“Yes,” said Philip, “they should have a set of frescos put in them.”
“But no one could see the pictures,” said Mr. Douglass, “we pass them so fast.”
“That’s true,” said Harry, with a pretended sigh; “but they might have to be instantaneous photographs.”
Philip looked puzzled for a minute and then laughed. After they left the tunnel, they passed through the suburbs of New York, entered a narrow cut that turned westward, and were soon sailing along the Hudson River—or so it seemed. There was no shore visible beside them, except for an occasional tumble-down dock, and beyond lay the river—a soft, gray expanse relieved against the Palisades, and later against more distant purple hills. It was a rest for their eyes to see only an occasional sloop breaking the long stretch of water, and the noise of the train was lessened because there was nothing to echo back the sounds from the river.
Mr. Douglass found his pleasure in the scenery, the widenings of the river, the soft outlines of the hills, the long reflection of the setting sun. But the boys cared more to see the passengers.
“Isn’t it funny,” said Philip, “how Americans take things as a matter of course? I really believe that if the train was a sort of Jules Verne unlimited express for the planet Mars, the people would all look placid and read the evening papers.”
“Of course,” said Harry. “What else can they do? Would you expect me to go forward and say: ‘Dear Mr. Engineer, but do you really think you know what all these brass and steel things are? Don’t you feel scared? Won’t you lie down awhile on the coal, while I run the engine for you?’”
“Nonsense!” said Philip, laughing. “But they might show some interest.”
“They do,” said Harry; “but that’s not what I’m thinking of. I’m thinking I’ll be a civil engineer.”
“Why?” said Philip.