The rails were high, but men getting on others’ backs began to climb across. Then somebody reopened the gate and a fresh guard tried to hold the gap. Kit liked the fellows’ pluck, but he thought them foolish. Anyhow, they were not going to stop him. Alison must get her train.
Clutching the bag, he steered her into the press. He stumbled against luggage the emigrants dropped and doubted if Alison kept her feet, but she stuck to him and they got nearer the gate. In front he saw heaving shoulders and bent backs. The men’s arms were jambed; it was like a Rugby scrimmage. Women screamed, and one, jerking up her hand, struck Kit’s face. He did not know if he jostled her, but in the turmoil he must go where the others went. People strained and gasped and fought. Jambed tight, they pushed for the barrier; and then the thick rails crashed.
The crowd spilled out across the platform as a flood leaps a broken dam, and Kit, plunging forward, had room to choose his line. The emigrants meant to get on board as soon as possible and they swarmed about the cars nearest the broken rails. Kit saw a better plan.
“Come on!” he shouted, and started for the front of the long train.
After a minute or two he stopped at a second-class car. Behind him others ran along the line and he pushed Alison up the steps. A colored porter came from the vestibule.
“Have you got a sleeper berth?” Kit asked.
“The conductor’ll fix you all right,” said the porter. “Where’s your grip?”
Kit gave him the bag, and when the fellow went off turned and looked about. The group he had remarked steered for the vestibule.
“We mustn’t block the steps, and you ought to get your place,” he said.
Alison on the top step hesitated, and then put her hand on his shoulder.