Number eight roared up the line, rocking over the faulty rivetting like a ship on a wave. Her ill-assorted parts groaned and rattled as if they would fly apart. Loch, peering through the glass, saw nothing but the reeling glimmer of steel running liquidly towards him, heard nothing but a boy’s voice crying, “Loch, where are you, Loch? Loch, I want you . . . .” But Hatch had time to hear many things, for he knew and revered Number eight.
“ ’Ard on the old lady, this is,” he said to himself, brushing the sweat out of his eyes.
A squall drove down, blinding the glass, and sending a surf of mud into the cab. It ended in a roll of thunder like the roll of a war-drum, and lightning that splashed on the rails like a thrown egg. It showed the forest and the sky, violet-white picked out in jet. Then the darkness shut down again, so swiftly that Hatch winced as he had not from the lash. But Loch’s steady hand did not move on the throttle.
“ ’Ard on the old lady,” muttered Hatch again, mournfully. “I knew this was a bad bit o’ track, but she’s runnin’ as if her wheels was square.”
The rain ended, the thunder rolled into the distance. But still, at regular intervals, the world was dipped and drenched in the unbearable brilliance of the lightning. Hatch began nervously to time the flashes. He saw a vivid vision of little buildings, the iron roofs blazing like silver, streaming past, and of the black silhouettes of the men on the platform. He saw the dripping leaves flashing back the electricity like looking-glass. He saw a sinuous shadow that shrank and fled by the left driving wheel. “ ‘Passengers,’ ” he said, “ ‘is forbidden to cross the line except by the over’ead bridge,’ but this ain’t the London-and-South-Western, thank Gord.” He took a glance at the gauge, and stoked, stoked, stoked. His mouth was so tightly screwed into the form of whistling, it seemed unlikely ever to come unscrewed. It was quite stiff when he ventured to address Loch’s immovable back.
“Lions is out,” roared Hatch. “Or something.”
Loch caught the words and nodded over his shoulder. The grade was mounting, and number eight rattled and rocked worse than ever. They were both powdered white to the hair with woodash. Loch’s face looked gray in the lightning flash, his every nerve and sinew strained to snapping point, as he strove to fire the clamouring iron beneath him with the hurry of his own soul.
The wheels sang, monotonously, “I want you, Loch, I want you, Loch.” “I’m coming, Jimsy,” he answered. “I’m coming, Jimsy, as fast as I can.” And he did not know that he spoke aloud. The fever ran over him in waves, and at the crest of every wave was a picture,—a picture of Jimsy deserted and stricken with illness; a picture of Jimsy sitting cowed over the telegraph instrument, speared through the heart, as he had once seen a man sit; a picture of Jimsy injured, of Jimsy possibly poisoned, of Jimsy most impossibly drowned. He shut his eyes an instant, groaning; “I’m coming, Jimsy, I’m coming . . . .” And on the words came the crash.
It was a crash too great for the senses, a crash that struck at life itself, maiming and bruising it. Loch plunged downwards into rushing darkness, full of burning steel, steam, woodcoals, and flashes of fire and lightning. He seemed to have suddenly grown into something very small and light, which floated in the reeling dark for a long, long time. Then something sprang out of the dark and hit him. The last thing he saw was a blaze of white light and a tuft of grass, very clear and distinct, with a huge silver moth clinging in the heart of it.
He came to himself, in darkness, but it was a darkness blessedly cool and wet. Someone was kneeling over him, striking matches, and presently he saw that it was Hatch. The match-light flared pink for an instant, and showed the ex-convict’s face, black and grimy, save for two little white patches under the eyes, which were glaring at Loch, indignantly.