CHAPTER IV.AN ACCIDENT.
His sudden resolve seemed to liven up Mr. Bright considerably. He rubbed his hands and strode up and down the room.
“Yes; I will go,” he repeated. “As you say, it can do no harm, and may save us from ruin.”
“May I go too?” asked Oliver eagerly.
Mr. Bright thought in silence for a moment.
“I would like to have you with me,” he said; “but I think you had better remain behind. One of us ought to stay here, and, besides, the expense of the journey will be considerable.”
“I am sorry,” said the boy; “I would like to go first-rate.”
“Come, we will go over what letters and papers I have together. Perhaps you will see something in them that I have overlooked,” said Mr. Bright.
Opening one of the locked drawers of the desk, Mr. Bright brought forth the various communications he had received from Colonel Mendix and James Barr. Both father and son read them over carefully.
“It is my impression that this Mendix did notwish you to visit the Aurora mine,” said Oliver. “If you will notice, throughout the letters he speaks of the hard road to travel to get there, and the unhealthiness of the climate, and all that. He knew you were not strong, and he hoped that would deter you from venturing.”
“Perhaps you are right, Oliver. I did not think of that before.”
“Are you sure this Mendix has gone to South America?”
“I was; but your questions fill me with doubt. I begin to think that perhaps I have been blind all this time. I think—my! my! What is the matter with Jerry?”
Oliver’s gaze followed that of his father out of the window. There, on the smooth lawn, a spirited horse was acting in an exceedingly strange manner, throwing his head viciously from side to side.
“Donald has been whipping him again,” said Oliver. “He ought to know better.”
Mr. Bright did not reply. Springing from his chair, he hurried from the library, his son following.
In his day Mr. Bright had been quite a horseman, and Oliver, too, liked to ride. Both hated to see an animal abused, and both were excited over the present sight.
“Whoa! Jerry! whoa!” cried Mr. Bright, running up to the horse.
He caught the animal by the halter, which had been broken off rather short, and attempted to soothe him. But Jerry’s blood was up, and before Mr. Bright was aware he was thrown in the air and came down heavily against the grape arbor.
“Oh!” He gave a deep groan of pain. “Catch him, Oliver; but be careful about it.”
The boy was already advancing. He caught the halter, and then vaulted upon Jerry’s back.
For a moment there was a fierce struggle, but Oliver kept his seat, and feeling himself mastered, the horse subsided. Then the boy jumped to the ground and turned him over to the man of all work.
“Take him back to the stable, Donald,” he said; “and mind you, he is to be whipped no more.”
“I only struck him once”—began the man.
“That was once too often. Jerry is too nervous to be handled in that manner.”
Oliver saw the horse led away, and then turned his attention to his father. To his surprise Mr. Bright had fainted.
Running to the well, the boy procured some cold water, which he sprinkled in his father’s face. It had the effect of reviving him almost immediately.
“Are you hurt?” asked Oliver in deep anxiety.
“I—I am afraid I am. My chest hurts, and I cannot use my right leg.”
“I’ll call Dr. Kitchell,” replied Oliver.
Fortunately the physician lived directly across the road. He was at home, and in less than three minutes the boy had him over.
“Humph! two ribs broken, and also the right leg!” said Dr. Kitchell. “Rather a serious accident. Come, we will carry him into the house.”
Donald was called, and the three succeeded in carrying the unfortunate man into the house and placing him on the lounge in the sitting-room.
Then the man of all work was dispatched to the drug-store, and the doctor went to work to set the broken limb and fix up the fractured ribs. Oliver assisted all he could, the tears standing in his eyes meanwhile.
“Never mind,” said Dr. Kitchell, noticing his grief. “It will be all right. All your father wants is quietness for a couple of months. There is small danger.”
Oliver felt relieved at this statement. And yet he could not help but think of the trip to California. His father would have to abandon that now, and he would hardly be well before they would be obliged to leave the house and seek a home elsewhere.
Towards evening Mr. Bright felt somewhat easier, and he and Oliver had quite a talk. He demurred strongly at being compelled to rest quietly for eightweeks or longer, and spoke of the plans that must now be cast aside.
“Why not let me go?” said Oliver suddenly. “I am sure I can get along all right.”
“No, Oliver; it would be asking too much of you.”
“No, it would not. Can you get along without me?”
“I suppose I might; Mrs. Hanson is a capital nurse. But it is too big an undertaking for a boy.”
“You forget, father, that I am nearly seventeen years old.”
“No, I do not; nor do I forget that you are smart for your age. But still I would hate to send you on a journey that might prove full of danger. If their accounts be true, the road is a perilous one, and the mining districts are full of rough characters.”
“After I left San Francisco I could go well armed. I don’t think it would be so dangerous. A good class of settlers are pouring into the place, and they would surely not molest me. You must remember that things are not as they were at the close of the war.”
“What you say is true, Oliver; but I would hate to send you into the midst of danger, however slight. If you were only going to San Francisco it wouldbe different. But to go away up in the mountains, and utterly alone”—
Mr. Bright did not finish, a violent twitch of pain stopping him short. Seeing that his father could not stand conversing, Oliver withdrew.
He ascended to his own room, and, taking a chair by the window, sat down to think. For fully half an hour he did not move. Then he went below and made his way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hanson was preparing some broth for the sick man.
“Mrs. Hanson,” he said, calling her aside, “father was planning to go on a journey, and now that he can’t go, I’ve been thinking of going for him without letting him know—that is, for several days. Do you think you could get along without me while I am gone?”
“Why, bless you, Oliver, yes! I’ve been a nurse these ten years before I was a housekeeper. It will be no trouble whatever.”
“And you will not let him know that I have gone—that is, for a few days? It might only worry him.”
“If you wish it.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“When will you go?”
“Monday morning early.”
“Very well; I won’t say a word. It’s business, I suppose?”
“Yes; father’s business; something that must be attended to.”
All that evening Oliver was busy with his preparations. There was a big valise to pack, and numerous other things to do. At ten o’clock, when the others had retired, he stole down to the library, and seating himself at the table, took complete copies of all the letters and papers relating to the Aurora mine and Colonel Mendix’s peculiar method of transacting business.
“Now I am ready to start,” he said to himself, as he arose. “When I arrive in New York I will either sell or pawn my gold watch and my diamond pin, and then—ho, for the Aurora mine!”