“Twenty-four miles, so the professor said,” responded Sam. “He said Caracas is only six miles away and the mule path isn’t over nine miles long. But the lowest part of the mountain is nearly a mile high and the train has to do a lot of twisted traveling to get over it.”
“Wonder they wouldn’t tunnel the mountain,” suggested Frank.
“That’s what they are talking of doing,” put in Hockley, who felt just then like being sociable. “Somebody has got a franchise, but it’s going to take millions of dollars.”
The professor had been looking after tickets. He soon returned and when the train came along they all got in the first-class compartment, which was not much better than a very ordinary car at home. The car sat so close to the rails that the tops of the wheels had to be bridged over, interfering somewhat with the seating capacity.
Soon came a long whistle, the conductor waved his hand and the train moved away, through the town and in full view of the ocean. The speed was fair, but nothing to what the boys were used to at home, yet this was not to be wondered at, for they were climbing steadily along the face of the mountain. Up and up they went until Frank, who sat at a window overlooking the water hundreds of feet below, could not help but shudder.
“If we should drop off here, there wouldn’t be anything left of us,” he said to Sam.
“I guess we won’t drop off,” was the reply. “But say, it does make a fellow dizzy to look down, doesn’t it?”
The professor sat with them and pointed out several places of interest as they sped onward. “You see the tracks follow the mule road in many places. The path is about nine miles long and in former days it was the only means of communication between Caracas and the sea, outside of an old Indian trail further to our right.”
They soon dashed into a tunnel and out again, and then began another climb along the mountain side. As they reached a higher elevation they noticed that the air was cooler.
“We are coming to another tunnel,” said Mark, as they swung around a sharp curve.