Then suddenly the shout was raised that men were approaching on snow-shoes, drawing sledges behind them. Half the passengers turned out to meet them, and the conductor was left alone at the end of the car with Bertha and the poor old man, who was plainly so very ill.
“Can you stay with him, miss, while I go to see if a doctor can be got here somehow? or shall I call one of those ladies yonder?” asked the man.
Bertha looked across at the group of women cowering round the stove. Most of them had small children with them. The exceptions were a fat old lady with a peevish voice, who seemed to have a great difficulty in moving about; two girls of about her own age who were travelling with their father; and a young woman with a pleasant, sensible face, but a bandaged arm, which showed her plainly unfit for anything beyond taking care of herself.
“I will do my best for him,” she said quietly. “But come back as soon as you can, for he seems very ill.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid by the looks of him that he is going to be worse before the night is out,” said the conductor, as he hurried away.
He was back inside of ten minutes with the cheering news that the snow-ploughs were within six miles, and that they hoped to get the line clear by midnight.
“So we may hope to draw into the depot at Three Crowns by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at the latest,” he said.
“And shall we have to manage until then without help?” asked Bertha, in dismay.
“I am afraid so, miss, but we can clear them all out of this car and make the poor old fellow a little more comfortable,” replied the conductor.
“Is anything wrong? Can I help?” asked the girl with the bandaged arm, coming up to Bertha.