There was no needle-point of light to which one's
eyes clung as to a star.
From London to Crew, the stern arm of the semaphore never made the train
pause even for an instant. There was always a clear track. It was great
to see, far in the distance, a goods train whooping smokily for the
north of England on one of the four tracks. The overtaking of such a
train was a thing of magnificent nothing for the long-strided engine,
and as the flying express passed its weaker brother, one heard one or
two feeble and immature puffs from the other engine, saw the fireman
wave his hand to his luckier fellow, saw a string of foolish, clanking
flat-cars, their freights covered with tarpaulins, and then the train
was lost to the rear.
The driver twisted his wheel and worked some levers, and the rhythmical
chunking of the engine gradually ceased. Gliding at a speed that was
still high, the train curved to the left, and swung down a sharp
incline, to move with an imperial dignity through the railway yard at
Rugby. There was a maze of switches, innumerable engines noisily pushing
cars here and there, crowds of workmen who turned to look, a sinuous
curve around the long train-shed, whose high wall resounded with the
rumble of the passing express; and then, almost immediately, it seemed,
came the open country again. Rugby had been a dream which one could
properly doubt. At last the relaxed engine, with the same majesty of
ease, swung into the high-roofed station at Crewe, and stopped on a
platform lined with porters and citizens.
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