A lusty cheer was given by those on the platform who witnessed this bold rescue, and more than one sympathetic hand grasped the massive fist of Joe Turner as he assisted Mrs Durby to a carriage.
“Why,” exclaimed Will Garvie, hurrying forward at that moment, “it’s Mrs Durby, the woman we promised to take care of! You’ll look after her, Joe?”
“All right,” said the guard, as Will hurried back to his engine; “this way, ma’am. Got your ticket?”
“N–no!” gasped the poor nurse, leaning heavily on her protector’s arm.
“Here, Dick,” cried Joe, hailing a porter, “run to the booking-office and get her a ticket for London, first-class; she’s got a bad shake, poor thing. No doubt the company will stand the difference; if not, we’ll make it up amongst us.”
Hereupon a benevolent old gentleman drew out his purse, and insisted on paying the whole of the fare himself, a point which no one seemed inclined to dispute, and Mrs Durby was carefully placed by Joe in a carriage by herself.
There were two gentlemen—also known to the reader—who arrived just in time to witness this incident: the one was Captain Lee, the other Edwin Gurwood. They both carried bags and rugs, and were evidently going by that train. The captain, who happened to have a bad cold at the time, was muffled up to the eyes in a white worsted comforter, and had a fur travelling-cap pulled well down on his forehead, so that little of him, save the point of his nose, was visible.
The moment that the two fops caught sight of Captain Lee, they whispered to Thomson—
“That’s our man.”
“Sure?” demanded Thomson.
“Quite,” replied Smith. “That’s about the size and make of the man as described to me. Of course they could not tell what sort of travelling gear he would appear in, but there’s no mistaking the bag—old, stout leather, with flat handle-strap.”
“All right,” said Thomson; “but who’s the young fellow with him?”
“Don’t know,” replied Smith; “yet I think I’ve seen his face before. Stay, Jenkins, wasn’t he in the accident at Langrye station?”
“Perhaps he was; but it’s of no consequence to us.”
“It will be of consequence to us if he goes with the old gentleman,” retorted Smith, “for he’s a stout fellow, and wouldn’t be easy to manage.”
“I’ll manage him, no fear,” said Thomson, looking at the unconscious Edwin with a dark sinister smile.
“What if they get into a carriage that’s already nearly full?” suggested the dubious Smith.
“They won’t do that,” replied Jenkins with a laugh. “It seems to be against the laws of human nature to do that. As long as there are empty carriages in a train, so long will men and women pass every carriage that has a soul in it, until they find an empty one for themselves. We have nothing to do but follow them, and, when they have pitched on a carriage, get in after them, and fill it up, so we shall have it all to ourselves.”
“Come along, then; it’s time to stop talking and to act,” said Thomson, testily, as he moved towards the carriages.
That even the wisest of men (in his own conceit) may make mistakes now and then is a fact which was beautifully illustrated on this occasion. We may here let the reader into the secret of Jenkins, Smith, and Thomson. They were men who lived by their wits. They had ascertained that a partner of a certain house that dealt in jewellery meant to return to London by that particular train, with a quantity of valuables that were worth running some risk for. On the journey there was one stoppage quite close to London. The run immediately before that was a clear one of seventy-five miles without a halt, at full express speed, which would afford them ample opportunity for their purpose, while the slowing of the train on approaching the stopping place would give them opportunity and time to leap out and make off with their booty. They had been told that their intended victim was a stout resolute man, but that would avail nothing against numbers.
Having obtained all requisite information they had proceeded thus far with their villainous design, apparently with success. But at this point a hitch occurred, though they knew it not. They had not taken sufficiently into account the fact that black leather bags may be both stout and peculiar, and in some degree similar without being identical. Hence Smith and Jenkins in their self-confidence had settled, as we have seen, that Captain Lee was “their man,” whereas their man was comfortably seated in another carriage, and by his side the coveted bag, which was similar in some points to that of the captain, but different in size and in several small details.
Following the wrong scent, therefore, with wonted pertinacity, the three men sauntered behind Captain Lee and Edwin, who, true to the “laws” with which Jenkins had credited human nature, passed one carriage after another until they found an empty one.
“Here is one, Gurwood,” said the captain.
He was about to step into it, when he observed Mrs Durby sitting in the next compartment.
“Hallo! nurse,” he exclaimed, getting in and sitting down opposite to her; “why, surely it wasn’t you, was it, that had such a narrow escape?”
“Indeed it was, Capting Lee,” replied Mrs Durby in a half whimper, for albeit a woman of strong character, she was not proof against such rough treatment as she had experienced that day.
“Not hurt, I trust?” asked the Captain sympathetically.
“Oh dear no, sir; only shook a bit.”
“Are you alone?” asked Edwin, seating himself beside his friend.
“Yes, sir; but la, sir, I don’t think nothink of travellin’ alone. I’m used to it, sir.”
As she said this the guard’s voice was heard desiring passengers to take their seats, and the three men, who had grouped themselves close round the door, thus diverging one or two passengers into the next compartment, entered, and sat down.
At the same moment Mr Sharp’s earnest countenance appeared at the window. He made a few remarks to Captain Lee and Edwin Gurwood, and took occasion to regard the three adventurers with much attention. They evidently understood him, for they received his glances with bland smiles.
It was quite touching to note Mr Sharp’s anxiety to lay hold of these men. He chanced to know nothing about them, save in connexion with the Langrye accident, but his long experience in business had given him a delicate power of perception in judging of character, which was not often at fault. He, as it were, smelt the presence of fair game, although he could not manage to lay immediate hold of it, just as that celebrated giant did, who, once upon a time, went about his castle giving utterance to well-known words—
“Fee, fo, fa, fum, I smell the smell of an Englishman.”
“Joe,” he whispered, as the guard came up to lock the door, “just keep an eye on these three fellows, will you? I’d lay my life on it that they’re up to mischief to-day.”
Joe looked knowing, and nodded.
“Show your tickets, please,” he said, touching his cap to his director and Edwin.
The tickets were produced—all right. Mrs Durby, in getting out hers, although, of course, having got it for her, Joe did not require to see it, dropped her precious brown paper parcel. Picking it up again hastily she pressed it to her bosom with such evident anxiety, that men much less sharp-witted than our trio, would have been led to suspect that it contained something valuable. But they aimed at higher booty just then, and apparently did not notice the incident.
A rapid banging of doors had now set in—a sure precursor of the starting whistle. Before it was quite completed, the inevitable late passenger appeared in the distance. This time it was a lady, middle-aged and stout, and short of wind, but with an iron will, as was clearly evinced by the energy with which she raced along the platform, carrying a large bundle of shawls in one arm, and a travelling-bag in the other, which she waved continuously as she shouted, “Stop! stop! stop the trai–i–i–in! I’m coming!”
The guard, with the whistle already half-way to his lips, paused and glanced at his watch. There was a fraction of a moment left. He stepped to a carriage and threw open a door.
“Make haste, ma’am; make haste, please,” was said in urgent, though respectful tones.
The late passenger plunged in—she might, as far as appearances went, be said to have taken a header into the carriage—and the door was shut.
The guard’s whistle sounded. The engine-driver’s whistle gave prompt reply, and next instant the train moved. No one could conceive of such a thing as a train starting when John Marrot drove!
As the carriages glided by, Mr Sharp cast a passing glance on the late passenger. He observed that her bundle of shawls moved of its own accord, and, for one whole minute after the train had left, he stood motionless, meditating on that curious phenomenon. He had often heard of table-turning, but never until now had he seen inanimate matter move of its own accord. Can we feel surprised that he was both astonished and perplexed? Proceeding to the booking-office he held a brief conversation with the clerks there; then he sauntered into the telegraph-office and delivered a message, after which he left the station with a quiet smile on his sedate countenance.
Chapter Fourteen.
Which is too Full of Varied Matter to be Briefly Described
Meanwhile let us fly through space with greater than railway speed and overtake the “Flying Dutchman.”
It has got up full speed by this time. About one mile a minute—sixty miles an hour! Sometimes it goes a little faster, sometimes a little slower, according to the nature of the ground; for a railway is by no means a level-way, the ascents and descents being occasionally very steep. Those who travel in the carriages form but a faint conception of the pace. To realise it to the full you must stand on the engine with John Marrot and Will Garvie. Houses, fields, trees, cattle, human beings, go by in wild confusion—they appear only to vanish. Wind is not felt in the carriages. On the Lightning you are in a gale. It reminds one of a storm at sea. The noise, too, is terrific. We once had the good fortune to ride on the engine of the “Flying Dutchman,” and on that occasion had resolved to converse with the driver, and tried it. As well might we have tried to converse amid the rattling of ten thousand tin kettles! John Marrot put his mouth to our ear and roared. We heard him faintly. We tried to shout to him; he shook his head, put his hand to his ear, and his ear to our mouth.
“Does—it—not—injure—your—hearing?”
“No—sir—not—at—all. It’s—worst—on—our—legs.”
We subsided into silence and wonderment.
We had also resolved to take notes, and tried it. Egyptian hieroglyphics are not more comprehensible than the notes we took. We made a discovery, however, near the end of the journey—namely, that by bending the knees, and keeping so, writing became much more possible—or much less impossible! We learnt this from John, who had to fill up in pencil a sort of statement or report-ticket on the engine. It was interesting and curious to note the fact that of the sentences thus written, one word was pencilled in the grounds of the Earl of Edderline, the next opposite the mansion of Lord Soberly, the third in the midst of Langly Moor, the fourth while crashing through the village of Efferby, and a full stop was added at the mouth of the great Ghostly Tunnel. Think of that, ye teachers of “penmanship in twelve lessons,” and hide your diminished heads.
John Marrot’s engine, of which we have said much, and of which we mean to say still more, was not only a stupendous, but a complex creation. Its body consisted of above 5,400 pieces, all of which were almost as delicately fashioned, and put together with as much care, as watch-work. It was a confirmed teetotaller, too. The morning draught which John had given it before starting, to enable it to run its seventy-seven miles, was 800 gallons of cold water. He also gave it a good feed to begin with, and laid in for its sustenance on the trip one ton of coals. Its power to act vigorously may be gathered from the fact that one morning, some years before, John had got the fire up with unwonted rapidity, and no sooner had the minimum of steam necessary to move it been created, than it quietly advanced and passed out of its shed through a brick wall fourteen inches thick with as much ease as it would have gone through a sheet of brown paper. This being its power when starting at what we may regard as a quiet walk, some conception may be formed of its capacity when flying down an incline at sixty-five miles an hour with a heavy train of carriages at its back. In such circumstances it would go through an ordinary house, train and all, as a rifle-bullet would go through a cheese. It was an eight-wheeled engine, and the driving-wheels were eight feet in diameter. The cylinder was eighteen inches, with a piston of two feet stroke, and the total weight of engine and tender was fifty-three tons. The cost of this iron horse with its tender was about 3000 pounds.
Having fairly started, John took his stand opposite his circular window in the protecting screen or weather-board and kept a sharp look-out ahead. Will Garvie kept an eye chiefly on the rear to note that all was well in that direction. And much cause was there for caution! To rush through space at such a rate, even on a straight line and in clear weather, was trying enough, but when it is remembered that the day was wet, and that their course lay through sundry deep cuttings and tunnels, and round several curves where it was not possible to foresee obstruction, the necessity for caution will be more apparent.
All went well, however, as usual. After clearing the first thirty-six miles John Marrot consulted his watch, and observed to Will that they had done it in thirty-eight and a half minutes. He then “put on a spurt,” and went for some time at a higher rate of speed. Observing that something at the head of the engine required looking after, Will Garvie went out along the side of it, and while doing this piece of work his hair and jacket were blown straight back by the breeze which the engine had created for itself. He resembled, in fact, a sailor going out to work on the sails in a stiff breeze.
This artificial breeze, sweeping round the sides of the screen, caused an eddy which sent up a cloud of coal-dust, but neither John nor his mate appeared to care for this. Their eyes were evidently coal-proof.
Presently they approached a canal over which they rushed, and, for one moment, glanced down on the antipodal mode of locomotion—a boat going three miles an hour with its steersman half asleep and smoking at the helm! Next moment they were passing under a bridge; the next over a town, and then rushed through a station, and it was interesting to note as they did so, that the people on the platform shrank back and looked half-terrified, although they were in no danger whatever, while those in the train—who might at any moment have been hurled into eternity—looked calm and serene, evidently untroubled by thoughts of danger; so difficult is it for man to realise his true condition in such circumstances. Just beyond the station a dog was observed to have strayed on the line, and ran barking before the engine. It was overtaken and passed in a few seconds, and Will looked over the side but saw nothing of it. As no yell was heard, it is probable that the poor thing escaped. Soon after that, two navvies were observed walking coolly and slowly on the line in front of the engine. John frowned and laid his hand on the whistle, but before it could sound, the reckless men had heard the train, looked round with horrified faces, sprang like jumping-jacks off the line, right and left, and were gone!
Soon after this, on approaching the distant signal of one of the stations, they observed that the arms were extended, indicating that the line was “blocked”—that is, that another train being in advance they must check speed or perhaps stop. This was a species of insult to the “Flying Dutchman,” whose way ought to have been kept perfectly clear, for even a check of speed would inevitably cause the loss of several minutes. With an indignant grumble John Marrot cut off steam, but immediately the signals were lowered and he was allowed to go on. Again, in a few minutes, another signal checked him.
“They’ve let a train on before us,” growled John, sternly, “and p’raps we may be checked all the way to London—but some one shall hear of this, an’ have to account for it.”
John was wrong to some extent. While he yet spoke the signal to go on was given, and a few minutes later the “Flying Dutchman” flashed past the obstructing train, which had been shunted on to a siding, and from its windows hundreds of passengers were gazing at the express which passed them like a meteor—perhaps they were congratulating themselves, as well they might, for, but for the “block system,” their danger would have been tremendous; almost equal to that of a man endeavouring to run away from a cannon-shot. This may be somewhat better understood when we explain that the “Flying Dutchman” could not have been stopped in a shorter space than one mile and a half.
At length the iron horse came suddenly on an obstruction which filled its driver with deep anxiety and alarm. Daily had John driven that train, but never before had he met with a similar danger. At a level crossing, less than a mile in advance of him, he observed a horse and a loaded cart standing right across the line. Either the horse was a run-away, or the driver had left it for a little and it had strayed. Whatever the cause of its being there John’s alert mind saw at once that a collision was inevitable. He shut off steam, and was about to whistle for the guard to apply the brakes, while Will Garvie, who also saw the danger, was already turning on the brakes of the tender.
John reflected that it would be impossible to come to a stand within the space that lay between him and the cart and that a partial concussion would be almost certain to throw his engine off the rails. Less than a minute remained to him.
“Let her go, mate,” he shouted quickly.
Will Garvie obeyed at once. John put on full steam, the “Flying Dutchman” leaped forward with increased velocity. Then followed a slight shock, and; next moment, the cart and horse were smashed to atoms—all but annihilated!
It was a great risk that had been run; but of two evils John Marrot had chosen the less and came off in triumph with only a slight damage to his buffers.
Let us now quit the engine for a little, and, retracing our steps in regard to time, visit some of the carriages behind it.
When the “late passenger” recovered her breath and equanimity, and found herself fairly on her journey, she unfolded her bundle of shawls and disclosed a fat glossy lap-dog, which seemed to enjoy its return to fresh air and daylight, and acknowledged, with sundry wags of its tail and blinks of its eyes the complimentary assurance that it was the “dearest, sweetest, p’ittiest ’ittle darling that ever was born,” and that, “it wouldn’t be allowed to pay a nasty fare to a mean railway company that let all kinds of ugly parrots and cats and babies travel free!”
A timid little lady, the only other occupant of the carriage, ventured to suggest that the dog travelling free was against the rules of the company.
“I am quite aware of that,” said the late passenger somewhat sharply, “but if people choose to make unjust and oppressive rules I don’t mean to submit to them. Just think of a parrot, a horrid shrieking creature that every one acknowledges to be a nuisance, being allowed to travel free, or a baby, which is enough to drive one distracted when it squalls, as it always does in a railway carriage, while my sweet little pet that annoys nobody must be paid for, forsooth!”
“It does indeed seem unreasonable,” responded the timid little old lady; “but don’t you think that the company has a perfect right to make whatever rules it pleases, and that we are bound to obey them when we make use of their line?”
“No, I don’t!” said the late passenger tartly.
The timid little lady thought it advisable to change the subject and did so by remarking that the dog was a very pretty creature. Upon which the late passenger thawed at once, admitted that it was a very pretty creature, and asserted in addition that it was a “perfect darling.”
Their conversation became miscellaneous and general after this point, and not worth reporting, therefore we shall get out at the window and pass along the foot-boards to the carriage occupied by Mrs Durby and her friends.
Immediately after the train had started, as before described, Captain Lee entered into an animated conversation with the nurse as to the health of the Tipps family. Edwin, who was much interested in them, listened and put in a word now and then, but neither he nor the captain, after the first glance, paid any attention to the other occupants of the carnage.
Meanwhile Thomson, Jenkins and Company spent a short time in taking a quiet observation of the state of affairs. The former had placed himself opposite to Edwin and eyed him over critically as a wrestler might eye his opponent; Jenkins had seated himself opposite the captain, who had been apportioned to him in the coming conflict, and Smith, who, although a stout enough fellow, was the smallest of the three, kept his eye on the coveted bag, and held himself in readiness to act as might be advisable. The scoundrels were not long in taking action.
As soon as they were quite clear of the suburbs of Clatterby, Jenkins suddenly hit Captain Lee a tremendous blow on the head, which was meant to fell him at once; but the captain’s head was harder than he had expected it to be; he instantly grappled with Jenkins. Edwin’s amazement did not prevent his prompt action; but at the moment he sprang to the rescue, he received a blow from Thomson, who leaped on him, and seized him by the throat with a vice-like gripe. At the same moment Smith also sprang upon him.
Thomson soon found that he had miscalculated young Gurwood’s strength. Strong though his grasp was, Edwin’s was stronger. Almost as quick as thought he threw his left arm round Thomson’s waist, grasped his hair with his right hand, and almost broke his back. There is no question that he would have overcome him in a few seconds if Smith had not hampered him. As it was, he disengaged his right arm for a moment and, hitting a familiar and oft-tried blow straight out from the shoulder planted his knuckles just above the bridge of Smith’s nose. He fell as if he had been shot but the momentary relief thus afforded to Thomson enabled that scoundrel to get into a better position for continuing the struggle. Meanwhile Jenkins, although bravely and stoutly opposed by the veteran Lee, quickly rendered his adversary insensible, and at once sprang upon Edwin, and turned the scale in favour of his comrade, who at the moment was struggling in the youth’s grasp with savage though unavailing ferocity. At the same time Smith, who had only been stunned, recovered, and seizing Edwin by the legs endeavoured to throw him down, so that it went hard with our young hero after that despite his activity, strength and courage.
During this scene, which was enacted in a very few minutes, poor Mrs Durby sat drawn up into the remotest corner of the carriage, her face transfixed with horror, and a terrific yell bursting occasionally from her white lips. But neither the sound of her cries nor the noise of the deadly struggle could overtop the clatter of the express train. Those in the next compartment did indeed hear a little of it but they were powerless to render assistance, and there was at that time no means of communicating with the guard or driver. Poor Edwin thought of Captain Lee, who lay bleeding on the floor, and of Emma, and the power of thought was so potential that in his great wrath he almost lifted the three men in the air; but they clung to him like leeches, and it is certain that they would have finally overcome him, had he not in one of his frantic struggles thrust his foot below one of the seats and kicked the still slumbering Sam Natly on the nose!
That over-wrought but erring porter immediately awoke to the consciousness of being oppressed with a sense of guilt and of being in a very strange and awkward position. Quickly perceiving, however, by the wild motion of the feet and an occasional scream from Mrs Durby, that something serious was going on, he peeped out, saw at a glance how matters stood, got to his feet in a moment, and dealt Jenkins such a blow on the back of the head that he dropped like a stone. To deal Smith two similar blows, with like result, was the work of two seconds. Thus freed, Edwin rose like a giant, crushed Thomson down into a seat, and twisted his neckcloth until his eyes began to glaze and his lips to turn blue.
Sam Natly was a man of cool self-possession.
Seeing that Edwin was more than a match for his adversary, he left him, and proceeded to attend to the captain, who showed symptoms of revival; but happening to glance again at Edwin, and observing the condition of Thomson, Sam turned and put his hand on the youth’s arm.
“I think, sir,” he said quietly, “it would be as well to leave enough of him to be hanged. Besides, it might be raither awkward, sir, to do Jack Ketch’s dooty without the benefit of judge, jury, witnesses, or clergy.”
Edwin released his hold at once, and Thomson raised himself in the seat, clenching his teeth and fists as he did so. He was one of those savage creatures who, when roused, appear to go mad, and become utterly regardless of consequences. While Sam was engaged in extemporising handcuffs for Jenkins and Smith out of a necktie and a pocket-handkerchief, Thomson sat perfectly still, but breathed very hard. He was only resting a little to recover strength, for in a moment, without a sound or warning of any kind, he hit Edwin with all his force on the temple. Fortunately the youth saw the coming blow in time to partially give way to it, and in another moment the struggle was renewed, but terminated almost as quickly, for Edwin gave Thomson a blow that stunned him and kept him quiet for the next quarter of an hour.
During this period Edwin examined Captain Lee’s hurts, which turned out to be less severe than might have been expected. He also assisted Sam to secure Thomson’s wrists with a handkerchief, and then devoted some time to soothing the agitated spirits of poor Mrs Durby, whose luckless shins had not escaped quite scatheless during the mêlée.
“Oh, sir,” sobbed Mrs Durby, glancing with horror at the dishevelled and blood-stained prisoners, “I always thought railways was bad things, but I never, no I never, imagined they was as bad as this.”
“But, my good woman,” said Edwin, unable to restrain a smile, “railways are not all, nor always, as bad as this. We very seldom hear of such a villainous deed as has been attempted to-day; thanks to the energy and efficiency of their police establishments.”
“Quite true, Gurward, quite true,” said Captain Lee, glancing sternly at the prisoners, and stanching a cut in his forehead with a handkerchief as he spoke; “our police arrangements are improving daily, as scoundrels shall find to their cost.”
Jenkins and Smith did not raise their eyes, and Thomson continued to frown steadily out at the window without moving a muscle.
“I’m sure I don’t know nothink about your p’lice, an’ what’s more, I don’t care,” said Mrs Durby; “all that I know is that railways is dreadful things, and if I was the Queen, which I’m not, I’d have ’em all put down by Acts of Parlingment, so I would. But never, never, never,—as long as I’m able to manidge my own—ah!”
Mrs Durby terminated here with one of her own appalling shrieks, for it was at this precise moment that John Marrot happened, as already described, to have occasion to knock a cart and horse to atoms. The shock, as we have said, was very slight, nevertheless it was sufficient to overturn the poor nurse’s nervous system, which had already been wrought up to a high pitch of tension.
“That’s somethin’ gone, sir,” said Sam, touching his cap to Captain Lee.
“What is it, Edwin?” inquired the captain as the youth let down the window and looked out.
“I can see nothing,” said Edwin, “except that the guard and fireman are both looking back as if they wanted to see something on the line. We are beginning to slow, however, being not far from the station now.”
About a mile and three-quarters from the station, in the suburbs of London, where the tickets were to be collected, John Marrot stopped the pulse of his iron horse, for so terrific was his speed that he was able to run the greater part of that distance by means of the momentum already acquired. By degrees the mighty engine began to “slow.” Trees and houses instead of rushing madly past began to run hastily by, and then to glide behind at a rate that was more in keeping with the dignity of their nature. From sixty miles an hour the train passed by a rapid transition to ordinary express speed, then to ordinary speed, then to twenty miles an hour. Then Thomson felt that his opportunity had come. He suddenly wrenched his wrists from their fastening, leaped head foremost out of the window, fell on the embankment in a heap, and rolled to the bottom, where he lay extended on his back as if dead.
Thus much Mrs Durby saw in one horrified glance and then fainted dead away, in which condition she remained, to the great anxiety and distress of Captain Lee, until the “Flying Dutchman,” after doing seventy-eight miles in one hour and a half, glided as softly up to the platform of the station in the great Metropolis as if it were a modest young train which had yet to win its spurs, instead of being a tried veteran which had done its best for many years past to annihilate space and time. But, after all, it resembled all other tried veterans in this respect.
Generally speaking, engine-drivers are little—far too little—thought of after a journey is over. Mankind is not prone to be wise or discriminating, in giving credit to whom credit is due. We “remember” waiters after having eaten a good dinner, but who, in any sense of the word, “remembers” the cook? So in like manner we think of railway porters and guards at the end of our journeys, and talk of their civility mayhap, but who thinks or talks of the driver and fireman as they lean on the rails of their iron horse, wet and weary perchance—smoke and dust and soot begrimed for certain—and calmly watch the departure of the multitudes whom they have, by the exercise of consummate coolness, skill, and courage, brought through dangers and hairbreadth escapes that they neither knew nor dreamed of?