At precisely that moment I began to feel the pain in my nose and the warmth of my own blood on its way to the floor. We hurried up a stairway, and through the long hall, and out of the front door.
“Thanks, old boy,” Pearl said, warmly, as he took my arm in his, “you have won further promotion for meritorious conduct. I make you my hero as well as my friend.”
“I did little,” was my answer; “but I should like to know what it was that you did to them.”
“It was the ol' mare o' the river,” said Pearl. “I had her fixed so I could cut her loose. She just h'isted up her hind legs an' threw 'em into every corner o' the shop. An' they hit hard. Ye see, I was expectin' 'em. Had a spout rigged at the bottom o' the pen-stock with a double j'int in the neck of it. The ol' mare jumped through it an' raised”—he checked himself, and added—“everything in reach.”
My nose had been badly cut and broken, and I was a month in the Albany hospital undergoing repairs, and came out with this battered visage. I wept when I saw myself in the mirror.
It was not so very bad, you see, after all, but that day I thought it bad enough to make a dog bark at me. I gave up all thought of marriage, but—yes, oh yes, dear child, I loved her more than ever.
I remember the day that Pearl came down to cheer me up. He put his hand on my head and whispered:
“Don't worry about that, boy. It's your medal of honor, and you can't hide it under your vest, either.”
We learned that the men had worse injuries, and before a day had passed their names were known, and within a week they were promoted to the grease department. They had planned to tar and feather my friend and carry him out of the village on a fence-rail, and Pearl and his “old mare” had exposed and kicked them out of favor in their own ranks. The working-men turned to McCarthy, and always stood by him after that.