CHAPTER II
The young man sat on one side of the saloon and Mr. John P. Dunster onthe other. Although both of them were provided with a certain amount ofrailway literature, neither of them made any pretence at reading. Theolder man, with his feet upon the opposite seat and his arms folded,was looking pensively through the rain-splashed window-pane into theimpenetrable darkness. The young man, although he could not ignore hiscompanion'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 wassomething in the deliberate manner of his doing so, and his hesitationbefore he spoke, which seemed intended to further impress upon the youngman the fact that he was not disposed for conversation.
"Very likely," was his sole reply.
Gerald Fentolin sighed as though he regretted his companion'staciturnity and a few minutes later strolled to the farther end of thesaloon. He spent some time trying to peer through the streaming windowinto 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 littleto say. Then he took one of his golf clubs from the bag and indulged inseveral half swings. Finally he stretched himself out upon one of theseats and closed his eyes.
"May as well try to get a nap," he yawned. "There won't be much chanceon the steamer, if it blows like this."
Mr. Dunster said nothing. His face was set, his eyes were lookingsomewhere beyond the confines of the saloon in which he was seated. Sothey travelled for over an hour. The young man seemed to be dozing inearnest when, with a succession of jerks, the train rapidly slackenedspeed. Mr. Dunster let down the window. The interior of the carriage wasat once thrown into confusion. A couple of newspapers were caught up andwhirled around, a torrent of rain beat in. Mr. Dunster rapidly closedthe 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'ttell where exactly. The signals are against us; that's all we know atpresent."
They crawled on again in about ten minutes, stopped, and resumed theirprogress at an even slower rate. Mr. Dunster once more summoned theguard.
"Why are we travelling like this?" he asked impatiently. "We shall nevercatch the boat."
"We shall catch the boat all right if it runs, sir," the man assuredhim. "The mail is only a mile or two ahead of us; that's one reason whywe have to go so slowly. Then the water is right over the line wherewe are now, and we can't get any news at all from the other side ofIpswich. 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 ofuneasiness.
"Perhaps," he muttered, half to himself, "a motor-car would have beenbetter."
"Not on your life," his young companion intervened. "All the roads tothe coast here cross no end of small bridges--much weaker affairsthan 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 nightlike this."
"There appears to be a chance," Mr. Dunster remarked drily, "that youwill have to scratch for your competition to-morrow."
"Also," the young man observed, "that you will have taken this specialtrain for nothing. I can't fancy the Harwich boat going out a night likethis."
Mr. Dunster relapsed into stony but anxious silence. The train continuedits erratic progress, sometimes stopping altogether for a time, withwhistle blowing repeatedly; sometimes creeping along the metals asthough feeling its way to safety. At last, after a somewhat prolongedwait, the guard, whose hoarse voice they had heard on the platform ofthe small station in which they were standing, entered the carriage.With him came a gust of wind, once more sending the papers flying aroundthe 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 wasbleeding from a slight wound on the temple.
"The boat train's just ahead of us, sir," he announced. "She can't geton any better than we can. We've just heard that there's a bridge downon 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. "Themail's going slowly on as far as Ipswich. I fancy they'll lie bythere until the morning. The best thing that I can see is, if you'reagreeable, to take you back to London. We can very likely do that allright, if we start at once."
Mr. Dunster, ignoring the man's suggestion, drew from one of thevoluminous pockets of his ulster a small map. He spread it open upon thetable before him and studied it attentively.
"If I cannot get to Harwich," he asked, "is there any possibility ofkeeping 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 definiteinstructions."
"Your definite instructions," Mr. Dunster reminded him drily, "were totake me to Harwich. You have been forced to depart from them. I see noharm in your adopting any suggestions I may have to make concerning ouraltered 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 betterthan 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. Dunsterinstructed. "You can get a reply from him in the course of a fewminutes. 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 weknow--"
"When we left Liverpool Street Station," Mr. Dunster interrupted, "Ipromised five pounds each to you, the engine-driver, and his mate. Thatfive pounds shall be made twenty-five if you succeed in getting me tothe 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 tohis 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 timenow," he remarked. "If you'll take me on with you as far as Norwich, Ican 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 hesitationin his manner.
"I live some distance the other side of Norwich," he said. "I don't wantto sponge on you too much," he went on, "but if you're really going tostick it out and try and get there, I'd like to go on, too. I am afraidI can't offer to share the expense, but I'd work my passage if there wasanything to be done."
Mr. Dunster drummed for a moment upon the table with his fingers. Allthe time the young man had been speaking, his eyes had been studying hisface. He turned now once more to his map.
"It was my idea," he said, "to hire a steam trawler from Yarmouth. If Ido so, you can, if you wish, accompany me so far as the port at which wemay 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 amountof risk in crossing to-night. My own business is of importance. A golftournament, however, is scarcely worth risking your life for, is it?"
"Oh, I don't know about that!" the young man replied grimly. "I fancyI 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," heannounced, "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 theboat train in Ipswich Station, where they stayed for a few moments.Mr. Dunster bought wine and sandwiches, and his companion followed hisexample. Then they continued their journey. An hour or more passed; thestorm showed no signs of abatement. Their speed now rarely exceeded tenor fifteen miles an hour. Mr. Dunster smoked all the time, occasionallyrubbing the window-pane and trying to look out. Gerald Fentolin sleptfitfully.
"Have you any idea where we are?" Mr. Dunster asked once.
The boy cautiously let down the window a little way. With the noise ofthe storm came another sound, to which he listened for a moment withpuzzled face: a dull, rumbling sound like the falling of water. Heclosed the window, breathless.
"I don't think we are far from Norwich. We passed Forncett, anyhow, sometime ago."
"Still raining?"
"In torrents! I can't see a yard ahead of me. I bet we get some floodsafter this. I expect they are out now, if one could only see."
They crept on. Suddenly, above the storm, they heard what sounded atfirst like the booming of a gun, and then a shrill whistle from somedistance ahead. They felt the jerk as their brakes were hastily applied,the swaying of the little train, and then the crunching of earth beneaththem, the roar of escaping steam as their engine ploughed its way oninto 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 comecrashing through the window and the polished mahogany panels. The youngman escaped it by leaping to one side. It caught Mr. Dunster, who hadjust risen to his feet, upon the forehead. There was a crash all aroundof splitting glass, a further shock. They were both thrown off theirfeet. 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 embankmentand lay on its side, what remained of it, in a field of turnips.
The Vanished Messenger Page 2