Claster was a thriving town of four thousand inhabitants, with several churches and schools, a bank, two weekly newspapers, and six blocks of stores. There was a neat railroad station at which two score of trains stopped daily, bound either north or south, for the line ran from Philadelphia to Jersey City.

Barber’s Cut was a nasty curve on the line, just south of the town. Here there was a rocky hill, and in one spot the cut was twenty feet deep. At the end of the cut was a hollow where a railroad bridge crossed Claster Creek.

Frank and his mother found a great many of the townspeople hurrying to the scene of the wreck. All sorts of rumors were afloat, and it was said the passenger cars were on fire, and the helpless inmates were being roasted alive. The local fire department was called out, but fortunately the fire was confined to a freight car loaded with unfinished wagon wheels, so but comparatively little damage was done through the conflagration.

The rumor that a dozen passengers had been killed or hurt was false. But four people on the passenger train had been injured, and only one severely—this man having several ribs crushed in and an arm broken.

“I don’t see anything of father,” said Frank, after he and his mother had looked at three of the injured persons. “I guess he wasn’t on this train after all.”

“It is very fortunate.”

“Your father was on this train,” said a man standing near. “I was talking to him just a short while before the smash-up occurred.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy. “Then where is he now?”

“There he is!” burst out Frank, and pointed to a form which four men were carrying from a wrecked car. “Mother, he is—is hurt. You had better go back and I’ll—I’ll tend to him.” Frank found he could scarcely speak, he was so agitated.

“My husband!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and ran forward with Frank at her side. “Oh, tell me, he is not—not dead?”

“No, ma’am, he isn’t dead,” came promptly from one of the men. “He got his foot crushed, and he’s fainted, that’s all.”

“Thank Heaven it is no worse!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and when the men laid her husband on the grass above the cut, she knelt beside him, and sent Frank down to the creek for some water with which to wash Mr. Hardy’s face, for it was covered with dust and dirt.

As Frank ran down to the creek for the water he saw something shiny lying in the grass. He picked the object up, and was surprised to learn that it was a silver spectacle case, containing a fine pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Somebody dropped those in the excitement,” he reasoned. “I’ll have to look for the owner later;” and he shoved the case into his pocket.

Of the four that had been hurt two were removed to the hospital and the others were taken to their homes. Mr. Hardy was carried to his residence, and there his physician and his family did all they could to make him comfortable.

“The foot is in rather bad shape,” said Doctor Basswood. “Yet I feel certain I can bring it around so you can walk on it as before. But it will take time.”

“How much time, doctor?” questioned Mr. Hardy, faintly.

“Four or five months, and perhaps longer. But that is much better than having your foot amputated.”

“True. But I can’t afford to lay around the house for six months.”

At this the physician shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s the best I can do, Mr. Hardy.”

“Oh, it is not your fault, doctor. But——” Mr. Hardy paused.

“You are thinking of your store?”

“Yes.”

“It is a pity your son, Frank, isn’t older. He might be able to run it for you.”

“Unfortunately, Frank knows little or nothing about the business. I have kept him at school.”

“Perhaps you can get a good man to run it for you.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know what I’ll do yet.”

“What do you do when you go away, as you did to-day?”

“I lock the place up, and leave a slate out for orders. Trade is not as brisk as it used to be.”

“You mean as it was before Benning and Jack Peterson started in the business?”

“That’s it. The town can’t support three flour and feed stores.”

“Won’t your old customers stick by you?”

“A few of them do; but both Benning and Peterson are doing their best to get the trade away from me. They offer all sorts of inducements, and sometimes sell at less than the goods cost, just to get a customer.”

“Nobody in business can afford to do that very long.”

“They want to drive me out, and each wants to drive out the other. Then the one who is left will make prices to suit himself;” and here Mr. Hardy had to stop talking, for he felt very much exhausted.

In the meantime Frank had been sent down to the drug store for several articles which the doctor had said were needed for the injured man. While he was waiting for the articles a burly and rather pleasant-faced man came in and purchased a handful of cigars.

“Is there an optician in town?” questioned the man of the druggist. “I was in that wreck, and somehow I lost my glasses, and I want to get another pair.”

“The watchmaker across the way keeps spectacles,” answered the druggist. “But if he can fit you or not I don’t know.”

“I’ll try him,” said the man, and started for the door.

“Excuse me,” put in Frank, stepping up. “What sort of spectacles did you drop?”

“Did you find them?”

“Perhaps I did.”

“Mine were in a silver case. They are thick glasses, with a gold frame.”

“Then these must be yours,” and Frank drew the case from his pocket and passed it over.

“They are mine!” cried the burly man, and looked well pleased to have his property returned to him. “Where did you find them?”

“In the grass between the wreck and the creek. I was down at the creek getting some water for my father, who was hurt. I almost stepped on the case.”

“I see. So your father was hurt. Which one was he?”

“He had his foot crushed.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. They took him to your home up the street.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope the hurt isn’t serious?”

“It’s bad enough. But Doctor Basswood says he can save the foot.”

“Well, that’s a great consolation. It’s no fun to have a foot cut off. May I ask your name?”

“Frank Hardy.”

“Mine is Philip Vincent. I am very much obliged for returning the glasses to me.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Vincent. I was going to hunt up the owner as soon as everything was all right at our house.”

“These glasses are a very fine pair, and I prize them exceedingly. Let me reward you for returning them,” and Philip Vincent put his hand in his pocket.

“I don’t want a reward, sir,” said Frank, promptly.

“But I want to show you that I appreciate having them returned,” insisted the burly gentleman.

“It’s all right.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m in the book business in New York. I’ll send you a good boy’s book. How will that suit you?” and the gentleman smiled blandly.

“I must say I never go back on a good story book,” answered Frank, honestly.

“Most boys like to read. I suppose you go to school here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I shan’t forget you,” concluded Philip Vincent, and shaking hands, he left the drug store.

“What a pleasant kind of a man,” thought Frank. “I’d like to see more of him.” And then he wondered what sort of a story book Mr. Vincent would send him.

A little later Frank obtained the articles needed from the druggist, and then he started for home. He did not dream of the disagreeable surprise which was in store for him.