An appeal to the Governor of the State by the mayor of Fairweather resulted, after a considerable exchange of telegrams, in the giving of authority to use the militia to prevent rioting.
It was late in the afternoon when the order came down through regimental headquarters to Captain Murray to mobilize his men at the armory, to hold them in readiness for immediate action, and to use his discretion about putting them into the field. At seven o’clock ninety-five per cent of the enlisted men were present at the armory and under arms. They were lounging about the drill-hall, sitting in the company room, indulging in athletic sports in the basement. Some one said that the story of the proposed invasion was a false alarm anyway, and that there would be nothing doing. At seven-thirty Captain Murray jumped into a waiting automobile and started for his home, promising to return inside of an hour. At half-past eight the telephone bell in the officers’ quarters rang viciously again and again.
“Central must be having a fit!” said the second lieutenant putting the receiver to his ear.
McCormack, facing him as he sat, saw his eyes widen and his face go white. Brownell turned from the transmitter long enough to explain to Hal:
“Murray’s been in a smash-up; badly hurt; taken to hospital!”
Then he asked some hurried questions of the person who was talking to him, apparently obtained all the information he could, and hung up the receiver. Hal still sat facing him with expectant and apprehensive eyes.
“That’s terrible!” exclaimed the second lieutenant.
“What happened?” asked McCormack.
“Why, there was an automobile collision down somewhere on Main Street. Lewis just telephoned me. Tipped Murray’s car over, broke his leg, smashed his ribs. He’s still unconscious.”
Brownell got to his feet and began pacing hurriedly up and down the floor.