As the young man staggered to his feet, he had somehow a sense of detachment, as though he were commencing a new life, or had suddenly come into a new existence. Yet his immediate surroundings were charged with ugly reminiscences. Through a great gap in the ruined side of the saloon the rain was tearing in. As he stood up, his head caught the fragments of the roof. He was able to push back the wreckage with ease and step out. For a moment he reeled, as he met the violence of the storm. Then, clutching hold of the side of the wreck, he steadied himself. A light was moving back and forth, close at hand. He cried out weakly: "Hullo!"
A man carrying a lantern, bent double as he made his way against the wind, crawled up to them. He was a porter from the station close at hand.
"My God! "he exclaimed. "Any one alive here?"
"I'm all right," Gerald muttered, "at least, I suppose I am. What's it all - what's it all about? We've had an accident."
The porter caught hold of a piece of the wreckage with which to steady himself.
"Your train ran right into three feet of water," he answered. "The rails had gone - torn up. The telegraph line's down."
"Why didn't you stop the train?"
"We were doing all we could," the man retorted gloomily. "We weren't expecting anything else through to-night. We'd a man along the line with a lantern, but he's just been found blown over the embankment, with his head in a pool of water. Any one else in your carriage?"
"One gentleman travelling with me," Gerald answered. "We'd better try to get him out. What about the guard and engine-driver?"
"The engine-driver and stoker are both alive," the porter told him.
"I came across them before I saw you. They're both knocked sort of sillylike, but they aren't much hurt. The guard's stone dead."
"Where are we?"
"A few hundred yards from Wymondham. Let's have a look for the other gentleman."
Mr. John P. Dunster was lying quite still, his right leg doubled up, and a huge block of telegraph post, which the saloon had carried with it in its fall, still pressing against his forehead. He groaned as they dragged him out and laid him down upon a cushion in the shelter of the wreckage.
"He's alive all right," the porter remarked. "There's a doctor on the way. Let's cover him up quick and wait."
"Can't we carry him to shelter of some sort Gerald proposed.
The man shook his head. Speech of any sort was difficult. Even with his lips close to the other's ears, he had almost to shout.
"Couldn't be done," he replied. "It's all one can do to walk alone when you get out in the middle of the field, away from the shelter of the embankment here. There's bits of trees flying all down the lane. Never was such a night! Folks is fair afraid of the morning to see what's happened. There's a mill blown right over on its side in the next field, and the man in charge of it lying dead. This poor chap's bad enough."
Gerald, on all fours, had crept back into the compartment. The bottle of wine was smashed into atoms. He came out, dragging the small dressing-case which his companion had kept on the table before him. One side of it was dented in, but the lock, which was of great strength, still held.
"Perhaps there's a flask somewhere in this dressing-case," Gerald said. " Lend me a knife."
Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from its foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned his lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid very slowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the man turned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a little higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.
"There's folks coming at last!" the porter exclaimed, turning around excitedly. "They've been a time and no mistake. The village isn't a quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?"
Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face and whistled softly.
"You're about done yourself, sir," he remarked. "Hold up."
He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in Gerald's ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted in his life, but the feeling was upon him now - a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.
"If I'm not a born idiot!" he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. "There's whisky here.
I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then."
He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were coming nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.
"I am all right," he declared. "Let's look after him."
They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily.
Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter staggered to his feet.
"It's all right now, sir!" he exclaimed. "They've brought blankets and a stretcher and brandy. Here's a doctor, sir."
A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster, moved towards them.
"How many are there of you?" he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.
"Only we two," Gerald replied. "Is my friend badly hurt?"
"Concussion," the doctor announced. "We'll take him to the village.
What about you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see."
"Just a cut," Gerald faltered; "nothing else."
"Lucky chap," the doctor remarked. "Let's get him to shelter of some sort. Come along. There's an inn at the corner of the lane there."
They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case, and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat incoherent villager.
