“They might at least have the windows so they would open,” said the lady.
“Absolutely,” said one of the young card players, intent on his game; “then some of the fog could get in and there’d be less of it outside and we could get along faster. Good idea.”
“I intend to get out at the next station,” said Mr. A. Pylor Koyn, in the manner of delivering an ultimatum. “There is a limit to human patience. Where there’s a station there must be a house of some sort and I’ll get in if it has a door. I am going to get out of this at the next station!” “So am I,” said the young officer; “the next is Snailsdale Manor.”
“We’re all with you, Cap,” said one of the card players to the irate Mr. Koyn.
“Oh, I just hope we don’t get there,” said the girl. “It’s just like travelling across the desert fifty years ago. I think it’s romantic.”
“I’m glad there are tracks under us,” said the young officer.
“Don’t say anything, they might break or disappear,” said one of the young fellows.
The conversation lagged. The card game went on. The young Russian seemed ready to reach for his miniature coffin at the least jerk. Mr. A. Pylor Koyn continued striding back and forth in the aisle. Conductor Hink slept.
Suddenly the rumbling was more clamorous, the front car bunked against the engine, the second car bunked against the first car, the stubby little train seemed trying to hold itself back and A. Pylor Koyn lost his balance and nearly fell over the lap of the young Russian who was reaching for his violin case.
“At last! Thank Heaven!” said the lady.