"We shall catch the boat all right if it runs, sir," the man assured
him. "The mail is only a mile or two ahead of us; that's one reason
why we have to go so slowly. Then the water is right over the line
where we are now, and we can't get any news at all from the other
side of Ipswich. If it goes on like this, some of the bridges will
be down; that's what I'm afraid of."

Mr. Dunster frowned. For the first time he showed some signs of
uneasiness.

"Perhaps," he muttered, half to himself, "a motor-car would have been
better."

"Not on your life," his young companion intervened. "All the roads
to the coast here cross no end of small bridges--much weaker
affairs than the railway bridges. I bet there are some of those
down already. Besides, you wouldn't be able to see where you were
going, on a night like this."

"There appears to be a chance," Mr. Dunster remarked drily, "that
you will have to scratch for your competition to-morrow."

"Also," the young man observed, "that you will have taken this
special train for nothing. I can't fancy the Harwich boat going
out a night like this."

Mr. Dunster relapsed into stony but anxious silence. The train
continued its erratic progress, sometimes stopping altogether for
a time, with whistle blowing repeatedly; sometimes creeping along
the metals as though feeling its way to safety. At last, after a