"RUNAWAY.
"While Mr. August Bordine was driving down the street, near the depot,
his horse became frightened at a passing train and ran. Mr. Bordine was
hurled out against a telegraph pole and severely injured. He was removed
to his home by a friend. At the hour of going to press we have not been
able to obtain further particulars."
After reading this, the old gentleman came to his feet.
He passed from the hotel, and turned his steps in the direction of the
Bordine cottage.
In a little time he was ringing the door-bell.
"You wish to see my son?" queried the old lady who opened the door.
"Yes."
"He is not able to see visitors."
"He is badly hurt, then?"
"Mother, tell the gentleman to come in," called a voice from the cozy
front room, and so the visitor was permitted to go before the engineer.
"Ah, beg pardon, but I thought that it was a friend," uttered the pale
young man, who sat in the great armchair, propped by pillows.
"My voice sounded familiar?"
"Yes."
"And I am a friend," cried the old gentleman, at the same time removing
hat and wig.
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