The bore, rather surprisingly, put up a fight, though it was something in the nature of a death struggle.
“Then here is another Bosh to keep it company!” he snapped.
“You need never fear for the loneliness of your words,” replied the old man.
“And what about your words?”
“They will go on, too. But it is unlikely that any future generation will recapture our present conversation. In spite of our obvious distaste for each other, our emotions are hardly virile enough. They will soon fade even from our own memories. But suppose—yes, sir, suppose they suddenly grow explosive? Suppose you leap upon me with a knife, plunging it into the heart of Mr. Edward Maltby, of the Royal Psychical Society, then indeed some future person sitting in this corner may become uncomfortably aware of a very unpleasant emotion.”
He closed his eyes again; but his five travelling-companions all received the impression that he was still seeing them through his lids. The solid guard, passing along the corridor at that moment, was turned to with relief, although he had no comfort to offer.
“I’m afraid I can’t say anything,” he replied to inquiries, repeating a formula of which he was weary. “We’re doing all we can, but with the line blocked before and behind, well, there it is.”
“I call it disgraceful!” muttered the bore. “Where’s the damned breakdown gang or whatever they call themselves?”
“We’re trying to get assistance, we can’t do more,” retorted the guard.
“How long do you expect we’ll stick here?”
“I’d like to know that myself, sir.”
“All night?” asked Lydia.
“Maybe, miss.”
“Can one walk along the line?”
“Only for a bit. It’s worse beyond.”
“Oh, dear!” murmured the chorus girl. “I must get to Manchester!”
“I asked because I was wondering whether there was another line or station near here,” said Lydia.
“Well, there’s Hemmersby,” answered the guard. “That’s a branch line that joins this at Swayton; but I wouldn’t care to try it, not this weather.”
“It’s this weather that gives us the incentive,” David pointed out. “How far is Hemmersby?”
“I shouldn’t care to say. Five or six miles, p’raps.”
“Which way?”
The guard pointed out of the corridor window.
“Yes, but we couldn’t carry our trunks!” said Lydia. “What would happen to them?”
The guard gave a little shrug. Madness was not his concern, and he came across plenty.
“They would go on to their destination,” he replied, “but I couldn’t say when they’d turn up.”
“According to you,” smiled David, “they’d turn up before we would.”
“Well, there you are,” said the guard.
Then he continued on his way, dead sick of it.
There was a little silence. Lydia turned her head from the corridor and stared out of the window next to her.
“Almost stopped,” she announced. “Well, people, what about it.”
“Almost is not quite,” answered her brother cautiously.
A second little silence followed. Jessie Noyes gazed at the tip of her shoe, fearful to commit herself. The flushed clerk seemed in the same condition. The bore’s expression, on the other hand, was definitely unfavourable.
“Asking for trouble,” he declared, when no one else spoke. “If none of you have been lost in a snowstorm, I have.”
“Ah, but that was in Dawson City,” murmured David, “where snow is snow.”
Then a startling thing happened. The old man in the corner suddenly opened his eyes and sat upright. He stared straight ahead of him, but Jessie, who was in his line of vision, was convinced that he was not seeing her. A moment later he swerved round towards the corridor. Beyond the corridor window something moved; a dim white smudge that faded out into the all-embracing snow as they all watched it.
“The other line—yes, yes, quite a good idea,” said the old man. “A merry Christmas to you all!”
He seized his bag from the rack, leapt across the corridor, jumped from the train, and in a few seconds he, too, had faded out.
“There goes a lunatic,” commented the elderly bore, “if there ever was one!”
CHAPTER II
THE INVISIBLE TRACK
“Well, what do we all make of it?” inquired David after a pause.
“I’ve already given you my opinion,” responded the bore, and repeated it by tapping his forehead.
“Yes, but I’m afraid I daren’t agree with the opinion, in case others follow the alleged lunatic’s example,” answered David. “You’ll remember, we were just discussing what he has now done.”
“Only we wouldn’t do it quite so violently,” interposed Lydia. “I almost thought for a moment that he’d spotted Charles the First!”
She spoke lightly, but she was watching to see how the others took her remark.
“Charles the Fiddlesticks!” muttered the bore.
“Didn’t Nero use the fiddlesticks?” said David. “Anyhow, somebody was outside there before he hopped on to the line, so even if the going isn’t good it can’t be impossible.” He turned to Jessie Noyes. “How do you feel about it?”
Jessie looked out of the window. The snow had ceased falling, and the motionless white scene was like a film that had suddenly stopped.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I—I can’t think what’ll happen if I don’t get to Manchester.”
“It’s important, is it?”
“Oh, yes!”
David glanced at his sister, and she nodded.
“We’ll go, if you go,” he said.
“But you mustn’t go for me!” exclaimed Jessie quickly.
“It would only be partly for you,” explained Lydia. “I really think we’d