They seemed to be going at a tremendous speed; and, once more returning to his seat, he was in the act of taking out his watch, when the whistle began to pierce the black night air; and directly after, there was a sharp crash, a stunning blow, the end of the saloon carriage seemed to come suddenly upon him, and he knew no more.
Tom’s next recollection was of feeling drowsy, and being troubled by some one holding a lantern close to his face. There was a buzzing of voices about him, and, close by, the glare of a fire, which flared and crackled loudly. Men were moving about, and they would not leave him alone, so it seemed to him; ending by lifting him up and placing him carefully upon cushions, which cushions they had laid upon a gate; and then he was carried some distance to a well-lighted room, where he seemed to go to sleep.
He must have lain some hours quite insensible, for it was broad daylight when he came thoroughly to himself, and found he was upon a mattress in the waiting-room of a station.
“Where am I?” he said wonderingly, for it seemed that the troubled journey must have been all a dream.
“At Broxton,” was the reply; and a gentleman, whom he immediately set down to be a doctor, came forward.
“But how—what is it? I remember now!” he exclaimed, with a dull, aching pain in his head and arm—“there was an accident to the train.”
“Yes,” was the reply. “A couple of goods trucks that were being shunted ran back down the incline, met the special train you were in, and wrecked it. You had a narrow escape, sir.”
“The driver—stoker—guard?” he said eagerly.
“A bit cut and shaken; but you are the great sufferer.” Tom lay still for a few minutes, trying to collect himself; and then all came clear once more.
“I see,” he cried. “Left arm broken—head contused—cut or two. Much loss of blood, doctor?”