But the man was panic-stricken. Where he was, he could probably feel the trembling of the rails under his feet as the giant locomotive came down the track beyond the headland.
'Dahler!' I shouted. This way!'
But he was frenziedly tearing at the wall of snow as though he would burrow through it. Every now and then, where he had made it crumble a bit, he tried to climb with his skis.
'Dahler!' I yelled.
He looked up.
I waved to him. This way, for God's sake. Get under the shed here.'
He seemed to take it in at last, for he straightened up. The engine hooted again. The sound of the siren was very clear now. It was hooting for the entrance to the snowshed on the other side of the headland. Dahler half turned and looked at the black, gaping hole of the snowshed. Then he started to ski towards us. But his skis caught in the sleepers and he fell. Take your skis off and run for it,' I shouted.
He bent down and worked like a mad man at his ski bindings.
Jill pulled at my arm. She was pointing to where George Farnell stood poised high up on the slope of the headland. He was watching the track below, his body bent forward as though about to start the run for a ski jump. 'What's he going to do?' Jill whispered.
'I don't know,' I said.