Death in the Age of Steam. Mel Bradshaw

thing would have been for Crane to lead the way into the carriage. Squeezing by, Harris was aware of an untrimmed tuft of sandy hairs in Crane’s pink ear. Temptation seized him.

      “Where,” he dropped into the ear, “is Sibyl Martin?”

      He used the door frame to brace himself against being pushed back. That was presumably why Crane chose the opposite or lake side of the train to throw him off. Had Crane been able to get his full fourteen stone behind the shove, the distance across the platform been a half-foot less, or Harris’s wits a fraction of a second slower, the cashier’s chin would have been the first part of him to hit the gravel shoulder—which was now jogging by at more than ten miles per hour.

      As it was, his right hand caught and briefly held the stair rail, or rather the iron newel. This swung him out facing the direction of travel. He got his feet under him, but was in too much of a crouch to run properly when he fell. He tumbled forward. Tucking in his head, he managed a somersault which made his spine feel as if it were being driven out through the back of his neck. When his feet came lowermost once again, he tried to get up. His left ankle twisted in the loose gravel. He pitched sideways and rolled over twice more. Coming to rest with a head-to-toe suit of bruises and with blood seeping through his shredded trouser knees, he looked for the train. Some hundred yards ahead it swung right past the water works and began to put on speed.

      Harris wondered if he might have hung on, pulled himself back up the steps. Doubtful. Of doubtful value too. Did he think he could have bullied further revelations from Crane? Harris might be the more athletic of the two, but he was no wrestler, and Crane—having built much of the railway—was far likelier to have friends aboard.