“Nessie,” Joan cried.
And Nessie said hoarsely—
“Joan, mother doesn’t move.”
“I can’t either, can you?” Joan answered hurriedly. “I’m held down. There’s a weight on my dress, I think. If I could only get to father! He must be hurt, or he would come. Oh, I don’t know what to do! Nessie, are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so. But mother!” Nessie said.
“But father!” was the cry of Joan’s heart. She struggled to release herself, struggling in vain. Each effort brought a fresh flow of blood from the cut in her forehead, and Joan grew faint.
“I can touch mother, but she won’t answer or move,” Nessie said fearfully.
“Nessie, couldn’t you go to father?” asked Joan, in a voice which sounded to herself strange and far-away.
“I can’t. The sides of the carriage seem jammed in, so there’s no getting past you. If only this horrid white mist would clear! It must be from the engine, I suppose.” Nessie spoke in a tone of unwonted flurry and excitement, not surprising under the circumstances. “Some one ought to help us out. Why doesn’t any one come? I’ve tried to open the door, and I can’t.”
“Father must be hurt, or he would speak,” moaned the other. “Nessie, call for help—call loudly. They don’t know we are here, perhaps.”