“You’re right,” commented Franklin, without further observation on my part. “That is interesting, isn’t it?” Though it was still raining, we opened those storm curtains and clambered out, walking on ahead of the car to stand and look at it. As we did a train came from somewhere—a long, brightly lighted passenger train—and sped over it as noiselessly as if it had been on solid ground. A large arch rose before us, an enormous thing, with another following in the distance and bridging a stream.
“Think I’d better sketch that?” queried Franklin.
“Indeed I do,” I replied, “if it interests you. It’s wonderful to me.”
We wandered on down the curve and under it, through a great arch. A second bridge came into view—this time of iron—the one over which our road ran, and beyond that a third, of iron or steel also, much higher than either of the others. This last was a trolley bridge, and as we stood here a trolley car approached and sped over it. At the same time another train glided over the great stone arch.
“What is this—Bridge Centre?” I inquired.
“Transportationsburg,” replied Franklin. “Can’t you see?”
We fell to discussing lights and shadows and the best angle at which to make the drawing.
But there was no umbrella between us—useless things, umbrellas—and so I had to lay my mackintosh on Franklin’s head and hold it out in front of him like an awning, while he peered under it and sketched and I played porch posts. Sketching so, we talked of the great walls of Europe—Spain and Italy—old Roman walls—and how these new things being built here in this fashion must endure—long after we were gone—and leave traces of what a wonderful nation we were, we Americans (German-Americans, Austro-Americans, Greek-Americans, Italian-Americans, French-Americans, English-Americans, Hindu-Americans).
“Just think, Franklin,” I chortled, “you and I may be remembered for thousands and thousands of years as having stood here tonight and sketched this very bridge.”
“Uh, huh,” he commented.