ped the commercial traveler as he got his
wind.

"So it seems," said the curate. "Hold tight! She's rocking!"

The commercial traveler, who was mechanically groping under the seat for
his boots,--commercial travelers always remove their boots in
third-class railroad compartments when on night journeys,--followed the
curate's advice and braced himself with his feet against the opposite
seat for the coming _bouleversement_.

After the first shock the train had gathered way again--the light engine
into which it had charged had been thrown clear off the track--but only
for a moment. Suddenly the reeling engine of the express left the rails
and staggered drunkenly along the ballast. A moment later it turned
over, taking the guard's van and the first four coaches with it, and the
whole train came to a standstill.

It was a corridor train, and unfortunately for Gerald Gilmore and the
commercial traveler their coach fell over corridor side downward. There
was no door on the other side of the compartment--only three windows,
crossed by a stout brass bar. These windows had suddenly become
sky-lights.

They fought their way out at last. Once he got the window open, the
curate experienced little difficulty in getting through; but the
commercial traveler was corpulent and tenacious of his boots, which he
held persistently in one hand while Gerald tugged at the other. Still,
he was hauled up at last, and the two slid down the perpendicular roof
of the coach to the permanent way.

"That's done, anyway!" panted the drummer; and sitting down he began to
put on his boots.

"There's plenty more to do," said the curate grimly, pulling off his
coat. "The front of the train is on fire. Come!"

He turned and ran. Almost at his first step he cannoned into a heavy
body in rapid motion. It was Excalibur.

"That you, old friend?" observed the curate. "I was on my way to see
about you. Now that you are out, you may as well come and bear a hand."

The pair sprinted along the line toward the blazing coaches.

* * * * *

It was dawn--gray, weeping, and cheerless--on Tetley Moor. Another
engine had come up from behind to take what was left of the train back
to the Junction. Seven coaches, including the lordly sleeping saloon,
stood intact; four, with the engine and tender, lay where they had
fallen, a mass of charred wood and twisted metal.

A motor car belonging to a doctor stood in the roadway a hundred