A ride through this tunnel on a hot day will put you over on Woosey
Avenue quicker than a No. 9 pill in Hop Lee's smoke factory.
In order to get out to Ruraldene I have to use the tunnel, and every time I use it it leaves something which looks like the mark of Cain across my brow.
The first day I went through that tunnel will always remain one of my hottest memories.
I lost nine pounds of solid flesh somewhere between my shoulder blade and Seventy-ninth Street.
The sensation is the same as a Bad Man's hereafter, including the sulphur.
First I choked up a little, then I coughed, then I stirred uneasily, and then I looked out the window and prayed for the daylight, and then I looked at my newspaper, but I couldn't read it, because the railroad company had found the gas bill pretty heavy last month and they were cutting down expenses.
Then I lost my breath, and when I got it back I found it wasn't mine.
Then I began to fan myself with my hat, but I stopped when the man behind me began to kick because I was handing him more than his just share of the tunnel gas.
Then I began, to choke up again, and then I coughed, and then I could feel something fat and mysterious playing hide and go seek around my brain, but outside all was black as ink, and only from the noise could I tell that the road was still paying dividends.
The air began to get close and thick like a porterhouse steak in a
St. Louis hotel.