It gasped, and heaved, and bellowed; once, for a
moment, the wheels spun on the rails, and a convulsive tremor shook the
great steel frame.
The train itself, however, moved through this deep cut in the body of
London with coolness and precision, and the employees of the railway,
knowing the train's mission, tacitly presented arms at its passing. To
the travelers in the carriages, the suburbs of London must have been one
long monotony of carefully made walls of stone or brick. But after the
hill was climbed, the train fled through pictures of red habitations of
men on a green earth.
But the noise in the cab did not greatly change its measure. Even though
the speed was now high, the tremendous thumping to be heard in the cab
was as alive with strained effort and as slow in beat as the breathing
of a half-drowned man. At the side of the track, for instance, the sound
doubtless would strike the ear in the familiar succession of incredibly
rapid puffs; but in the cab itself, this land-racer breathes very like
its friend, the marine engine. Everybody who has spent time on shipboard
has forever in his head a reminiscence of the steady and methodical
pounding of the engines, and perhaps it is curious that this relative
which can whirl over the land at such a pace, breathes in the leisurely
tones that a man heeds when he lies awake at night in his berth.
There had been no fog in London, but here on the edge of the city a
heavy wind was blowing, and the driver leaned aside and yelled that it
was a very bad day for traveling on an engine.
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