The class looked on wonderingly, while Dick obeyed.
"Here is a note from your mother, which requests that you be allowed to go home at once, as your father has been injured in an accident. I hope, my boy, that it is nothing serious," said the principal in a low tone. "Your mother has sent a carriage in order that you may get home sooner. Go at once, Master Prescott, and may you learn that the news is not too bad."
Old Dut held out the note, but Dick barely saw it. Instead, he turned and ran to the coat room, caught up his coat and cap and sped downstairs. The messenger had already started downstairs.
"There's the rig," announced the messenger, as Dick appeared on the steps.
Alongside a surrey was drawn up. A rain curtain and side panels covered the rear seat, but the driver, a silent individual, who had a full, heavy red beard and wore smoked glasses over his eyes moved to make room for Dick on the front seat.
"How badly is dad hurt?" demanded Dick breathlessly, as he bundled himself in on the front seat.
"Can't say," replied the driver, in a low, weak voice. "I was only hired to come after you."
"Hurry!" appealed Dick. The driver nodded, and started the horse away briskly.
Young Prescott was fearfully worried. His mother was a woman of cool, calm judgment. She was not likely to send a driver after him unless his father's injuries were dangerous.
"I hope dad isn't going to die," breathed the boy to himself. "If he must, then I hope I get home in time before he goes."