Of the eleven passengers in the car that plunged over the bridge, Arthur Dean was the only one saved. Nine had been drowned in the interior of the car when it crashed amongst the rocks of the torrent. Only Dean and the minister, standing in the observation platform at the rear of the car, had had a chance of life, and the minister had died before help had reached him. The shock affected Dean more seriously than his injuries, which were nothing worse than severe bruises and cuts. He knew that he had had a miraculous escape, and the horror of the peril wove in and out of his thoughts as he lay in hospital at Fort William, haunting dreams and waking thoughts alike.
When he left the hospital he was a changed man—white and gaunt of face, and resolved in purpose to tell Lars Larssen at once that he would serve him no longer.
He made for New York, and went straight to the shipowner's offices. These were situated at the very beginning of Broadway, overlooking Battery Park, on the tip of the tongue of Manhattan Island. Inside, they were very much on the same lines of the London offices—in fact, the latter were modelled on them. Above the dome of the building stretched the antennæ of Larssen's wireless.
To his intense disappointment, Dean was informed that the chief was away from New York, by the bedside of his little son at his school in Florida.
The young fellow had worked himself up to the point of handing in his resignation; he had fixed on just what he would say to his employer; and this check threw him back on his haunches. To travel down to Florida would cost money, and he did not feel justified in paying for the journey out of the expenses allowance given him by Larssen. To explain by letter was too difficult. After some thought he decided to take a return ticket by day coach, and to pay for it out of his own pocket.
Golden Beach, where the school was situated, was a fashionable winter resort on the Florida coast. In one of its several palatial hotels, Larssen had engaged a suite of rooms and had made himself a temporary office. Dean carried his modest portmanteau to the hotel, and waited in the piazza until Larssen should return from a visit to his boy.
It was late in the afternoon when the shipowner came striding along the white, palm-shaded road, purpose and masterfulness in every movement. When he caught sight of Dean waiting on the piazza, he came up with a hand outstretched in cordial greeting.
"Well, Dean, how are you feeling now? The accident must have given you a terrific shake-up."
"Much better, thank you, sir."
"Looks to me you could do with a fortnight's complete holiday," said Larssen, surveying critically the gaunt white face of the young man. "Say so, and it's yours."