depressed.
His father was waiting to have breakfast with him when Peter finished showering, and Miss Lorrie said they would probably hear soon if the truck had come in from the city the night before. "Some of the coffee workers will know," she predicted.
But while Peter was on the veranda after breakfast, waiting for the first of the workers to come up from Mango Gap so he could question them, the police Land-Rover came growling down the driveway. Corporal Buckley was driving it.
The tall policeman climbed the veranda steps slowly, as though carrying an invisible weight on his back. "Good morning, lad," he said. "Is your father here?"
The double doors were open, and Mr. Devon was at the big mahogany table, copying into an account book some figures from scraps of paper Mr. Campbell had given him over the past few days. "Come in, Corporal," he called, getting up. "What can I do for you?"
The policeman came only a few feet into the room. "I have bad news, Mr. Devon."
In the silence that followed, Peter went to stand beside his father. Somehow he was certain the bad news concerned Zackie.
"What is it, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said.
"Zackie Leonard has been hurt."
Peter felt his father's hand on his own, first only touching it, then clasping it. "Hurt?" Mr. Devon said. "How badly?"
"I'm not sure. He was on a bus coming from Kingston to Morant Bay, it seems, and there was an accident. The road was wet, of course. The bus skidded off it near White Horses to avoid some animal and tipped over. Zackie and three others were taken to the hospital."
"The Princess Margaret, you mean?" That was a hospital near the Bay.
The corporal nodded. "If you go there to see him, I would appreciate your stopping at the station on your way back, to tell me how he is. Will you be going, do you think?"
Mr. Devon did not answer the question right away. Still clutching Peter's hand, he looked at Peter, and his face was white as he said in a low voice, "This is my fault, Peter. If I hadn't been so anxious to stop at the cemetery if we had waited for him a little longer. . ." Then he seemed to pull himself together by giving his head a shake, and said to Corporal Buckley, "Of course, of course. We'll go right away. Right now!"
The corporal said, "I'd go with you to check on the boy and talk to him again about this thieving, but I can't leave here. He knows more about it than he's letting on, you can be sure." His voice became less stern. "By the way, a woman who was on the bus said she sat beside him and talked to him before the accident. She said you took him to Kingston to look for his mother."
"Yes, we did."
"He found her, the woman told me."
"I'm glad, Corporal," Mr. Devon said.
"So am I. She was a fine woman when I knew her. A fine country girl. I hope she comes back here to live, now that she knows the boy wants her. The city is no fit place for country people."
Mr. Devon nodded. "Do they have visiting hours at the hospital, Corporal?" he asked.
"Yes. But I'm sure if you want to see him—"
"We do. And we thank you for coming to tell us about this. But now, if you'll excuse us, we ought to be finding out. . ." Mr. Devon turned to Peter. "Are you ready, son?"
"Yes, Dad, I'm ready." Peter's mouth had gone dry, and he had trouble getting the words out. How badly, he asked himself, was Zackie hurt? Thinking about it scared him.
T he hospital was just outside the town of Morant Bay, on the coastal road that ran around the island. Peter guessed it had been built and named the Princess Margaret when Jamaica was still an English colony.
His father parked the car, and the two of them hurried up the walk to the main entrance. A woman in white, at a desk, listened to Mr. Devon's explanation of why they had come and said, yes, they could see Zackie. She told them where to go, and they climbed a flight of stairs to a ward with a number of beds in it. A doctor was walking from bed to bed, talking to the patients.
"There he is!" Peter said,
His father was waiting to have breakfast with him when Peter finished showering, and Miss Lorrie said they would probably hear soon if the truck had come in from the city the night before. "Some of the coffee workers will know," she predicted.
But while Peter was on the veranda after breakfast, waiting for the first of the workers to come up from Mango Gap so he could question them, the police Land-Rover came growling down the driveway. Corporal Buckley was driving it.
The tall policeman climbed the veranda steps slowly, as though carrying an invisible weight on his back. "Good morning, lad," he said. "Is your father here?"
The double doors were open, and Mr. Devon was at the big mahogany table, copying into an account book some figures from scraps of paper Mr. Campbell had given him over the past few days. "Come in, Corporal," he called, getting up. "What can I do for you?"
The policeman came only a few feet into the room. "I have bad news, Mr. Devon."
In the silence that followed, Peter went to stand beside his father. Somehow he was certain the bad news concerned Zackie.
"What is it, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said.
"Zackie Leonard has been hurt."
Peter felt his father's hand on his own, first only touching it, then clasping it. "Hurt?" Mr. Devon said. "How badly?"
"I'm not sure. He was on a bus coming from Kingston to Morant Bay, it seems, and there was an accident. The road was wet, of course. The bus skidded off it near White Horses to avoid some animal and tipped over. Zackie and three others were taken to the hospital."
"The Princess Margaret, you mean?" That was a hospital near the Bay.
The corporal nodded. "If you go there to see him, I would appreciate your stopping at the station on your way back, to tell me how he is. Will you be going, do you think?"
Mr. Devon did not answer the question right away. Still clutching Peter's hand, he looked at Peter, and his face was white as he said in a low voice, "This is my fault, Peter. If I hadn't been so anxious to stop at the cemetery if we had waited for him a little longer. . ." Then he seemed to pull himself together by giving his head a shake, and said to Corporal Buckley, "Of course, of course. We'll go right away. Right now!"
The corporal said, "I'd go with you to check on the boy and talk to him again about this thieving, but I can't leave here. He knows more about it than he's letting on, you can be sure." His voice became less stern. "By the way, a woman who was on the bus said she sat beside him and talked to him before the accident. She said you took him to Kingston to look for his mother."
"Yes, we did."
"He found her, the woman told me."
"I'm glad, Corporal," Mr. Devon said.
"So am I. She was a fine woman when I knew her. A fine country girl. I hope she comes back here to live, now that she knows the boy wants her. The city is no fit place for country people."
Mr. Devon nodded. "Do they have visiting hours at the hospital, Corporal?" he asked.
"Yes. But I'm sure if you want to see him—"
"We do. And we thank you for coming to tell us about this. But now, if you'll excuse us, we ought to be finding out. . ." Mr. Devon turned to Peter. "Are you ready, son?"
"Yes, Dad, I'm ready." Peter's mouth had gone dry, and he had trouble getting the words out. How badly, he asked himself, was Zackie hurt? Thinking about it scared him.
T he hospital was just outside the town of Morant Bay, on the coastal road that ran around the island. Peter guessed it had been built and named the Princess Margaret when Jamaica was still an English colony.
His father parked the car, and the two of them hurried up the walk to the main entrance. A woman in white, at a desk, listened to Mr. Devon's explanation of why they had come and said, yes, they could see Zackie. She told them where to go, and they climbed a flight of stairs to a ward with a number of beds in it. A doctor was walking from bed to bed, talking to the patients.
"There he is!" Peter said,
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