Presently the fireman, standing with his face toward the rear, let fall
his hand. "All right," he said. The driver turned a wheel, and as the
fireman slipped back, the train moved along the platform at the pace of
a mouse. To those in the tranquil carriages this starting was probably
as easy as the sliding of one's hand over a greased surface, but in the
engine there was more to it. The monster roared suddenly and loudly, and
sprang forward impetuously. A wrong-headed or maddened draft-horse will
plunge in its collar sometimes when going up a hill. But this load of
burdened carriages followed imperturbably at the gait of turtles. They
were not to be stirred from their way of dignified exit by the impatient
engine. The crowd of porters and transient people stood respectful. They
looked with the indefinite wonder of the railway-station sight-seer upon
the faces at the windows of the passing coaches. This train was off for
Scotland. It had started from the home of one accent to the home of
another accent. It was going from manner to manner, from habit to habit,
and in the minds of these London spectators there surely floated dim
images of the traditional kilts, the burring speech, the grouse, the
canniness, the oat-meal, all the elements of a romantic Scotland.
The train swung impressively around the signal-house, and headed up a
brick-walled cut. In starting this heavy string of coaches, the engine
breathed explosively.
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