LITERATURE.

Patea Mail, Volume VIII, Issue 1028, 30 April 1883, Page 4

LITERATURE.

TEN TERRIBLE MINUTES IN A TRAIN.

(Continued.) Life is dear, and I felt no inclination to yield mine without a desperate struggle. I tore my antagonist’s hands from my throat, and for a moment; forced him to act on the defensive. I shouted again and again for help, and how I longed for Spa road no words can describe. The train was now running at a good rate, and I knew the station conld not be far off. If only I could hold my own for one half minute all would be safe. . Pausing in his exertions for a moment the madman suddenly quitted me. Just then to rny horror the train rushed through my station without even slackening speed. I was in the wrong train, and there was no hope of assistance till we reached New Cross. It was evident that my fellow-passengers had not heard my shouts for assistance. Without a word of warning my companion again threw himself upon me, this time with a fury so resistless that I was borne to the floor.

“We shall go to the moon,” he shrieked. “ I have a knife —we can cut our way through the fog.” I felt myself helpless. My previous exertions had exhausted my strength, while that of the maniac seemed to increase with the struggle. Strive as I might I was utterly and entirely in his power now. How slowly the train seemed to move, I believe now that it was going at a good speed, but to me it appeared to progress at a snail’s pace. And how curiously vivid were my thoughts. I saw the home where I was expected, the kind faces wailing to greet me. I wondered what they’d say when they heard of my death. I caught myself thinking how ugly were the madman’s eyes, and I even noticed the colour of his necktie—blue, with white spots. Ino longer felt any inclination to shout for help. To all intents I looked upon myself as dead. I even began to think ot myself as a third person, and to lament, in a philosophical fashion, the ill-fortune which cut off at the beginning of his career a promising young man. Then I remembered that I owed a shoemaker for a pair of boots, and I pitied the unfortunate tradesman for the bad debt he had made. While these and a hundred other thoughts were passing through my brain, it seemed to me that an age had transpired. In reality, Ido not suppose that ot the outside more than a minute had elapsed since my unlucky fall. Suddenly, as in a dream, I heard the madman, who now was seated astride my chest, hiss—- “ We’ll cut our way to the moon—my knife is sharp. Let’s try it on your throat.” With curious deliberation he drew a strong pocket-knife and opened it. “ All right, friend, eh ?” he cried, laughing. “ Now mind, do not leave the carriage till I have come up to you.’” “ I am swift,” said I, and I declare I did not recognise my own voice. “If I go first yon can certainly not overtake me ; you start, and I’ll follow.” “ Me start.”

“Yes; you’re braver, stronger, and you have the knife. You must go first to clear the way.” “Of course; I forgot that,” he cried, almost to my horror, so utterly was I surprised. “Of course; I forgot that,” he cried again. “ I must clear the way. Still sitting on me he deliberately drew the bright blade across his throat. In another moment I was deluged with blood. At the same time the knife fell from his nerveless grasp. To spring to my feet, to seize the open wound and press the edges together, was the work of an instant—though the sadden escape made me stagger. At the same moment we reached New Cross station, and a porter threw open the carriage door. #** , * *

Fortunately, the self-inflicted wound of the madman did not prove fatal, Ultimately I heard that the bloodletting had a beneficial effect on the brain. I discovered next day that he was a most dangerous lunatic, who had managed to escape from a private asylum. To my surprise, when I looked at the clock at New Cross, I found that the journey from London Bridge had not taken ten minutes. They were certainly the longest ten minutes I ever spent.