Click: And there they are, swaying like dipsomaniacs, dancing like dervishes, and opening their mouths like bullfrogs in a drought. Of course, you can’t hear what they’re singing, but a gramophone (off) obligingly strikes up at this moment:
Sons of the sea,
All British born,
Sailing every ocean,
Laughing foes to scorn—
and so on. A little inappropriate to the setting perhaps; but, oh, how apposite to what follows!
Suddenly the face of the jovial engineer clouds over. He shades his eyes with his hands. Rushing to the eyeholes, he peers out into the day. His collaborators copy him. We know something is coming. We stir uneasily in our seats. Somehow we can’t help associating this action with the two sinister——What’s that? He’s beckoning to the chief mate (or whatever the fellow’s called). The chief mate’s beckoning to him. Neither dares leave the eyeholes. How can they communicate with each other? Still the train speeds on. Oh! the engineer’s drawing his revolver. Ah! it’s empty! So is the chief mate’s. So is everybody’s. He flings it down with a curse. He’s going to speak to the chief mate. He’s speaking: Snick:
SAY, YOU GUYS, IT’S HELL OR HOME.
AND ME FOR HOME!
Flick:
STOKE UP YOUR BOILERS, YOU BLEAR-EYED
SKUNKS!