The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

jerked backwards and forwards up and down, this way and that, that was a business which required care⁠—the noise was deafening. It was as though we were being pursued by a legion of shrieking, bellowing, raging demons.

“George!” shrieked Atherton, “he does mean to earn that fiver. I hope I’ll be alive to pay it him!”

He was only at the other end of the carriage, but though I could see by the distortion of his visage that he was shouting at the top of his voice⁠—and he has a voice⁠—I only caught here and there a word or two of what he was saying. I had to make sense of the whole.

Lessingham’s contortions were a study. Few of that large multitude of persons who are acquainted with him only by means of the portraits which have appeared in the illustrated papers, would then have recognised the rising statesman. Yet I believe that few things could have better fallen in with his mood than that wild travelling. He might have been almost shaken to pieces⁠—but the very severity of the shaking served to divert his thoughts from the one dread topic which threatened to absorb them to the exclusion of all else beside. Then there was the tonic influence of the element of risk. The pick-me-up effect of a spice of peril. Actual danger there quite probably was none; but there very really seemed to be. And one thing was absolutely certain, that if we did come to smash while going at that speed we should come to as everlasting smash as the heart of man could by any possibility desire. It is probable that the knowledge that this was so warmed the blood in Lessingham’s veins. At any rate as⁠—to use what in this case, was simply a form of speech⁠—I sat and watched him, it seemed to me that he was getting a firmer hold of the strength which had all but escaped him, and that with every jog and jolt he was becoming more and more of a man.

On and on we went dashing, clashing, smashing, roaring, rumbling. Atherton, who had been endeavouring to peer through the window, strained his lungs again in the effort to make himself audible.

“Where the devil are we?”

Looking at my watch I screamed back at him.

“It’s nearly one, so I suppose we’re somewhere in the neighbourhood of Luton.⁠—Hollo! What’s the matter?”

That something was the matter seemed certain. There was a shrill whistle from the engine. In a second we were conscious⁠—almost too conscious⁠—of the application of the Westinghouse brake. Of all the jolting that was ever jolted! the mere reverberation of the carriage threatened to resolve our bodies into their component parts. Feeling what we felt then helped us to realise the retardatory force which that vacuum brake must be exerting⁠—it did not seem at all surprising that the train should have been brought to an almost instant standstill.

Simultaneously all three of us were on our feet. I let down my window and Atherton let down his⁠—he shouting out,

“I should think that Inspector’s wire hasn’t had its proper effect, looks as if we’re blocked⁠—or else we’ve stopped at Luton. It can’t be Bedford.”

It wasn’t Bedford⁠—so much seemed clear. Though at first from my window I could make out nothing. I was feeling more than a trifle dazed⁠—there was a singing in my ears⁠—the sudden darkness was impenetrable. Then I became conscious that the guard was opening the door of his compartment. He stood on the step for a moment, seeming to hesitate. Then, with a lamp in his hand, he descended on to the line.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Don’t know, sir. Seems as if there was something on the road. What’s up there?”

This was to the man on the engine. The fireman replied:

“Someone in front there’s waving a red light like mad⁠—lucky I caught sight of him, we should have been clean on top of him in another moment. Looks as if there was something wrong. Here he comes.”

As my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness I became aware that someone was making what haste he could along the six-foot way, swinging a red light as he came. Our guard advanced to meet him, shouting as he went:

“What’s the matter! Who’s that?”

A voice replied,

“My God! Is that George Hewett. I thought you were coming right on top of us!”

Our guard again.

“What! Jim Branson! What the devil are you doing here, what’s wrong? I thought you were on the twelve out, we’re chasing you.”

“Are you? Then you’ve caught us. Thank God for it!⁠—We’re a wreck.”

I had already opened the carriage door. With that we all three clambered out on to the line.

XLVII The Contents of the Third-Class Carriage

I moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in official uniform.

“Are you the guard of the 12:00 out from St. Pancras?”

“I am.”

“Where’s your train? What’s happened?”

“As for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what’s left of it. As to what’s happened, why, we’re wrecked.”

“What do you mean by you’re wrecked?”

“Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and came running down the hill on top of us.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Not ten minutes. I was just starting off down the road to the signal box, it’s a good two miles away, when I saw you coming. My God! I thought there was going to be another smash.”

“Much damage done?”

“Seems to me as if we’re all smashed up. As far as I can make out they’re matchboxed up in front. I feel as if I was all broken up inside of me. I’ve been in the service going on for thirty years, and this is the first accident I’ve been in.”

It was too dark to see the man’s face, but judging from his tone he was either crying or very near to it.

Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine,

“You’d better go back to the box and let ’em know!”

“All right!” came