officials; and they agreed that snow was about to come.
And it came, rapidly, plenteously. The train had not
been more than an hour on its journey when the cotton-
wool clouds commenced to
dissolve in a blinding downpour
of snowflakes. The forest trees on either side of the
line were
speedily coated with a heavy white
mantle, the
telegraph wires became thick glistening ropes, the line
itself was buried more and more completely under a
carpeting of snow, through which the not very powerful
engine ploughed its way with increasing difficulty. The
Vienna-Fiume line is scarcely the best equipped of the
Austrian State railways, and Abbleway began to have
serious fears for a
breakdown. The train had slowed down
to a
painful and
precarious crawl and
presently came to a
halt at a spot where the drifting snow had accumulated in
a
formidablebarrier. The engine made a special effort
and broke through the
obstruction, but in the course of
another twenty minutes it was again held up. The process
of breaking through was renewed, and the train doggedly
resumed its way, encountering and surmounting fresh
hindrances at
frequent intervals. After a standstill of
unusually long
duration in a particularly deep drift the
compartment in which Abbleway was sitting gave a huge
jerk and a lurch, and then seemed to remain stationary;
it
undoubtedly was not moving, and yet he could hear the
puffing of the engine and the slow rumbling and jolting
of wheels. The puffing and rumbling grew fainter, as
though it were dying away through the
agency of
intervening distance. Abbleway suddenly gave vent to an
exclamation of scandalised alarm, opened the window, and
peered out into the
snowstorm. The flakes perched on his
eyelashes and blurred his
vision, but he saw enough to
help him to realise what had happened. The engine had
made a
mightyplunge through the drift and had gone
merrily forward, lightened of the load of its rear
carriage, whose coupling had snapped under the strain.
Abbleway was alone, or almost alone, with a derelict
railway
waggon, in the heart of some Styrian or Croatian
forest. In the third-class
compartment next to his own
he remembered to have seen a
peasant woman, who had
entered the train at a small
wayside station. "With the
exception of that woman," he exclaimed dramatically to
himself, "the nearest living beings are probably a pack
of wolves."
Before making his way to the third-class
compartmentto
acquaint his fellow-traveller with the
extent of the
disaster Abbleway
hurriedly pondered the question of the
woman's
nationality. He had acquired a smattering of
Slavonic tongues during his
residence in Vienna, and felt
competent to
grapple with several
racial possibilities.
"If she is Croat or Serb or Bosniak I shall be able
to make her understand," he promised himself. "If she is
Magyar, heaven help me! We shall have to converse
entirely by signs."
He entered the
carriage and made his momentous
announcement in the best approach to Croat speech that he
could achieve.
"The train has broken away and left us!"
The woman shook her head with a
movement that might
be intended to
conveyresignation to the will of heaven,
but probably meant noncomprehension. Abbleway repeated
his information with variations of Slavonic tongues and
generous displays of pantomime.
"Ah," said the woman at last in German
dialect, "the
train has gone? We are left. Ah, so."
She seemed about as much interested as though
Abbleway had told her the result of the municipal
elections in Amsterdam.
"They will find out at some station, and when the
line is clear of snow they will send an engine. It
happens that way sometimes."