“Oh, sir,” sobbed Mrs Durby, glancing with horror at the dishevelled and blood-stained prisoners, “I always thought railways was bad things, but I never, no I never, imagined they was as bad as this.”
“But, my good woman,” said Edwin, unable to restrain a smile, “railways are not all, nor always, as bad as this. We very seldom hear of such a villainous deed as has been attempted to-day; thanks to the energy and efficiency of their police establishments.”
“Quite true, Gurward, quite true,” said Captain Lee, glancing sternly at the prisoners, and stanching a cut in his forehead with a handkerchief as he spoke; “our police arrangements are improving daily, as scoundrels shall find to their cost.”
Jenkins and Smith did not raise their eyes, and Thomson continued to frown steadily out at the window without moving a muscle.
“I’m sure I don’t know nothink about your p’lice, an’ what’s more, I don’t care,” said Mrs Durby; “all that I know is that railways is dreadful things, and if I was the Queen, which I’m not, I’d have ’em all put down by Acts of Parlingment, so I would. But never, never, never,—as long as I’m able to manidge my own—ah!”
Mrs Durby terminated here with one of her own appalling shrieks, for it was at this precise moment that John Marrot happened, as already described, to have occasion to knock a cart and horse to atoms. The shock, as we have said, was very slight, nevertheless it was sufficient to overturn the poor nurse’s nervous system, which had already been wrought up to a high pitch of tension.
“That’s somethin’ gone, sir,” said Sam, touching his cap to Captain Lee.
“What is it, Edwin?” inquired the captain as the youth let down the window and looked out.
“I can see nothing,” said Edwin, “except that the guard and fireman are both looking back as if they wanted to see something on the line. We are beginning to slow, however, being not far from the station now.”
About a mile and three-quarters from the station, in the suburbs of London, where the tickets were to be collected, John Marrot stopped the pulse of his iron horse, for so terrific was his speed that he was able to run the greater part of that distance by means of the momentum already acquired. By degrees the mighty engine began to “slow.” Trees and houses instead of rushing madly past began to run hastily by, and then to glide behind at a rate that was more in keeping with the dignity of their nature. From sixty miles an hour the train passed by a rapid transition to ordinary express speed, then to ordinary speed, then to twenty miles an hour. Then Thomson felt that his opportunity had come. He suddenly wrenched his wrists from their fastening, leaped head foremost out of the window, fell on the embankment in a heap, and rolled to the bottom, where he lay extended on his back as if dead.