Dorothy's Tour

Mr. Ludlow, although he did not like to see the girl so overcome with nervousness, was decidedly happy that she should turn to him, and hoped perhaps that the storm would last forever, if he could continue to hold Ruth to him.

This awful clap was followed by another flash of lightning which lit up the car brighter than daylight. Mrs. Calvert, who was facing the window, looked out and gasped, “Oh, why don’t they stop the train?”

Then they all heard a mighty splash and the train gave a terrible lurch and threw those standing over on the floor and those sitting had a hard time to keep their places.

All the lights immediately went out and Alfy shouted, “We are struck!”

Some of the party shrieked and one or two fainted dead away. None could see the others in the terrible, black darkness in which they were enveloped.

At last, after a prolonged silence that seemed ages, Mrs. Calvert said. “Is any one hurt?”

Everyone began to collect their scattered thoughts by this time, and Mr. Ludlow had managed to rise from his fallen position and get Ruth up and into a seat. He grouped about in the pitch blackness into which they had been plunged and finally found his chair. He deftly managed to retain Ruth’s hand in his, in order to reassure her.

The answer Mrs. Calvert received in general was that everyone was safe and physically unharmed and mentally as near right as could be expected.

Mrs. Calvert then asked, “Did anyone see out of the window when the flash of lightning lit up this car?” And when she had received answer that no one had, she continued: “I happened to be sitting facing the window and when the flash came I saw out very plainly.”

“What did you see?” questioned Mr. Ludlow, in a firm voice.

“The river,” responded Mrs. Calvert. “The river was up to the tracks.”

The fact was suggestive of further danger, and then Dorothy questioned, “What was the crash? And why did the train lurch so? And why are all the lights out?”

“Maybe,” suggested Alfy, “maybe we were struck with lightning. Do you think so, Aunt Betty?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I can’t understand where the train hands can be. They should be here to tell us what has happened.”

“Do you suppose we have struck another train?” questioned Dorothy.

“Oh,” groaned Ruth. “I wish we could have some lights. It’s so dark I am afraid something will happen, and maybe some one will be killed.”

“Hush, child,” remarked Mr. Ludlow. “Just be thankful things are no worse than they are, that we are all safe alive and none of us are hurt.”

Ruth subsided to silence and sobbed beneath her breath. Just then, George, the old negro porter, broke in on the excited party and endeavored to tell what was the matter.

“Lord o’ Mercy, massa!” he exclaimed. “De train am wrecked. The ingin and one ob de baggage cars did fall off these track, plump, splash, right in de water.”

“That’s what the crash and splash and jerk was that we felt. The water was so high that it probably came up on the tracks here, and the engine and baggage car jumped the weakened trestle into the water. I wonder how it was it didn’t pull the rest of the train into the water also,” said Mr. Ludlow.

Just then the conductor and a brakeman passing from the next car through their own explained what had occurred to Mr. Ludlow and the other interested listeners.

First lighting the gas lamps to dispel the semi-darkness, the conductor said, “Sir, you see the lightning struck the train right between the first passenger car and the baggage, severing the connection, and leaving the engine and baggage car free to go ahead. They did, and running a little farther ahead it jumped the track, but no one was hurt. The shock somehow set the brakes, and brought the remaining cars to a stop. It’s lucky we held to the tracks, sir, it is indeed.”

“Did anyone in the passenger cars get hurt?” questioned Mr. Ludlow.

“No, sir, only a few fainted,” answered the conductor.

“What are we going to do now? We have no power to go ahead, and we can’t even go back. We can’t move. Are we to stay right where we are, conductor?”

“For a time, we must,” was the answer.

“When is another train due here?” questioned Mrs. Calvert.

“A train is due to come through this way in an hour and a half, madam,” said the conductor. “But that will not help us any to go ahead. We have sent word back and may expect help from the nearest station. Some arrangement can likely be made to switch us off on a branch road, and by a circuitous route we can get back again to our line.”

“And how about our concert to-night?”

“If help is promptly sent we may get you there on time.”

“We were due at five o’clock,” said Mr. Ludlow.

“We can’t promise you anything definite now,” said the conductor, as he went about his duties.

“All we can do is to just sit still and hope for aid, and that it will come in time,” said Mrs. Calvert.

“I’m afraid that’s all, except to be thankful that we were not killed,” suggested Mr. Ludlow.

The exact idea of their position was finally grasped by all, and everyone breathed a little prayer for having been saved so miraculously. They all quieted down and prepared to sit there and wait, and hope for the arrival of a train bringing aid. An hour and a half, so they had been told, and that hour and a half seemed the longest hour and a half that most of them had ever experienced.

Finally they heard a shout from one of the brakemen, a glad shout, a joyous sign, they thought, and then the conductor came through and announced, “Sir, a small repair train has just come up to us. They sent it out very promptly, as they thought that we might be in even more serious need than we are.”

“Can it take us back, then?” asked Mr. Ludlow, and the rest of the company sighed in relief, because they now knew that they were safe and would eventually be pulled out of their present position.

“It can take back two cars, sir,” answered the conductor, “and would you object, sir, if I put some other passengers in here with you?”

“Not at all,” answered Mr. Ludlow. “Bring in as many as you wish. We will be only too glad to have them.”

The conductor departed, returning in a little time, accompanied by about a dozen women and half as many small children, saying, “I brought the women and young ones, as I thought that they would be more comfortable in here.”

Dorothy and Ruth, alert and interested, forgot their own discomfort in rendering aid to others, anxious and in distress.

“They have connected the little repair train engine to the two cars,” the conductor announced, “and we will be off in a short time now. We are going back up the road a little way and branch off, and so recover the main line. We think we will get you to your destination in time for your concert.”

This was done, but with little time to spare, and if all the artists were not quite up to their usual standard of excellence that night, the experience of the afternoon was quite sufficient excuse.

The remainder of the trip to St. Louis was without event of note. The accident on the train was not without its advantages in the way of publicity, and their concerts drew large audiences. In St. Louis two concerts were given, both being very successful.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CONCLUSION

In the sequence of events the tour came to an end. A twenty-weeks’ season had been successfully carried through. There had been, of course, hampering and untoward conditions to surmount. An occasional discordant note was struck. Mr. Carleton, who acted as accompanist when no orchestra was employed, turned out to be rather an arbitrary individual, and had caused Ruth, particularly, many a heart-ache. Dorothy, with her winning responsiveness to an artistic temperament, felt that she had less cause to complain.

Her affair with Jim had not of late been plain sailing. She had not written to him very often or a bit regularly, and he had entered a rather arbitrary protest, so she thought, and one letter at least, that she had addressed to him had gone astray. Then Jim reached the conclusion that his letters were not appreciated, and that absence had caused an estrangement. He nursed his resentment into a cauldron of bitterness, and with the perverseness of lovers built mountains of molehills. Not but that such ephemeral erections may, and oftimes do, cast a shadow that will blot out true regard.

Without a tried and certain knowledge of her heart as concerned Jim, Dorothy had found the ever gentlemanly attentions of Mr. Dauntrey very agreeable. Ruth, on such occasions, was inclined to resentful looks and acts, of which, however, Dorothy was sublimely ignorant.

One day, journeying from Sacramento to San Francisco, it had been observed that Mr. Dauntrey and Alfy were in close consultation, an unusual event for those two to find a subject of mutual interest. Later, in a spirit of fun, Dorothy chided her companion.