“Oh! dear brother,” said the other female, “don’t think about your business now; think of getting cured.”
“Think of getting cured—I must think how the bills are to be met, and I not there to take them up. They will be presented as sure as I lie here.”
“Oh! never mind the bills, dear husband—think of your precious leg.”
“Not mind the bills! but I must mind the bills—my credit will be ruined.”
“Not when they know what has happened, brother. Oh! dear, dear—that leg, that leg.”
“D—n the leg; what’s to become of my business,” groaned the man, falling on his back from excess of pain.
Now this was a specimen of true commercial spirit. If this man had not been nailed to the desk, he might have been a hero.
I shall conclude this chapter with an extract from an American author, which will give some idea of the indifference as to loss of life in the United States.
“Every now and then is a tale of railroad disaster in some part of the country, at inclined planes, or intersecting points, or by running off the track, making splinters of the cars, and of men’s bones; and locomotives have been known to encounter, head to head, like two rams fighting. A little while previous to the writing of these lines, a locomotive and tender shot down the inclined plain at Philadelphia, like a falling star. A woman, with two legs broken by this accident, was put into an omnibus, to be carried to the hospital, but the driver, in his speculations, coolly replied to a man, who asked why he did not go on?—that he was waiting for a full load.”