and trying to look out. Gerald Fentolin slept fitfully.

"Have you any idea where we are?" Mr. Dunster asked once.

The boy cautiously let down the window a little way. With the noise
of the storm came another sound, to which he listened for a moment
with puzzled face: a dull, rumbling sound like the falling of water.
He closed the window, breathless.

"I don't think we are far from Norwich. We passed Forncett, anyhow,
some time ago."

"Still raining?"

"In torrents! I can't see a yard ahead of me. I bet we get some
floods after this. I expect they are out now, if one could only see."

They crept on. Suddenly, above the storm, they heard what sounded
at first like the booming of a gun, and then a shrill whistle from
some distance ahead. They felt the jerk as their brakes were hastily
applied, the swaying of the little train, and then the crunching of
earth beneath them, the roar of escaping steam as their engine
ploughed its way on into the road bed.

"Off the rails!" the boy cried, springing to his feet. "Hold on
tightly, sir. I'd keep away from the window."

The carriage swayed and rocked. Suddenly a telegraph post seemed
to come crashing through the window and the polished mahogany panels.
The young man escaped it by leaping to one side. It caught Mr.