In a few minutes the horror-stricken group were gathered round the poor, bleeding, mangled mass of humanity. The sight was too terrible to describe. One thing there could be no doubt about—their unhappy comrade was entirely past their help; the work of destruction had been complete; and what was now to be done? Silently all crept back again to the little stile. A hasty consultation was held.
“Mates,” said the chief speaker, “it’s a bad job, but it’s plain enough we can’t do him no good; it’s past that. It’s no fault of ours. Poor Joe!”
“Shall we go down and drag him off the rails on to the bank?” asked Ned.
“Where’s the use, man?” replied the other; “we shall only be getting ourselves into trouble: it’ll seem then as if some one else had been having a hand in it, and we shall be getting his blood on our clothes. It’s all over with him—that’s certain; and now we must take care of ourselves: what’s done can’t be undone. Pity we ever meddled with that bag. But that’s all past now. Not a word about this to living soul, mates. I’m sure we all see as that’s our line; and a blessed thing it’ll be if we manage to keep clear of another scrape. This one’s been bad enough, I’m sure.”
So all slunk quietly back to their own homes. And next day all Crossbourne was horrified to hear that Joe Wright had been found on the line cut to pieces by some train that had run over him.
An inquest, of course, was held; but as it was well-known that poor Joe was sadly addicted to drink, and was often away from his home for nights together on drunken sprees, it was thought, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that he had wandered on to the line in a state of intoxication, and had been overtaken and killed by the express or stopping train. A verdict of “accidental death” was given accordingly.
But poor Wright’s sad end made no difference in the drunkenness of Crossbourne; indeed, Ned and his two companions in that awful night’s adventure dared not leave their old haunts and ways, even had they wished to do so, lest any change in their habits should arouse suspicion against them. So Alcohol still maintained his sway over a vast body of loyal subjects in the busy town, and gathered in the spoils of desolate homes, broken hearts, and shattered constitutions.