“It looks safe enough,” said one of the two grown people who were with them. So with a “Gee-up, boys,” to the horses, the driver started across the bridge.
Just—ah, you know, don’t you? Just as they reached the middle pier, there came a creak and a rumble, a moment’s swaying, and a crash. The bridge had caved in, and the hay wagon, full of terror-stricken children, together with the frightened horses, was swept into the water.
“Don’t jump!” shouted the driver to the children, trying to guide the swimming horses shoreward; but that was impossible.
For a full minute, which seemed like hours, they were swept onward. Then,—maybe the good fairy of carefulness had planned it—they rested on a little island the top of which was just covered with water.
The white-faced driver counted the children, “All here! Thank God!” he said.
The little folks cried and hugged each other, and called aloud for their mothers and fathers.
They had to stay there all night, cold and frightened and hungry. That was dreadful enough, but it was nothing compared with the fear that the water might rise higher still.
But slowly and steadily it went down, and by early morning all of the little island was uncovered. All the party were then quickly rescued with boats.
V.
The builder started, as the heading in the evening paper caught his eye—“Terrible Bridge Accident—Who is to Blame?”