Not a person
was to be seen, as Harold scrambled and slid down the descent and
lighted on the top of one of the carriages; for, as it proved, the
engineer, stoker, and two or three passengers had left the train an
hour before, and were struggling along the line to the nearest
station. Harold got down on the farther side, which was free of
snow, and looked into all the carriages. No one was there, till, in
a first-class one, he beheld an old gentleman, well wrapped up
indeed, but numb, stiff, and dazed with the sleep out of which he was
roused.
"Tickets, eh?" he said, and he dreamily held one out to Harold and
tried to get up, but he stumbled, and hardly seemed to understand
when Harold told him it was not the station, but that they had run
into the snowdrift; he only muttered something about being met,
staggered forward, and fell into Harold's arms. There was a
carriage-bag on the seat, but Harold looked in vain there for a
flask. The poor old man was hardly sensible. Ours was the nearest
house, and Harold saw that the only chance for the poor old
gentleman's life was to carry him home at once. Even for him it was
no small effort, for his burthen was a sturdy man with the solidity
of years, and nearly helpless, save that the warmth of Harold's body
did give him just life and instinct to hold on, and let himself be
bound to him with the long plaid so as least to impede his movements;
but only one possessed of Harold's almost giant strength could have
thus clambered the cutting at the nearest point to Arghouse and
plodded through the snow.
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