About three o'clock in the morning, as the train was crossing a bleak Yorkshire moor seven miles from Tetley Junction, the curate suddenly left the seat on which he lay stretched dreaming of Eileen and flew across the compartment on to the recumbent form of a stout commercial traveler. Then he rebounded to the floor and woke up--unhurt.
"'Tis an accident, lad!" gasped the commercial traveler as he got his wind.
"So it seems," said the curate. "Hold tight! She's rocking!"
The commercial traveler, who was mechanically groping under the seat for his boots,--commercial travelers always remove their boots in third-class railroad compartments when on night journeys,--followed the curate's advice and braced himself with his feet against the opposite seat for the coming _bouleversement_.
After the first shock the train had gathered way again--the light engine into which it had charged had been thrown clear off the track--but only for a moment. Suddenly the reeling engine of the express left the rails and staggered drunkenly along the ballast. A moment later it turned over, taking the guard's van and the first four coaches with it, and the whole train came to a standstill.
It was a corridor train, and unfortunately for Gerald Gilmore and the commercial traveler their coach fell over corridor side downward. There was no door on the other side of the compartment--only three windows, crossed by a stout brass bar. These windows had suddenly become sky-lights.
They fought their way out at last. Once he got the window open, the curate experienced little difficulty in getting through; but the commercial traveler was corpulent and tenacious of his boots, which he held persistently in one hand while Gerald tugged at the other. Still, he was hauled up at last, and the two slid down the perpendicular roof of the coach to the permanent way.
"That's done, anyway!" panted the drummer; and sitting down he began to put on his boots.
"There's plenty more to do," said the curate grimly, pulling off his coat. "The front of the train is on fire. Come!"
He turned and ran. Almost at his first step he cannoned into a heavy body in rapid motion. It was Excalibur.
"That you, old friend?" observed the curate. "I was on my way to see about you. Now that you are out, you may as well come and bear a hand."