Thus it happened that Johnny, entering as he did at the dead of night, found men still toiling in these narrow burrows where the light of day never comes.
There are many entrances to these tunnels. Most of these are elevators wide enough to lift two or three cars from the depths below to the street level above.
The one chosen by Johnny that night led through a soap factory. There the air was heavy with the clean, perfumed scent of soap.
A man in a shabby sheepskin coat received him in silence, motioned him to a place at the corner of a loaded elevator, clanged an iron gate, and set the elevator to sinking into the earth.
There is something deeply depressing about being lowered beneath the natural surface of the earth. Whether it be a well, a mine, a cave or a tunnel, it is all the same. Johnny Thompson was not free from this feeling of depression. Indeed, so powerful was its influence that it was with the utmost difficulty that he resisted an impulse to go straight back to the surface. As you will see later, he was to have reason to regret resisting this impulse.
However, once he had accustomed his eyes to the weird green and red lights of the place, and his ears to the great din when a train passed and the vast silence when there was no train, he found himself feeling more at home than he had imagined possible.
“One can see,” he told himself, “why men might even enjoy working here. The air, circulated by powerful fans, is pure. It is not hot in summer nor cold in winter. There is no glaring light and no real darkness.”
He was taken to the portion of the tunnel which he wished to inspect. This portion was the one nearest the museum.
“There will be no trains on the spur leading to the museum,” the trainman told him. “On that track you’ll be safe enough. If you wait for the green lights, you’ll be fairly safe on other tracks.”
After imparting this information the engineer threw on his switch and went rattling away, leaving Johnny to the silence of a night in a tunnel.