The young man sat on one side of the saloon and Mr. John P. Dunster on
the other. Although both of them were provided with a certain amount of
railway literature, neither of them made any pretence at reading. The
older man, with his feet upon the opposite seat and his arms folded,
was looking pensively through the rain-splashed window-pane into the
impenetrable darkness. The young man, although he could not ignore his
companion’s unsociable instincts, was fidgety.
“There will be some floods out to-morrow,” he remarked.
Mr. Dunster turned his head and looked across the saloon. There was
something in the deliberate manner of his doing so, and his hesitation
before he spoke, which seemed intended to further impress upon the young
man the fact that he was not disposed for conversation.
“Very likely,” was his sole reply.
Gerald Fentolin sighed as though he regretted his companion’s
taciturnity and a few minutes later strolled to the farther end of the
saloon. He spent some time trying to peer through the streaming window
into the darkness. He chatted for a few minutes with the guard, who was,
however, in a bad temper at having had to turn out and who found little
to say. Then he took one of his golf clubs from the bag and indulged in
several half swings. Finally he stretched himself out upon one of the
seats and closed his eyes.
“May as well try to get a nap,” he yawned. “There won’t be much chance
on the steamer, if it blows like this.”
Mr. Dunster said nothing. His face was set, his eyes were looking
somewhere beyond the confines of the saloon in which he was seated. So
they travelled for over an hour. The young man seemed to be dozing in
earnest when, with a succession of jerks, the train rapidly slackened
speed. Mr. Dunster let down the window. The interior of the carriage was
at once thrown into confusion. A couple of newspapers were caught up and
whirled around, a torrent of rain beat in. Mr. Dunster rapidly closed
the window and rang the bell. The guard came in after a moment or two.
His clothes were shiny from the wet; raindrops hung from his beard.
“What is the matter?” Mr. Dunster demanded. “Why are we waiting here?”
“There’s a block on the line somewhere,” the man replied. “Can’t
tell where exactly. The signals are against us; that’s all we know at
present.”
They crawled on again in about ten minutes, stopped, and resumed their
progress at an even slower rate. Mr. Dunster once more summoned the
guard.
“Why are we travelling like this?” he asked impatiently. “We shall never
catch the boat.”
“We shall catch the boat all right if it runs, sir,” the man assured
him. “The mail is only a mile or two ahead of us; that’s one reason why
we have to go so slowly. Then the water is right over the line where
we are now, and we can’t get any news at all from the other side of
Ipswich. If it goes on like this, some of the bridges will be down;
that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Mr. Dunster frowned. For the first time he showed some signs of
uneasiness.
“Perhaps,” he muttered, half to himself, “a motor-car would have been
better.”
“Not on your life,” his young companion intervened. “All the roads to
the coast here cross no end of small bridges--much weaker affairs
than the railway bridges. I bet there are some of those down already.
Besides, you wouldn’t be able to see where you were going, on a night
like this.”
“There appears to be a chance,” Mr. Dunster remarked drily, “that you
will have to scratch for your competition to-morrow.”
“Also,” the young man observed, “that you will have taken this special
train for nothing. I can’t fancy the Harwich boat going out a night like
this.”
Mr. Dunster relapsed into stony but anxious silence. The train continued
its erratic progress, sometimes stopping altogether for a time, with
whistle blowing repeatedly; sometimes creeping along the metals as
though feeling its way to safety. At last, after a somewhat prolonged
wait, the guard, whose hoarse voice they had heard on the platform of
the small station in which they were standing, entered the carriage.
With him came a gust of wind, once more sending the papers flying around
the compartment. The rain dripped from his clothes on to the carpet.
He had lost his hat, his hair was tossed with the wind, his face was
bleeding from a slight wound on the temple.
“The boat train’s just ahead of us, sir,” he announced. “She can’t get
on any better than we can. We’ve just heard that there’s a bridge down
on the line between Ipswich and Harwich.”
“What are we going to do, then?” Mr. Dunster demanded.
“That’s just what I’ve come to ask you, sir,” the guard replied. “The
mail’s going slowly on as far as Ipswich. I fancy they’ll lie by
there until the morning. The best thing that I can see is, if you’re
agreeable, to take you back to London. We can very likely do that all
right, if we start at once.”
Mr. Dunster, ignoring the man’s suggestion, drew from one of the
voluminous pockets of his ulster a small map. He spread it open upon the
table before him and studied it attentively.
“If I cannot get to Harwich,” he asked, “is there any possibility of
keeping straight on and reaching Yarmouth?”
The guard hesitated.
“We haven’t heard anything about the line from Ipswich to Norwich, sir,”
he replied, “but we can’t very well change our course without definite
instructions.”
“Your definite instructions,” Mr. Dunster reminded him drily, “were to
take me to Harwich. You have been forced to depart from them. I see no
harm in your adopting any suggestions I may have to make concerning our
altered destination. I will pay the extra mileage, naturally.”
“How far did you wish to go, sir?” the guard enquired.
“To Yarmouth,” Mr. Dunster replied firmly. “If there are bridges down,
and communication with Harwich is blocked, Yarmouth would suit me better
than anywhere.”
The guard shook his head.
“I couldn’t go on that way, sir, without instructions.”
“Is there a telegraph office at this station?” Mr. Dunster inquired.
“We can speak anywhere on the line,” the guard replied.
“Then wire to the station-master at Liverpool Street,” Mr. Dunster
instructed. “You can get a reply from him in the course of a few
minutes. Explain the situation and tell him what my wishes are.”
The guard hesitated.
“It’s a goodish way from here to Norwich,” he observed, “and for all we
know--”
“When we left Liverpool Street Station,” Mr. Dunster interrupted, “I
promised five pounds each to you, the engine-driver, and his mate. That
five pounds shall be made twenty-five if you succeed in getting me to
the coast. Do your best for me.”
The guard raised his hat and departed without another word.
“It will probably suit you better,” Mr. Dunster continued, turning to
his companion, “to leave me at Ipswich and join the mail.”
The latter shook his head.
“I don’t see that there’s any chance, anyway, of my getting over in time
now,” he remarked. “If you’ll take me on with you as far as Norwich, I
can go quietly home from there!”
“You live in this part of the world, then?” Mr. Dunster asked.
The young man assented. Again there was a certain amount of hesitation
in his manner.
“I live some distance the other side of Norwich,” he said. “I don’t want
to sponge on you too much,” he went on, “but if you’re really going to
stick it out and try and get there, I’d like to go on, too. I am afraid
I can’t offer to share the expense, but I’d work my passage if there was
anything to be done.”
Mr. Dunster drummed for a moment upon the table with his fingers. All
the time the young man had been speaking, his eyes had been studying his
face. He turned now once more to his map.
“It was my idea,” he said, “to hire a steam trawler from Yarmouth. If I
do so, you can, if you wish, accompany me so far as the port at which we
may land in Holland. On the other hand, to be perfectly frank with you,
I should prefer to go alone. There will be, no doubt, a certain amount
of risk in crossing to-night. My own business is of importance. A golf
tournament, however, is scarcely worth risking your life for, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” the young man replied grimly. “I fancy
I should rather like it. Let’s see whether we can get on to Norwich,
anyhow, shall we? We may find that there are bridges down on that line.”
They relapsed once more into silence. Presently the guard reappeared.
“Instructions to take you on to Yarmouth, if possible, sir,” he
announced, “and to collect the mileage at our destination.”
“That will be quite satisfactory,” Mr. Dunster agreed. “Let us be off,
then, as soon as possible.” Presently they crawled on. They passed the
boat train in Ipswich Station, where they stayed for a few moments.
Mr. Dunster bought wine and sandwiches, and his companion followed his
example. Then they continued their journey. An hour or more passed; the
storm showed no signs of abatement. Their speed now rarely exceeded ten
or fifteen miles an hour. Mr. Dunster smoked all the time, occasionally
rubbing the window-pane and trying to look out. Gerald Fentolin slept
fitfully.
“Have you any idea where we are?” Mr. Dunster asked once.
The boy cautiously let down the window a little way. With the noise of
the storm came another sound, to which he listened for a moment with
puzzled face: a dull, rumbling sound like the falling of water. He
closed the window, breathless.
“I don’t think we are far from Norwich. We passed Forncett, anyhow, some
time ago.”
“Still raining?”
“In torrents! I can’t see a yard ahead of me. I bet we get some floods
after this. I expect they are out now, if one could only see.”
They crept on. Suddenly, above the storm, they heard what sounded at
first like the booming of a gun, and then a shrill whistle from some
distance ahead. They felt the jerk as their brakes were hastily applied,
the swaying of the little train, and then the crunching of earth beneath
them, the roar of escaping steam as their engine ploughed its way on
into the road bed.
“Off the rails!” the boy cried, springing to his feet. “Hold on tightly,
sir. I’d keep away from the window.”
The carriage swayed and rocked. Suddenly a telegraph post seemed to come
crashing through the window and the polished mahogany panels. The young
man escaped it by leaping to one side. It caught Mr. Dunster, who had
just risen to his feet, upon the forehead. There was a crash all around
of splitting glass, a further shock. They were both thrown off their
feet. The light was suddenly extinguished. With the crashing of glass,
the splitting of timber--a hideous, tearing sound--the wrecked saloon,
dragging the engine half-way over with it, slipped down a low embankment
and lay on its side, what remained of it, in a field of turnips.