CHAPTER THREETim Is Hurt
It was a bright Saturday morning. The sun shone down from a clear sky, and as its glowing ball hung mideast, the rays beat with steady cheer along the gray line of asphalt pavement. It shone along the steel rails of the street-car track, worn bright by the constant passing of the cars. Earlier a gray mist had made all dim. Have you ever watched how the coming of the morning light, as it gradually brightens, changes a morning mist from the darkness as of clouds to a light, transparent film, which is almost ghastly? So on this morning the full light of day had come, not with one splendid outburst, as when the sun rises on a clear sky, but gradually, and it was not until several hours were gone that one fully realized that it was day.
Now the sun smiled in upon every dingy shop and store. No less than its cheer upon a mild winter day was the cheer and bustle of Christmas trade up and down the avenue. Inthe little show-window were crowded all the toys that little boys and girls love to look at. Along the walks here and there were to be seen masses of evergreen, where the grocer was displaying his stock of trees. But brighter even than the day, for no snow lay on the ground and it even seemed warm; brighter even than the good cheer of the shopkeeper, who sang out a welcome the minute you stepped into the door, came out rubbing his hands, and ready to tell about the wonderful articles he had to sell; brighter still was the good cheer of the children at their play. How happy they were in their Saturday freedom! How happy too, in their Christmas expectations. A company of them had gathered at a certain street crossing on the avenue described and were shouting and running merrily. It was tag and safe, shouts, jumps, and running. They were utterly fearless. And the driver shouted as they dashed under the very noses of the horses, and the motor-man scowled because it was the only thing he had time to do as they rushed past in front of his car.
This particular day had brought joy to the heart of little Tim, also. Louise had led him over to the busy street, and he was now seated on the horse block in front of a houseat the crossing mentioned above. Mama had gone away on one of those mysterious journeys mamas will make before Christmas.
Alex was among the boys and girls who were running and shouting about the street, and Tim’s face shone as he sat, looking intent but seeing nothing, and yet following keenly every movement and sound. He smiled to the passer-by and shouted to the children at play. Every now and then some one came near and spoke to him. Miss Merton, his smiling teacher at the Sunday School, happened to pass by, and of course patted him on the head and spoke.
No street-car had passed for some time. There was some delay up the line. A small crowd of people had collected who wanted to go down town. They watched the play as they waited. Suddenly one of the boys, who had noticed the waiting people called out:
“There she comes!”
“Must a been some trouble,” said another.
“Aw—you’re a slow one!” shouted a little fellow, shaking his fist toward the car, which came hustling down the slope of the long hill, bounding along as if by jumps, behind time and in a hurry. Suddenly, just as the carapproached the crossing, a wagon drove in from the cross street.
Clang, clang, clang!
Loud were the cries of warning. Jerk! Back the horses leaped, almost upon their haunches, as the driver sought frantically to avoid a smash-up. Frantically the motor-man jerked at the brake. Under the sudden restraint the car jumped the rails, and ran down along the smooth pavement. There were wild shouts, shrieks, and groans. Then perfect silence, as motor-man and conductor jumped down and ran forward, and the people in the car hurried off. The car had sped along until it struck the very horseblock on which little Tim was seated.
There was a rush of people as the crowd gathered about the senseless, bleeding figure. The motor-man and many willing helpers lifted the car, while the conductor picked up the injured boy. But he was scarcely able to find room to lay down the burden. Someone brought a blanket to put under him on the cold ground. All were elbowing and pushing and talking, when a burly policeman pushed his way in.
“Back, back, please!” were his orders. “Whose boy is it?”
“I know, I know,” were the answers. Some gave his name, some the name of his father, and his business, and others told about the boy. Some volunteered to run for his father. But while the hurly-burly of talk was going on, Alex had already run for help, and in a moment Mr. Rudiger pushed his way into the crowd.
Many stood in silence and watched as Mr. Rudiger carried the injured and still unconscious boy across the street and stepped in at the door. The policeman helped him, and soon they were upstairs in the doctor’s office. The attention of the crowd was then given to the work of the street-car men as they prepared to get the car back on the rails, in which they finally succeeded. There was much talk and speculation. This work was not yet done, when Mr. Rudiger came out of the street door, together with the policeman and the doctor, and set out for home, carrying Tim in his arms. The boy had not yet come to. From all appearances he seemed to be very seriously hurt. The news went up and down the street that little Tim Rudiger was killed. All sorts of rumors went about. And it was as tho the sunlight had left the street, for all were saddened by the misfortune of the blind cripple boy.