INTO A SNOWDRIFT AND OUT.

Neka had no time to think. The train was less than two rods away. Whatever was to be done must be done at once. Delay could mean but one thing--death.

The handcar made another mad leap. Then, as if by the kind act of Providence, when still several yards away from the train, it struck several lumps of ice which were frozen solidly. It could not crush the ice, and, consequently, tipped over, and went down the embankment into the snowdrift beyond.

At first Neka scarcely knew what had happened. He felt himself bounce up and over, and then came a whirl of snow into his face and a weight on top of him, and down and down he went, until it seemed to him he was never going to stop.

But a halt came at last, and he found himself on a layer of hard snow and ice, with the handcar partly on top of him.

His first effort, on coming to himself, was to crawl from beneath the obstruction above. He tore loose his overcoat, and struggled to the right and the left, until at last he found himself clear.

The snowbank into which he had plunged was all of twelve feet in depth, and to gain the top was harder work than to clear himself of the handcar. The more he plunged the more mixed did he become until he was only too glad to pause for breath in a place where there appeared an opening overhead.

The train had come to a standstill, and several of the crew were out on the tracks listening to what the engineer and the fireman had to say concerning the handcar.

“There she is in the snow,” said the engineer.

“Who was on her?” queried the conductor.

“Three men. Two of ’em jumped off and the third went over with the car.”

A hunt was made around, and soon the conductor of the train espied the top of Neka’s head.

“There is one of them!” he shouted. “Hullo, down there!”

“Hullo!” replied Neka. “Can’t you give a fellow a lift?”

“Certainly. Any bones broken?”

“I guess not. But I’m pretty well shaken up.”

“Should think you would be,” laughed the conductor.

He ordered a brakeman to bring a rope from the accident closet on one of the cars, and an end of this was thrown to Neka, and by this means the young Fire King was easily hoisted to the tracks, little the worse for his remarkable tumble.

“Where are the other two men?” asked the conductor.

“They ought to be close by,” replied Neka. “They sprang off just before the handcar went over.”

He set up a shout, and the others joined in. Soon an answering cry came back, first from Bindley, and then from Longfellow Wadsworth.

Located by their voices the stage manager and the elocutionist were speedily brought out of their unpleasant situations. Luckily no one had suffered serious injury, although Bindley was pretty well knocked out, having come down with all force flat on his stomach.

“What were you doing on the handcar any way?” demanded the conductor, seeing that they were not regular railroad hands.

Had they been less well-dressed he might have taken them for tramps, for the knights of the road are not above using a handcar when they can run down grade and thus avoid laboring at the handle-bars.

In a very few words Neka and his companions explained the situation. As they proceeded the conductor began to laugh.

“I heard about your car up at Springfield. It broke away by accident, and when they caught up the coupling facing was broken off. They left you on a siding and sent to Springfield for another car. That car must be there for you by this time.”

“But isn’t this the main track?”

“No, this is a spur. You are two miles from the regular track between East St. Louis and Springfield.”

“Well, by Jove, we’re making mistakes all around,” cried Longfellow Wadsworth. “Will you kindly tell us what we had better do to get ourselves and the rest of our company into Springfield?”

“Ride back to Penfield with us and telegraph to Springfield to have that car sent there instead of to that siding,” replied the conductor. “Come lively if you want to go along. The track men can attend to that handcar to-morrow. You had no right to use it, but under the circumstances I reckon nothing will be said.”

“Well, I guess not,” growled Bindley. “Unless the railroad company want to be sued for this delay.”

The run to Penfield was quickly made, and here word was telegraphed to Springfield. It was found an engine had been sent to the spur to haul in the damaged sleeper, on which it was supposed a porter had been left to notify the sleeping passengers. Word was sent that another train would back down to Penfield in an hour.

“Well, the other engine will bring in that sleeper with our valises,” said Longfellow Wadsworth. “So we had best send to that farmhouse for the others to join us here.”

This was agreed upon, and a man was dispatched with a big sleigh to bring the others into town. By one o’clock the specialty company were assembled in the Penfield depot, the center of a rural crowd, who gazed at them with mouths wide open.

“Some of these folks look as if they had never seen actors before,” remarked Neka.

“Yes, a good portion of them are as green as grass,” replied Bindley. “But the remainder are smart enough.”

At nearly two o’clock the extra train came along and all bustled aboard. The run to Springfield was made without further difficulty, and six o’clock found them safely housed at the best hotel the capital city of the State affords.

“Well, that was an adventure,” remarked Neka, in talking it over. “The whole company got lost and couldn’t find itself. I trust we have no such experiences in the future.”

And he shuddered when he thought of the narrow escape from death on the handcar.