friend for safe keeping, Flash darted to the wreckage. In the indistinct light he saw a man sitting with head buried in his hands. The lower portion of his body seemed to be imprisoned.
“Major Hartgrove!” Flash exclaimed, reaching his side.
The army man stared at the young photographer in a dazed manner. He kept fumbling in his vest pocket, mumbling to himself.
“I was struck on the head.... My papers ... my wallet!”
“I don’t believe anyone struck you, Major,” Flash corrected. “You were in a wreck.”
“Don’t you think I know that much!” the army man snapped. “I was struck—struck over the head.”
It occurred to Flash that the Major might have been struck and robbed by the person he had observed slipping away into the darkness. But as the man began to mumble again, he reverted to his original opinion. The Major had been dazed by the terrific impact of the wreck and did not know what he was saying.
Flash tried ineffectively to pull away the heavy timbers which held the man fast.
“It’s no use,” he gasped at last. “I’ll bring help.”
Leaving the Major, he met two burly trainmen carrying lighted lanterns. With their aid he finally succeeded in freeing the army man. As he had feared, the Major was severely injured. One foot was crushed and his head had been wounded.