Діти залізниці
The hound in the red jersey.
"
"What?"askedBobbie,hermouthalreadyfull,forshewasjustashungryasPhyllis.
"Don’tyousee,"repliedPeter,impressively,"thatred-jerseyedhoundhashadanaccident—that’swhatitis.Perhapsevenaswespeakhe’slyingwithhisheadonthemetals,anunresistingpreytoanypassingexpress—"
"Oh,don’ttrytotalklikeabook,"criedBobbie,boltingwhatwasleftofhersandwich;"comeon.Phil,keepclosebehindme,andifatraincomes,standflatagainstthetunnelwallandholdyourpetticoatsclosetoyou."
"Givemeonemoresandwich,"pleadedPhyllis,"andIwill."
"I’mgoingfirst,"saidPeter;"itwasmyidea,"andhewent.
Ofcourseyouknowwhatgoingintoatunnelislike?Theenginegivesascreamandthensuddenlythenoiseoftherunning,rattlingtrainchangesandgrowsdifferentandmuchlouder.Grown-uppeoplepullupthewindowsandholdthembythestrap.Therailwaycarriagesuddenlygrowslikenight—withlamps,ofcourse,unlessyouareinaslowlocaltrain,inwhichcaselampsarenotalwaysprovided.Thenbyandbythedarknessoutsidethecarriagewindowistouchedbypuffsofcloudywhiteness,thenyouseeabluelightonthewallsofthetunnel,thenthesoundofthemovingtrainchangesoncemore,andyouareoutinthegoodopenairagain,andgrown-upsletthestrapsgo.
