“That’s one of the evils of a manufacturing trade where machinery is employed,” said Uncle Jack. “I’m afraid that, generally speaking, the accidents are occasioned by the men’s carelessness or bravado; but even then it is a painful thing to know that it is your machinery that has mutilated a poor fellow. That poor fellow has been terribly knocked about, seemingly.”
“Yes,” I said, looking curiously across the road.
“So far we have been wonderfully fortunate, but—here, this way! Where are you going?”
“Over here,” I said, already half across the road; for the brawny arms and long doubled-up legs of the man seemed familiar.
“Why?” cried Uncle Jack; but he followed me directly.
“Pannell!” I exclaimed.
“What, Mester Jacob!” he cried, lifting up his head with his face in my direction, but a broad bandage was over his eyes.
“Why, what’s all this?” I cried; “have you had some accident?”
“Yes, met wi’ acciden’ done o’ purpose.”
“But they said your mother was dying,” I cried as I held the great hard hand, which was now quite clean.