The ride to Tagenrock on the Sea of Azov through the gathering night was quickly made, and from there our road turned west and inward. Mr. Medhurst told me fascinating tales of ancient Greek towns along the way, towns lost to the world centuries ago. The mounds of crumbled dwellings, storm-swept through long years, are almost wholly screened by the soil and turf that sea-winds have blown over them, but the story of their forgotten glory will be disclosed when science or commerce toss aside the accumulations of the centuries revealing the buried temples, the homes of the traders, the relics of a dead civilization.
In a drenching rain-storm we transferred to the private train that was to convey us to Yusofka. It wasn’t much of a train—a small freight engine, and a box-car—but it answered the purpose. We rattled noisily through the black, tempestuous night toward the flaring furnaces of Yusofka which we could plainly see ahead. Suddenly there was a tremendous shriek from the engine, the brakes shut down and the train brought to such a rough standstill that both Medhurst and I fell over. The grimy head of the engineer poked through the door and in a terrified voice the man cried:
“Oh, barin, barin [master, master], what’s to be done? Another train is coming this way on our track!”
There was no doubt in my mind what was to be done. In the phrase of the sea I would order “full speed astern.”
Not so Medhurst.
With the nonchalance of an Englishman in full command of himself and the situation Medhurst replied:
“Go back to your engine. Open your whistle, ring your bell—if you have one—drive ahead at top speed, make enough noise to warn every train on the track; if they don’t hear—run through them!”
I trembled at these words. But Medhurst knew the men he was dealing with. The other train pulled up and backed away the instant our whistle began to toot, and we rolled into Yusofka station in safety.
Mr. Hughes had sent a carriage for us, a great open barouche drawn by a pair of magnificent black Orloff horses that traveled over the ground much faster than the local trains.
The Hughes’ house is like a delightful English country home, built for comfort, with ample room for guests, and a large stable across the court.