“You don’t think the brakes have gone wrong, Arthur?”
Helen’s voice was low. Her anxiety had leaped to something like panic.
The man shook his head, but without conviction. He knew well enough the quality of the rolling stock on the Sisselu Northern.
“If they have——”
He gestured hopelessly.
“And we can’t get back there to Ivan and Luana.”
“No, dear. We can’t do anything. Oh! Here’s Jim,” Steele cried in a tone of relief, as the waiter reëntered the car. “Maybe——”
In those brief moments the speed of the rocking train had become terrific, and the trainman staggered down the car with the greatest difficulty. The uneven track, combined with inadequate springing, set the wheels jumping perilously.
The man was grinning as he came. But, to the missionary, his grin was unreal, and wholly extravagant. His raucous voice made itself heard above the deafening clatter of the train as he replied to an urgent inquiry from one of the commercial men.
“No,” he shouted. “Guess ther’ ain’t nothin’ amiss. They’re lettin’ her rip some. Makin’ up time. We’re late,” he warned, as though it were something unusual. “You see, this gradient’s dead straight till you get to the bottom. There ain’t no chances. Jest kep your seats, folks. They’ll brake her at the right moment. Ther’ ain’t no worry.”