I sat upon the edge of the pit and shouted
with laughter, feeling thoroughly ashamed of my levity. Mr. Pettit
himself checked it, running in with his boys and demanding to know
what I was doing. They had seen the accident from the office, and
at once set about getting the horse out. That was no easy matter.
It was not hurt at all, but it had fallen so as to bend one of the
shafts of the truck like a bow. It had to be sawed in two to get
the horse out. When that was done, the heavy ash stick, rebounding
suddenly, struck one of the boys, who stood by, a blow on the head
that laid him out senseless beside the cart.
It was no time for laughter then. We ran for water and restoratives,
and brought him to, white and weak. The horse by that time had
been lifted to his feet and stood trembling in every limb, ready
to drop. It was a sobered driver that climbed out of the pit at the
tail end of the procession which bore young Pettit home. I spent
a miserable hour hanging around the door of the house waiting for
news of him. In the end his father came out to comfort me with the
assurance that he would be all right.
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