That thing which they had seen, happening all in an instant, was a commonplace of newspaper headlines. Long Island is a choice speeding-ground for that tribe known as “joy-riders.” “Look out for Crossings” reads a placard in every passenger-coach of the Long Island Railroad—and the same placard bears a picture of what may befall those who do not. Jack, who had taken ten thousand risks and never had an accident, had risked his fortune just once too often. Driving at reckless speed, his ears filled with the roar of the wind, he had only his eyes—and too late had his eyes seen that freight engine thrust itself out of the fog....
Clifford helped Mary out of their halted car, and silently they all began the work of examination—soon helped by the crew of the train. Jack’s new red car was a tangle of twisted steel.... First they found Nina and Hilton; both were conscious and crying out in their pain—each shrieked when touched. And then they found Peter Loveman: he was alive, but unconscious. Not far from him Mr. Morton picked up a morocco wallet, which he slipped into his pocket, Clifford not seeing this. And then Clifford and Mary found Jack: he also was alive and also unconscious. Strangely enough, his clothes were but little disordered, and there was not a visible scratch upon him. Lying with his pallid face toward the sky, the hair falling back from his forehead, he looked handsome and boyish and irresistibly likable and endowed with qualities which go to make an unusual man. Never to Clifford had that face looked so promising as it now looked.
There is a good little hospital in Greenport, and in half an hour the four were in it—and in less than another half-hour two famous New York specialists were in attendance, for many New York doctors have summer homes near Greenport, and are professionally connected with this little hospital. The first report of these two men, based on a hasty examination, was that Nina and Hilton had many broken bones, but would undoubtedly in time be as sound as ever; as to Jack and Loveman, a more careful examination was necessary before they could really tell anything.
There was nothing Clifford could do but merely wait. Through an open doorway—all the patients were on the same floor—he saw Mary Regan sitting at a window. He entered. She gave him a look from her pale face, and without saying anything looked back out the window. He drew a chair up beside her, and they both sat gazing out—at the flag with a white field and a cross of blue which told that this little hospital had become an auxiliary hospital of the United States Navy—and beyond at the harbor, with its scores of small white craft, one of which was doubtless the yacht of Loveman’s visioned voyage—the voyage that now would never be.
Neither spoke; there were no interruptions—Mr. Morton was at Jack’s bedside, and had not left it. Clifford felt numb: part of this was physical weariness, part the shock of what had so swiftly happened, and part the sense of large issues (he was not then conscious of what they all were) that remained still in the balance. An hour of this heavy silence passed—two hours; Mary, with white, set face, continued to gaze out upon the harbor of tiny ships.
At length Clifford rose mechanically and went out into the corridor, and paced to and fro. Presently he saw a nurse come from Jack’s room and enter Loveman’s, and after a moment he saw the doctor who was with Loveman—Dr. Peters, Clifford knew him to be, a great nerve specialist,—emerge followed by the two nurses and enter Jack’s room. He noted that Loveman’s door had been left open; and first, without purpose, merely as a break in the routine of his walking, he paused and looked in. Then he entered and crossed to Loveman’s bed.
To his surprise Loveman’s large bright eyes were wide open; they recognized him—and Clifford saw that they were alive with all of Loveman’s intelligence. He gazed down at the sheet-covered figure, and something of the fury revived which had lain dumb in him these last two or three hours.
“Well, Loveman, I’ve landed you at last!” he said grimly.
The little lawyer made no response.
“Make no mistake about it, Loveman,—I’ve got you for fair this time—and got you eleven different ways from Sunday!”