FOG
'"Argus"? "Evenin' Standard"? "John Bull"?' The bookstall boy proffered
the papers hopefully.
Nick shook his head, and continued his absent-minded study of the
gay-coloured magazines spread out before him. It was a raw, damp
afternoon, and Cardiff railway station was dark with fog, the thick,
acrid fog that sometimes descends on England in April. The London
express was half an hour late already, and Nick was anxious to be in it
and away.
On a bench, close to the bookstall, sat a tall man, clutching a leather
dispatch-case; a man called Davies, who represented Western England for
the Fraternity; one of the First Four, lieutenants under the Chief.
Nick's discovery of this fact had brought him down to Cardiff a week
ago, and there he had attended several meetings of the Fraternity,
with increasing interest and a certain amount of apprehension. He
had not realised till this week the perfect organisation behind this
revolutionary movement, nor the danger that lay in the Chief's scheme.
Personal danger there had been but little, for Nick had attended the
meetings as a very humble follower, unnoticed by any of the leaders.
The last meeting especially had given him to think, for Davies had
announced his intention of going to London next day to meet the Chief,
in conference with the county leaders; and had added that on his
return he would probably be able to give his followers definite news
of the Great Day. Nick was anxious. Then and there he decided that he,
too, would travel to London, and by the same train. One never knew.
Something might happen that would give him a chance to meet the Chief.
Nick was a firm believer in his own luck.
The bookstall boy eyed him speculatively, taking in his shabby grey
suit, obviously ready-made, and cheap black boots. Not the sort of man
who would buy 'The Times.' Might take the 'Herald.' But perhaps he had
seen it before. The boy thrust forward an opened weekly.
'"Tatler"?' he suggested.
Nick glanced at the page idly, and then grinned. It was opened at a
photograph of himself. 'Society at Epsom Races.' A short paragraph
gave his description: '... Keen rider to hounds ... popular figure
in London....' His grin broadened. If only they could have seen him
during the past week, sitting at the feet of Davies and Crawford,
drinking in their revolutionary doctrines, and singing 'Then raise the
Scarlet Banner' to the tune of 'Tannenbaum'; pity they couldn't find
a more suitable air for their anthem, one that had less sugary German
sentiment.
The London train roared in to the platform. Nick threw down a shilling,
picked up the 'Bystander' and moved away, keeping a wary eye on Davies,
who got into the nearest carriage. Nick entered the train a few doors
higher up, walked down the corridor, found his man, and made himself
comfortable in the far corner. There was no one else in the carriage.
The train jerked twice and then started off. Davies opened a pamphlet
on Industrial Reform, and appeared to be absorbed in it. Nick glanced
covetously at the dispatch-case lying on the seat opposite. If the
worst came to the worst ... but he disapproved of crude methods, and
decided to give his luck a chance.
At Newport a sailorman got in, stared at Nick, and then held out a
horny hand.
'Blimey, mate, fancy seein' you! This is a bit of all right.'
'Tom!' exclaimed Nick, gripping the hand, and trying to conceal his
apprehension, for a witness was the last thing he wanted at that moment.
'That's me. Bin visitin' me married sister in Usk. Y'see, we rammed
a barge, comin' up the river last trip. Black fog, it was, worse nor
this. You know what it's like in the Pool in thick weather.'
'Much damage?'
'Stove in our bows, and had to go into dock. I took a spell ashore.
Goin' back to join 'er to-morrow. You know 'er, don't you? The
Pelican.'
Nick nodded.
'General Steam,' added the sailor. 'Good old line. I ain't got no fault
to find with 'em. They've done well by Tom Breck, I say. Look 'ere, why
don't you come for a trip with us? I'll square it with the old man. Do
you good. The Mediterranean run's a bit of all right.'
'Can't, Tom; wish I could.'
'Well, any time you want to, drop me a line, or come down and see me.
Butler's wharf we sail from.'
The talk ran on, of ships and the sea, and that strange, self-contained
dock-world that so few Londoners know. Nick smoked and nodded, and kept
a wary eye on Davies, who, after one incurious glance at the newcomer,
was again absorbed in his pamphlets. The minutes dragged by. Breck,
tired of talking, dozed in his corner, occasionally murmuring something
about having a drink with Nick when they got to London. Nick, staring
out of the window, saw Didcot Station flash by. Not much more than an
hour's run from Paddington now. The train roared on through the fog,
and Nick, making and rejecting wild plans, began to despair. There was
no chance of shaking Breck off, and how on earth could he shadow Davies
adequately with a genial, bellowing sailorman at his heels? Unless his
luck changed miraculously....
There was a violent shock. It seemed to Nick that someone had struck
him so fierce a blow on the back that he was pitched headlong forward.
There was a shattering sound of breaking glass, a sound that stood
out above the general pandemonium, and then the whole carriage rocked
wildly and overturned, precipitating the occupants in a heap, where
they lay for a moment, dazed, choking in the dust and fog, while pieces
of glass from the broken windows pattered down on them.
'Git orf of me!' said Tom Breck in a smothered voice.
Nick struggled to his feet and tried not to laugh.
'You hurt, Tom?'
'Nao. On'y squashed. 'Ow much d'you weigh ... gross tonnage? Give us a
hand up.'
They could hear the roar of escaping steam now, and above it, faintly
but terribly clear, human cries.
'Let's git out o' this before we 'ave to pay salvage,' said Breck,
spitting the dust out of his mouth. 'You're younger'n me. Up you go.'
He pointed to the shattered glass above them, and bent to give Nick
a leg up. After a brief struggle Nick got the corridor door open and
climbed out. Then, leaning in, he reached down a hand to Breck and
hauled him up.
'Strewth! that was a close call!' grunted Breck, rubbing his eyes.
'Gawd! Listen to the women!'
All around them the noise seemed to increase. Below, on the line,
people were rushing about, appearing through the fog for an instant,
their white, terrified faces showing like men in a nightmare, only to
disappear again as the fog swallowed them up. Women were screaming
hysterically; men were shouting orders and crying for help. At the
front of the train a tongue of flame leaped up, blood-red through the
fog, and the acrid smell of burning came to their nostrils.
'The first thing we'd better do is to get that fellow out of our
carriage,' said Nick. 'Be ready to catch him, Tom, when I shout.'
With that he lowered himself down into the smother below.
'You there!' he shouted. 'Are you hurt?'
A groan answered him. He peered through the steam and fog, and saw
Davies lying in a huddled heap.
'Anything broken?' he asked.
'My head,' said Davies faintly. 'And ankle's ... smashed....'
'We must get you out of here before the fire spreads. I'll try not to
hurt you more than I can help. Ready above? Haul!'
Nick lifted him as gently as he could, and hoisted him up until Breck
could reach him from above. With the last heave a bitten-off cry of
pain escaped the wounded man.
'Fainted,' said Breck, as Nick climbed out beside him. 'Copped it
proper, pore devil; look at 'is forehead.'
For answer Nick dropped down to the ground and plunged into the fog,
for he had just caught sight of an ambulance man, sprung into being
miraculously.
'Stretcher case here,' he said. 'Broken ankle, and, I believe,
concussions. How on earth did you get here so quickly?'
'Right y'are, sir. Bob, give us a hand with that stretcher. Why, you
see, we rushed out in cars as soon as we heard the news. It ain't
more'n a couple o' miles from here to Reading.'
They returned to the carriage, and lowered Davies on to the stretcher.
He was babbling incoherently.
'Delirious,' said the ambulance man. 'We'd better get him to the
dressing-station quick.'
'Where am I?' asked Davies, rousing. 'Got to get to London.'
'No chance of that for a day or two, mate,' said the man. 'Take it
easy. You're lucky to be alive.'
'I _must_ go to London!' Davies's voice rose to a scream, and he
struggled to get off the stretcher. 'Where's my dispatch-case? I've got
to go----'
Nick bent over him.
'Steady, Davies. We can't afford to lose you. I'll take your report to
the Chief.'
The injured man stared.
'What Chief?'
Nick smiled.
'I don't know his name. Do any of us, except you four?'
'Are you really ... follower?' Davies asked weakly.
'Ask Crawford. He knows me.'
Relief came into Davies's face and he lay back.
'Thank God! Do you know ... where meeting?...'
'No.'
'Twenty, Link Street ... second floor ... nine to-night.... Say
"Fraternity".... You won't fail?'
'I give you my word.'
Davies nodded. 'I'll ... tell Crawford ... useful man....' he muttered,
and seemed to sink into unconsciousness.
'That's better,' said one of the stretcher-bearers as they lifted their
load.
Nick watched them go, with conflicting desires tearing at him. Breck
had already disappeared with a rescue party, and every fibre of Nick's
being called him to join them, but he knew that his own game was more
important. With a sound that was half groan, half curse, he climbed
back into the carriage, found the little dispatch-case, and swarmed out
again. Then he dropped to the ground and set off at the double up the
line, trying desperately not to listen to the agonising cries for help
behind him.
It was twenty minutes to eight when he reached Reading Station.
'When's the next train to London?' he asked a porter.
'Seven twenty-three, just coming in, sir. They're all running late
to-day.'
As he spoke the train came in.
Nick walked across the platform, selected an empty carriage, and
dropped into a seat thankfully.
Then, as they pulled out, he suddenly realised how miraculous his luck
had been, and he sat staring out into the swirling fog, while the train
gathered speed.