The Nets of Fate

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 327, 12 April 1928, Page 5

The Nets of Fate

SERIAL STORY

By

OTTWELL BINNS

CHAPTER I. Through the mirk of the night the Flying Highlander thundered southward. its funnel belching fire and smoke in a stream half as long as the train itself; and as it raced the passengers chatted or read or slept, according to their taste. Now and again showers of ashes or of small coal, blown from the engine, were dashed against the windows with a rattle like hail, and after one of them, a girl in a first-class compartment looked up, and then pushed from her the magazine which she had been reading. “Auntie, I think I hate millionaires.” The lady whom she addressed laughed lightly. “Why, Jocelyn, whatever makes you say that? You don't happen to know any millionaires, and we haven’t the luck to have one in the family—more’s the pity.” Jocelyn Ambrose nodded toward the magazine which she had been reading. “There is an article in there which tells all about several of them. They appear to be a most unholy race. One seems to have made his money by ruining all the small dealers in the commodity which he handles, another, while writing articles on democracy, allowed his workmen to be shot down at his mines in Colorado; while a third, a Sunday school teacher, if you Please, made a corner in wheat and sent up the price of bread to such a height that quite a number of wc'.en and children died of starvation. It is simply dreadful! I think if I were a workman I should turn Anarchist and throw bombs at millionaires on sight.” Her companion laughed again, and replied: “You are always a little ex-

travagant, Jocelyn, and you certainly take exaggerated views of people. I think you are wrong about millionaires. Some of them are quite excellent men, and most of them, I fancy, are much of a muchness with the rest of humanity.” She leaned forward, and picking up the magazine which her niece haa discarded, opened it at the page where the girl had been reading. She glanced casually at some of tjie portraits a hich adorned the article, then addressed the girl once more. “The article, I see, is anonymous. In all probability the author of it is some jaundiced person with a grievance against some particular millionaire, or a hack journalist who is not above throwing mud in order to butter his own bread. I have not forgotten how men of that class treated your own poor, dear father ” “Father was not a millionaire,” broke in the girl sharply. “He certainly was not!” agreed the aunt with a smile. “Not to have his account overdrawn at the bank was a state of grace to which he was a stranger. And yet the journalists attacked him just as they do the millionaires.” “Father was a man of strong convictions. He was a perpetual challenge to some men.” The elder lady recalled the strenuous career of the late Reverend Patrick Ambrose, D.D., an Irish Dean, whose outspoken utterances and indiscretions had been the joy of his opponents and the embarrassment of his ecclesiastical superiors, and as she did so she smiled. “That is quite true,” she replied. “And I am bound to say men accepted his embodied challenge. From the day when he left Trinity College to the day he died he had one quarrel or another on his hands.” “But all the same, men liked him. You kno% what the newspapers said of him when he died. They were all agreed that . . . .” “Mv dear,” broke in the other. “I

have all the cuttings at home; and I read them occasionally. Believe me, I knew your father’s virtues as well as most people, and I am very glad to think he was my brother, and, furthermore, I assure you that I don’t think there is a millionaire in the world who would be worthy to do up his gaiters were he in the flesh now!” “I should think not!” said the girl. “They are a hateful lot!”

Her aunt yawned openb r . “I am not going to quarrel with you about that, my dear Jocelyn. lam much too tired to do anything of the kind. I am going to sleep, and I shall be grateful if you will waken me when we reach Willesden.” She settled herself in the corner, and closed her eyes so resolutely as to leave no doubt that she meant to fulfil her declared intention. Her niece picked up the magazine afresh, and slowly looked through the pages, but finding nothing to arrest her attention turned to the window and stared out into the night. A continuous rain of sparks flew by, and the girl’s eyes followed them as they danced like fairy imps in the darkness, and as they faded into nothingness. Small, illlighted stations flashed past, and occasionally, with a long scream of the whistle, the train thundered through larger stations, which yet were not sufficiently important to delay the most important express of the day. For some time Jocelyn Ambrose watched the various lights break suddenly out of the blackness, flicker for a moment, then fade from sight; but presently her eyes grew weary, the heavily-fringed lids fell, and like her aunt she slept soundly. In front, on the cab of the engine, the driver stared into the night. There was a curve in the line a little ahead, and beyond that a cutting with a somewhat steep gradient. As they approached it, his assistant threw open the furnace door and began to shovel coal into the fire. For two or three minutes he stoked, then threw down his shovel.

“Rotten coal they unload on us nowadays. They’ll be giving us sawdust next! ”

The driver nodded and laughed. “We’re getting the speed cut of it, all the same. We’re a minute ahead of time, and if we don’t lose on the

gradient, we shall get through in front of the schedule.” The stoker grunted, and as he was hot from his exertions in front of the open furnace, filled an enamelled mug with cold tea and drank it off, then stooped to put the tin flask which held the liquid in a safe place. As he did so, a spate of rain driven by the wind splashed on the windows of the cab, and in the same moment the driver turned sharply round. “Hear anything, Jim?” The stoker shook his head. “Nothing unusual!” His companion looked back into the night. “I thought I heard a shout; but it may have been fancy. I don’t suppose we’ve gone o’er anybody!” “Not likely at this time o’ th’ night!” answered the stoker. “It is a pretty desolate country hereabouts, an’ what would anybody be doing on the line, with the highroad just over the fence there?” “It must have been fancy,” said the driver, and looked at the gauge to see how much steam it registered. “I daresay,” agreed his companion. “It’s easy enough to fancy things in the cab of an express on a dark night. It ’ud be an eye-opener to most folk if they could just make the journey once on their own.” The driver nodded his head. “I’ve often thought that,” he said seriously. “It’s a responsibility that most folk know nothing about to have a hundred or two hundred lives in one’s hand.” “That’s so,” replied the stoker tersely. “Fourteen years have I been a full driver, an’ for the last six on passenger expresses, an’ in all that time I’ve never had what you might call a serious accident.” The stoker nodded, and as they tore round the curve leaned over the side of the engine, and casually looked forward into the darkness. The next he had swung round - , his grimy face the colour of chalk. “The brake, Tom! For God s sake, the brake!” The driver did not know' what he had seen, but instantly he applied the brake, and as he did so looked through the window in front of him. and a very little way ahead caught sight of the red light of a standing train. “Good Lord!” he screamed. “We’re in for it!” There was time for very little more to

be done. He stretched his hand to shut off steam, and that was his lasi act. The great speed of the express scarcely diminished by the hasty application of the brake, hurled it on the obstacle in front, and at the very moment of impact the stoker jumped clear of the engine. With a terrific crash the iron monster drove into the van before it, smashed it to kindling wood; and rebounded, splintering the coach behind it, and sending death and disaster down the long line of carriages. Then it hurled itself forward once more, reared itself like a prancing horse on the wreckage it had made, and toppled over, roaring and hissing in defeat, the train of carriages behind it wrecked and broken and hurled in all directions, while in the same moment the night was filled with appalling shrieks and groans.

The clamour grew louder, and for a few moments there was great confusion, men who had crawled out of the -wrecked carriages, running hither and thither in the darkness, shouting to each other dementedly, and demanding to know what had happened. Then two men came down the line—one of them a guard carrying a lantern, which shed only a dim radiance on the terrible scene. As the pair came to a group of men shouting vociferously, one of the group caught sight of the guard, and gripped the lapel of his coat. “Guard! Guard! What is it? What has happened?” It was his companion who replied bluntly and harshly. “Don’t be a fool, man! Can’t you see? We have run into something, and from the sound of things there are a good many people hurt, and we must do something to help them instantly. Two or three of you collect some of that wood together and get a fire going, we must have light to see by. The others go down the line and help the women out of the standing carriages.” He spoke like a man who was used to exacting obedience, and after a moment the vociferating men, having got over their first panic, began the work of deliverance. The man who had issued the orders, a tall man of perhaps five-and-thirty, with a face lean and strong, looked at the guard. “They're all right once they get

started. I -wonder where the driver is.”

“Under the engine, sir. He’s quite dead! Hullo!”

He turned as the stoker staggered out of the dark, with an arm hanging limp by his side, and a dreadful cut on his face. “That you, Jim? What has happened?” “We’ve rammed a van and half a score of heavy goods trucks. Coupling must have broken as they went up hill, and they’ve run back. I guess they’re in the deuce of a funk at the junction now. We ” He broke off suddenly, and with his injured arm pointed down the line. “By them carriages are on fire”!

The man with the guard turned instantly in the direction in which the stoker pointed. It was quite true. Along two of the wrecked carriages little tongues of yellow flame were beginning to run, and smoke was drifting down the cutting. A grim look came on the man’s face.

“Come along, guard! There isn’t a moment to lose, if there is anyone in those carriages. I’ve seen a train burn in America and I know what it’s like.” He began to run in the direction of the burning coaches, then stopped as a thought struck him, and turned to the stoker. “Just tell those fellow's down there not to bother about that fire. From the look of things we shall have more light than we want presently. Tell them to come down here at once—all of them”! Having issued this order, he turned and followed the guard, and two minutes later was directing operations around tne doomed carriages. The next half-hour was like a horrible nightmare to those who took part in those operations. There were people imprisoned in the burning coaches, and as the fire progressed, some of them cried out in an agony of terror, appealing to the workers to make haste, and the screams of those who already felt the scorching breath of the flames filled the night with horror. Under the direction of the man with the guard the men engaged in the work of rescue separated into two bodies, one under the guard, the other under himself. “Leave those folk in the other carriages for a while, they can be attended to afterwards. If we don't get j these people out they will be roasted alive. Get at it for all you are worth.” He himself laboured with labours almost Herculean. Carriage doors

had jammed and could not be opened and he improvised a battering ram from a piece of the wrecked guard’s van, and directed its use by three other men. His face and hands were cut with jagged glass, his clothes to 11 to pieces on splintered wood, but be seemed indifferent to everything but the work in hand, and after twenty minutes of tremendous toil, he stood away from the heat of the burning carriages. He felt in his pocket, dragged out a silk handkerchief, and as lie wiped the sweat from his begrimed face, remarked casually: “All out, I think”!

But. even as he spoke the words, the denial to them was given. Above the roar and crackle of blazing wood, sounding sharply and clearly through the groans of the injured and the moans of the distraught, came the tones of a feminine voice.

“Help! Help! Oh, help”! “Good Lord, there’s someone still there —a woman”! He crammed the handkerchief ia his pocket as he ran toward the carriage afresh. The fire was advancing rapidly, but, without a moment’s hesitation he grasped the brass handle by the side of the door that had been broken open. The heat of it blistered his palm, but nevertheless he swung himself up and, climbing through wrecked partitions, explored the carriage. By the lurid light of the fire he caught sight of some feminine clothing at the far end. and as he did so the voice sounded again: “Help! Help”!

“Coming”! he shouted in reply, and though he knew* his danger, began to crawl in the direction from which the voice sounded. He reached the end of the coach ; without mishap, to find that the Interior of the compartment had collapsed almost in a piece, and falling against the other side had made a sort of lean-to in which two ladies were imprisoned, one of whom was unconscious. With a great, effort he managed to tear a portion of the obstruction away. “Help my aunt first. She is not hurt, but she has fainted.” The man gave a swift, approving look at the speaker, who was Jocelyn Ambrose, then he spoke curtly. 1 “Yes! That’s the thing to do”! With an effort he pulled the unconscious lady through the gap in the wreckage, and half dragged, half car-

ried her to a smashed window, an dropped her inlo the hands of his fo low-workers below. Then he rc turned.

“Quick,” he said to Jocelyn. “Then no time to lose. Give me your hand and climb out”!

“I can’t,” said the jrirl. “I can '» move. I have been trying. Some <v this woodwork is resting on my legs"! A quick expletive broke from him He looked hack at the flames, calculated that there was just time to <h) what was needed, and crawled through the gap afore-mentioned. Inside it was impossible for him to stand upright, but that helped rather than liinderc'l him. Crouching low, he put his shoul der under the partition, and then a-J dressed the girl. “When I tell you try to drag your legs free, pull them this way. Ar«you ready? Now”!

Holding his breath, he lifted hunched shoulders, and made as i to straighten himself. The strain wntremendous, and it seemed to him a if his back must break. But a glad I cry from the girl told him that she . was free, and very gently he let down the woodwork to its place again. “You are not hurt?” he asked ingly. “You can help yourself?” “Yes/* answered Jocelyn. “Then come along. . . . Stay '! he said, looking through the gap. “Throw that rug over your head! So!” He helped her toward the brok'-n window, wrapped the rug round her face as a great tongue of flame leaped toward them, then picking her up without ceremony, thrust her through and dropping out himself, ten seconds later fell to the ground in a dead fain*. Five days later. Jocelyn Ambrose was dining alone, in her aunt's house , at Lancaster Gate, when a young man in evening dress entered the room with a lack of ceremony that indicate*! he was no stranger. He was slim and I handsome, and the resemblance I tw’een him and the girl at the tabl« • was so striking that the most casual observer w*ould have concluded they were nearly related. As a matter of fact they were twins. (To be continued*.