it had been decided that the party would go to new orleans from san antonio, and then from there by boat to new york.
"it'll make a change from car-riding, and a very pleasant one, i'm thinking," mr. hartley had said; and the others had enthusiastically agreed with him.
it was on the five-hundred-and-seventy-two mile journey from san antonio to new orleans that something happened. in the chronicles of the hexagon club it fell to genevieve to tell the story; and this is what she wrote:
"it seems so strange to me that we should have traveled so many thousands of miles on the railroad without anything happening; and then, just on the last five hundred (we are going to take the boat at new orleans)—to have it happen.
"we have had all sorts of amusing experiences, of course, losing trains, and missing connections; but nothing like this. even when we had to take that little bumpy accommodation for a few hours, and it was so accommodating it stopped every few minutes 'to water the horses,' as dear tilly said, nothing happened—though, to be sure, we almost did get left that time we all (except aunt julia) got off and went to pick flowers while our train waited for a freight to go by. but we didn't get quite left, and we did catch it. (dear tilly says we could have caught it, anyway, even if it had started, and that we shouldn't have had to walk very fast, at that! tilly does make heaps of fun of all our trains except the fast ones on the main lines. and i don't know as i wonder, only i'd never tell her that, of course—that is, i wouldn't have told her before, perhaps.)
"well, where was i? oh, i know—on the sidetrack. (i had to laugh here, for it occurred to me that that was just where i was in the story—on a sidetrack! i'm not telling what i started out to tell at all. it's lucky we can each take all the room we want, though, in these chronicles.)
"well, i'll tell it now, really, though i'm still so shaky and excited my hand trembles awfully. it was in the night, a little past twelve o'clock that it happened. i was lying in my berth above elsie's, and was wide-awake. i had been thinking about father. he has been such a dear all the way. i was thinking what a big, big dear he was, when it happened.
"yes, i put it in capitals on purpose, and i reckon you would, if suddenly the car you were riding in began to sway horribly and bump up and down, and then stop right off short with a bang that flung you into the middle of the aisle! and that's what ours did.
"for a minute, of course, i was too dazed to know what had happened. but the next moment i heard a scared voice wail right in my ear:
"'girls, it's an accident—i know it's an accident! i told you we should have an accident—and to think i took off my shoes to-night for the very first time!'
"i knew then. it was bertha, and it was an accident. and, do you know? i'm ashamed to tell it, but the first thing i did right there and then was to laugh—it seemed so funny about bertha's shoes, and to hear her say her usual 'i told you so!' but the next minute i began to realize what it all really meant, and i didn't laugh any more.
"all around me, by that time, were frightened cries and shouts, and i was so worried for father and all the rest. i struggled, and tried to get up; and then i heard father's voice call: 'genevieve, genevieve, where are you? are you all right?' oh, nobody will ever know how good that dear voice sounded to me!
"we called for aunt julia, then, and for the girls; but it was ever so long before we could find them. we weren't all together, anyway, and the crash had separated us more than ever. besides, everybody everywhere all over the car was crying out by that time, and trying to find folks, all in the dark.
"we found aunt julia. she was almost under the berth near me; but she was so faint and dazed she could not answer when we first called. i was all right, and so were cordelia and bertha, only bertha bumped her head pretty hard afterwards, looking for her shoes. elsie martin and alma lane were a little bruised and bumped, too; but they declared they could move all their legs and arms.
"we hadn't any of us found tilly up to that time; but when elsie said that (about being able to move all her legs and arms), i heard a little faint voice say 'you talk as if you were a centipede, elsie martin!'
"'tilly!' i cried then. 'where are you?' the others called, too, until we were all shouting frantically for tilly. we knew it must be tilly for nobody but tilly mack could have made that speech!
"at last we found her. she was wedged in under a broken seat almost at our feet. it was at the forward end of the car—the only part that seemed to be really smashed. she could not crawl out, and we could not pull her out. she gave a moaning little cry when father tried to.
"'i guess—some of my legs and arms don't go,' she called out to us with a little sob in her voice.
"we were crazy then, of course—all of us; and we all talked at once, and tried to find out just where she was hurt. the trainmen had come by this time with lanterns, and were helping every one out of the car. then they came to us and tilly.
"and we were so proud of tilly—she was so brave and cheery! i never found out before what her nonsense was for, but i did find it out then. it was the only thing that kept us all from going just wild. she said such queer little things when they were trying to get her out, and she told them if there was any one hurt worse than she to get them out first. she told father that she knew now just how reddy felt when his broncho went see-saw up in the air, because that was what her berth did.
"well, they got the poor dear out at last, and a doctor from the rear car examined her at once. her left arm was broken, and she had two or three painful bruises. of course that was bad—but not anywhere near so bad as it might have been, and we were all so relieved. the doctor did what he could for her, then we all made ourselves as comfortable as possible while we waited for the relief train.
"we found out then about the wreck, and the chief thing we could find out anywhere was what a 'fortunate' wreck it was! the engine and six cars went off the track on a curve. just ahead was a steep bank with a river below it, and of course it was fortunate that we did not go down that. no one was killed, and only a few much injured. the car ahead and ours were the only ones that were smashed any. yes, i suppose it was a 'fortunate wreck'—but i never want to see an unfortunate one. certainly we all felt pretty thankful that we had come out of it as well as we did.
"the relief train came at last, and took us to the next city, and to-day we are started on our journey once again. we expect to reach new orleans to-night, and take the boat for new york saturday. we all feel a little stiff and sore, but of course dear tilly feels the worst. but she tries to be just as bright and smiling as ever. she looks pretty white, though, and what the storybooks call 'wan,' i reckon. she says, anyhow, she wishes she were a centipede—in arms—because perhaps then she wouldn't miss her left one so much, if she had plenty more of them. there seems to be such a lot of things she wants her left arm to do. the doctor says it wasn't a bad break—as if any break could be good!
"and here endeth my record of 'bertha's accident'—as tilly insists upon calling it, until she's made bertha almost ready to cry over it."
owing to the delay of the accident, mr. hartley and his party had only one day in new orleans before the boat sailed; but they made the most of that, for they wanted to see what they could of the quaint, picturesque city.
"we'll take carriages, dearie. we won't walk anywhere," said mr. hartley to genevieve that morning. "in the first place, mrs. kennedy and miss tilly couldn't, and the rest of us don't want to. we can see more, too, in the short space of time we have."
so in carriages, bright and early friday morning, the party started out to "do" new orleans, as genevieve termed it. leaving the "american portion," where were situated their hotel and most of the other big hotels and business houses of american type, they trailed happily along through prytania street and st. charles avenue to the beautiful "garden district" which they had been warned not to miss. they found, indeed, much to delight them in the stately, palatial homes set in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns and wonderful groves of magnolia and oak. quite as interesting to them all, however, was the old french or latin quarter below canal street, where were the creole homes and business houses. here they ate their luncheon, too, in one of the curious french restaurants, famous the world over for its delicious dishes.
with the disappearance of the last mouthful on her plate, tilly drew a long breath.
"i've always heard creoles were awfully interesting," she sighed. "do you know—i don't think i'd mind much being a creole myself!"
"you look so much like one, too," laughed genevieve, affectionately, patting the soft, fluffy red hair above the piquant, freckled little face.
at five o'clock that afternoon a tired but happy party reached the hotel in time to rest and dress for dinner.
"well," sighed genevieve, "i'd have liked a week here, but a day has been pretty good. we've seen enough 'quarters' to make a 'whole,' and the cathedral, and dozens of other churches, and we've driven along those lovely lakes with the unpronounceable names; and now i'm ready for dinner."
"and we saw a statue—the margaret statue," cut in cordelia, anxiously. "you know it's the first statue ever erected to a woman's memory in the united states. we wouldn't want to forget that!"
"well, i should like to," retorted genevieve, perversely. "it's only so much the worse for the united states—that it wasn't done before!"
"i think genevieve is going to be a suffragette," observed tilly, cheerfully, as they trooped into the hotel together.
it was from new orleans that cordelia wilson wrote a letter to mr. william hodges. she had decided that it would be easier to write her bad news than to tell it. then, too, she disliked to keep the old man any longer in suspense. she made her letter as comforting as she could.
"mr. william hodges, sir:—" she wrote. "i am very sorry to have to tell you that i have looked, but cannot find your oil well anywhere. i did find a man who had heard about it, but he said there wasn't any well at all like what the boston man told you there was. he said it was a bad swindle and he knew many others who had lost their money, too, which i thought would please you. o dear, no, i don't mean that, of course. i only mean that you might like to know that others besides you hadn't known any more than to put money in it, too. (that doesn't sound quite right yet, but perhaps you know what i mean.)
"i hope you won't feel too bad about it, mr. hodges. i saw some oil wells when we came through beaumont, and i am quite sure you would not like them at all. they are not one bit like bertha's aunt's well on her farm, with the bucket. in fact, they don't look like wells at all, and i never should have known what they were if mr. hartley had not told me. they are tall towers standing up out of the ground instead of stone holes sunk down in the ground. (it is just as if you should call the cupola on your house your cellar—and you know how queer that would be!) i saw a lot of them—oil wells, not cupolas, i mean—and they looked more like a whole lot of little eiffel towers than anything else i can think of. (if you will get your grandson, tony, to show you the eiffel tower in his geography, you will see what i mean.) mr. hartley says they do bore for them—wells, i mean, not eiffel towers—and so i suppose they do go down before they go up.
"i saw the wells on the way between san antonio and new orleans. one was on fire. (just think of a well being on fire!) of course we were riding through a most wonderful country, anyway. we saw a great many things growing besides oil wells, too, as you must know—rice, and cotton, and tobacco, and sugar cane, and onions, and quantities of other things. i picked some cotton bolls. (i spelt that right. this kind isn't b-a-ll.) i am sending you a few in a little box. it takes 75,000 of them to make one bale of cotton, so i'm afraid you couldn't make even a handkerchief out of these.
"i am so sorry about the oil well, but i did the best that i could to find it.
"respectfully yours,
"cordelia wilson."
