The three men were pitched and tossed and thrown
sprawling over one another onto the bottom of the car. Biggleswade
screamed. McCurdie cursed. Doyne scrambled from the confusion of rugs
and limbs and, tearing open the side of the Cape-cart hood, jumped out.
The chauffeur had also just leaped from his seat. It was pitch dark save
for the great shaft of light down the snowy road cast by the acetylene
lamps. The snow had ceased falling.
"What's gone wrong?"
"It sounds like the axle," said the chauffeur ruefully.
He unshipped a lamp and examined the car, which had wedged itself
against a great drift of snow on the off side. Meanwhile McCurdie and
Biggleswade had alighted.
"Yes, it's the axle," said the chauffeur.
"Then we're done," remarked Doyne.
"I'm afraid so, my lord."
"What's the matter? Can't we get on?" asked Biggleswade in his querulous
voice.
McCurdie laughed. "How can we get on with a broken axle? The thing's as
useless as a man with a broken back. Gad, I was right. I said it was
going to be an infernal journey."
The little Professor wrung his hands. "But what's to be done?" he cried.
"Tramp it," said Lord Doyne, lighting a fresh cigar.
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