And then we settled ourselves once more for the last run of thirtyfive miles to Indianapolis. It was after nine, and by eleven, anyhow, if not before, barring accidents, we should be there. The country north of here, so far as I could see, retained none of the interesting variations of the land to the south. It was all level and the roads, if one could judge by the feel, as smooth as a table. There were no towns, apparently, on this particular road, and not many houses, but we encountered market wagon after market wagon, heavily loaded with country produce, a single light swinging between their wheels, all making their way north to the young, colorless city of three hundred thousand or more.
And when we were still within ten miles of it occurred the second of these psychic accidents which always come in twos for me. South of Bedford we had killed a hen. In the glow of our lamp, perhaps a hundred yards away, there suddenly appeared out of the dark a brown pig, young but quite as large as a dog, which at sight of the lights seemed to make straight for us. It was squealing plaintively, as though seeking human care, and yet we bore down on it, quite unable, as Bert explained afterward, to turn quickly enough to save it.
There was a smash, a grunt, and then silence. We were speeding along quite as swiftly as before.
“I tried to turn,” Bert called back, “but the darn little fool made straight for us. They always do for some reason.”
“Yes, it’s odd about pigs that way,” commented Franklin.
“Number two,” I said to myself.
And in a mile or two more the lights of Indianapolis began to appear. It had clouded up, as I have said, as we neared Martinsville, and now the heavens reflected the glow of the city below. We passed those remote houses which people seeking to make a little money out of their real estate, or to live where rents are low, build and occupy. I thought of the walled cities of the middle ages, when people crowded together as compactly as possible, in order to gain the feeling of comfort and security. In these days we are so safe that the loneliest cabin in the mountains fears no unfriendly intruder.
In a few moments more we were trundling up a rough street, avoiding street cars, crossing railroad and car tracks and soon stopping at the main entrance of one of those skyscraper hotels which every American town of any size must now boast or forever hang its head in shame. Anything under nine stories is a failure—a sore shame.
“We’ll have a bite of something before we run out to Carmel, won’t we?” commented Franklin.
“Let’s end this historic pilgrimage with a drink,” I suggested. “Only mine shall be so humble a thing as a Scotch and soda.”