His father's eyes were on the harness he was buckling.

"I hope you'll be ready, Martin," answered the father, "even if I
ain't."

The place where Martin lived was a small settlement distant from
town. Martin's father, Mr. Colver, not only three days in the week
drove the stage, but other days acted as a sort of expressman,
bringing freight in a large wagon over the miles from town. One
night about nine o'clock, Mr. Colver was on the long, lonely road
coming toward home. He had a very heavy load on his wagon. The
wheels scraped on the wagon bottom, and the team went with a heavy,
dragging sound.

As the heavy wagon came opposite a clump of white blossoming buckeye
trees, one of the fore wheels of the dragging wagon suddenly gave
way and fell off. Mr. Colver was thrown violently from the wagon's
high seat into the road, among the tumbling heavy boxes and barrels.
The sharp corner of one box struck Mr. Colver's head near the
temple.

The weary horses waited to be urged forward again. They did not know
that their driver lay insensible in the road.

It was early gray morning before one of the teamsters who boarded at
the Colvers' found Mr. Colver lying still insensible, and brought
him home. The blow on the head had been a very dangerous one. Martin
gazed awestruck at his father's shut eyes and unconscious face.