No one could tell just how it was done; only the manager was thrust aside, the first workman, whom Adam vainly strove to reach or warn, lay crushed and bleeding on the ground, and Adam's strong right arm, broken in two places, hung helpless by his side.
Great drops of moisture sprang to the poor striker's brow, and, sick and faint, he sank down beside the wall of the building and tried to wipe his pallid face with his rough hand. Even in that moment of suffering, his first thoughts were for those at home, his first words told of anxiety for them.
"Poor Margaret! How will she bear it? Oh, sir!" To Mr. Drummond, who was bending over him in deep distress. "I shall never lift the hammer again."
"Adam, my dear fellow, words cannot tell how grieved I am that you should be bearing this for me. You saved my life at the cost of this calamity to yourself."
"Did I? Did I really?" said the suffering man, as a ray of light crossed his pallid face. "Then it's not all trouble. There's a bit of comfort out of it. I doubt poor Jim has got the worst. I tried."
"You did, my friend, all that courage and presence of mind could do. But poor Sam is past all earthly suffering. One of the beams struck him on the temple, and must have killed him instantly."
Whilst these brief words passed, means were being used for the removal of all that remained of poor Sam. Then Adam was conveyed to the hospital accompanied by Mr. Drummond, who intended first to ascertain the extent of his poor friend's injuries, and then to break the news to Mrs. Livesey.
There are always loungers and hangers-on in the neighbourhood of a great hive of industry like Rutherford's, and the tidings flew rapidly from mouth to mouth, and lost nothing in the transit. It reached the ears of little Tom Livesey, who was just leaving morning school. The lad rushed wildly homeward, and bursting into the kitchen, in the midst of tears and sobs, told that "there'd been a lot o' men killed at Rutherford's, and they said father was one of 'em."
Poor Tom was not to blame for this false report. He told the tale as it had been told to him, and in the anguish of his childish heart rushed homeward and wailed out his terrible tidings.
Margaret Livesey will never forget that time or the half-hour that followed it. She was almost like a woman turned to stone, and at first incapable of speech or action, or anything but remorse. She endured a lifetime of misery during the brief interval which passed before she knew the truth.