‘Are you the guard of the 12.0 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 wrecked¹.’

 

‘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 echoing back.

 

The special immediately commenced retreating, whistling continually as it went. All the country side must have heard the engine shrieking², and all who did hear must have understood that on the line something was seriously wrong.

 

The smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision had put out all the carriage lamps. Here was a flickering³ candle, there the glimmer⁴ of a match, these were all the lights which shone upon the scene. People were piling up débris by the side of the line, for the purpose of making a fire,—more for illumination than for warmth.

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