Tom's next recollection was of feeling drowsy, and being troubled by some one holding a lantern close to his face. There was a buzzing of voices about him, and, close by, the glare of a fire, which flared and crackled loudly. Men were moving about, and they would not leave him alone, so it seemed to him; ending by lifting him up and placing him carefully upon cushions, which cushions they had laid upon a gate; and then he was carried some distance to a well-lighted room, where he seemed to go to sleep. He must have lain some hours quite insensible, for it was broad daylight when he came thoroughly to himself, and found he was upon a mattress in the waiting-room of a station. "Where am I?" he said wonderingly, for it seemed that the troubled journey must have been all a dream. "At Broxton," was the reply; and a gentleman, whom he immediately set down to be a doctor, came forward. "But how--what is it? I remember now!" he exclaimed, with a dull, aching pain in his head and arm--"there was an accident to the train." "Yes," was the reply. "A couple of goods trucks that were being shunted ran back down the incline, met the special train you were in, and wrecked it. You had a narrow escape, sir." "The driver--stoker--guard?" he said eagerly. "A bit cut and shaken; but you are the great sufferer." Tom lay still for a few minutes, trying to collect himself; and then all came clear once more. "I see," he cried. "Left arm broken--head contused--cut or two. Much loss of blood, doctor?" "Not much," he said. "A fortnight's quiet. Well, I think--My dear sir, are you mad?" "I hope not," said the injured man, sitting up. "There, don't touch me, doctor. I can judge by my feelings that my case is not serious. When is the next down train?" "In half an hour, sir," said a fresh voice, and a man he had not seen came from behind the extemporised couch. "Here, help me to put on my coat and waistcoat. Doctor, I'm much obliged for what you've done; but I was travelling special to a case of emergency. I must go on, if it kills me." "I will not be answerable for the consequences if you do," the doctor said tartly. "Fever is almost certain to supervene if you exert yourself, and then I would not give _that_ for your life." _That_ was a snap of the fingers, evidently given to get rid of some snuff. "Make me a sling for this arm," said Tom; and one being extemporised with a handkerchief, he had to fight hard to master the faintness that kept attacking him; but he persevered--had the bandages on his head replaced by strapping where his hair had been cut away on account of a couple of ghastly cuts; and finally had himself led to the platform, where he sat down waiting. Twice over the doctor tried to persuade him not to go; but he felt that he must, even at the risk of life; and at last, on the morning train coming up, he stepped in, feeling deathly sick and faint, and leaning back, reached Hastings at last, hardly able to crawl.