The train came to one of those sudden stops in which the hush caused by the contrast between the rattle of the wheels and their silence is almost painful. During these pauses one is conscious of conversation in neighbouring compartments, without however hearing any distinct words.
There were several of us, strangers to each other, who hitherto had been minding our own business, but under the stress of this untoward thing became companionable.
A man at each window craned his body out, but withdrew it without information.
"I hope," said another, "there's not an accident."
"I have always heard," said a fourth, "that in a railway accident presence of mind is not so valuable as absence of body"—getting off this ancient pleasantry as though it were his own.
The motionlessness of the train was so absolute as to be disconcerting; also a scandal. The business of trains, between stations, is to get on. We had paid our money, not for undue stoppages, but for movement in the direction of our various goals; and it was infamous.
Somebody said something of the kind.
"Better be held up now," said a sententious man, "than be killed for want of prudence."
No one was prepared to deny this, but we resented its truth and availed ourselves of a true-born free Briton's right to doubt the wisdom of those in authority. We all, in short, looked as though we knew better than engine-driver, signalman or guard. That is our métier.
Some moments, which, as in all delays on the line, seemed like hours, passed and nothing happened. Looking out I saw heads and shoulders protruding from every window, with curiosity stamped on all their curves.