The Iron Horse

by R. M. Ballantyne

Mr Sharp observed the consulting party, and sauntered idly towards them, but they were about as sharp as himself, in practice if not in name. The lisps and drawls returned as if by magic, and the turf became the subject of interest about which they were consulting.

Just then a shriek was heard to issue from a female throat, and a stout elderly woman was observed in the act of dashing wildly across the line in the midst of moving engines, trucks and vans. Even in these unwonted circumstances no one who knew her could have mistaken Mrs Durby’s ponderous person for a moment. She had come upon the station at the wrong side, and, in defiance of all printed regulations to the contrary—none of which she could read, being short-sighted—she had made a bold venture to gain her desired position by the most direct route. This involved crossing a part of the line where there were several sidings and branch lines, on which a good deal of pushing of trucks and carriages to and fro—that is “shunting”—was going on.

Like a reckless warrior, who by a bold and sudden push sometimes gains single-handed the centre of an enemy’s position before he is discovered and assailed on every side, straight forward Mrs Durby ran into the very midst of a brisk traffic, before any one discovered her. Suddenly a passenger-train came up with the usual caution in such circumstances, nevertheless at a smart rattling pace, for “usual caution” does not take into account or provide for the apparition of stout elderly females on the line. The driver of the passenger engine saw her, shut off steam, shouted, applied the brakes and whistled furiously.

We have already hinted that the weather was not fine. Mrs Durby’s umbrella being up, hid the approaching train. As for screaming steam-whistles, the worthy woman had come to regard intermittent whistling as a normal condition of railways, which, like the crying of cross babies, meant little or nothing, and had only to be endured. She paid no attention to the alarm. In despair the driver reversed his engine; fire flew from the wheels, and the engine was brought to a stand, but not until the buffers were within three feet of the nurse’s shoulder. At that moment she became aware of her danger, uttered a shriek, as we have said, that would have done credit to the whistle of a small engine, and, bending her head with her umbrella before her, rushed frantically away on another line of rails. She did not observe, poor soul, that a goods train was coming straight down that line towards her,—partly because her mental vision was turned in terror to the rear, and partly because the umbrella obscured all in advance. In vain the driver of the goods engine repeated the warnings and actions of the passenger engine. His had more speed on and was heavier; besides, Mrs Durby charged it at the rate of full five miles an hour, with the umbrella steadily in front, and a brown paper parcel swinging wildly on her arm, as if her sole desire on earth was to meet that goods engine in single combat and beat out its brains at the first blow. Certain it is that Mrs Durby’s career would have been cut short then and there, if tall Joe Turner, the guard, had not been standing at the tail of his own train and observed her danger. In the twinkling of an eye he dropped his slow dignified air, leaped like a panther in front of the goods engine, caught Mrs Durby with both hands—any how—and hurled her and himself off the line,—not a moment too soon, for the buffer of the engine touched his shoulder as they fell together to the ground.

A lusty cheer was given by those on the platform who witnessed this bold rescue, and more than one sympathetic hand grasped the massive fist of Joe Turner as he assisted Mrs Durby to a carriage.

“Why,” exclaimed Will Garvie, hurrying forward at that moment, “it’s Mrs Durby, the woman we promised to take care of! You’ll look after her, Joe?”

“All right,” said the guard, as Will hurried back to his engine; “this way, ma’am. Got your ticket?”

“N–no!” gasped the poor nurse, leaning heavily on her protector’s arm.

“Here, Dick,” cried Joe, hailing a porter, “run to the booking-office and get her a ticket for London, first-class; she’s got a bad shake, poor thing. No doubt the company will stand the difference; if not, we’ll make it up amongst us.”

Hereupon a benevolent old gentleman drew out his purse, and insisted on paying the whole of the fare himself, a point which no one seemed inclined to dispute, and Mrs Durby was carefully placed by Joe in a carriage by herself.