Діти залізниці
The hound in the red jersey.
Thewindows,alldimwiththeyellowbreathofthetunnel,rattledownintotheirplaces,andyouseeoncemorethedipandcatchofthetelegraphwiresbesidetheline,andthestraight-cuthawthornhedgeswiththetinybabytreesgrowingupoutofthemeverythirtyyards.
Allthis,ofcourse,iswhatatunnelmeanswhenyouareinatrain.Buteverythingisquitedifferentwhenyouwalkintoatunnelonyourownfeet,andtreadonshifting,slidingstonesandgravelonapaththatcurvesdownwardsfromtheshiningmetalstothewall.Thenyouseeslimy,oozytricklesofwaterrunningdowntheinsideofthetunnel,andyounoticethatthebricksarenotredorbrown,astheyareatthetunnel’smouth,butdull,sticky,sicklygreen.Yourvoice,whenyouspeak,isquitechangedfromwhatitwasoutinthesunshine,anditisalongtimebeforethetunnelisquitedark.
ItwasnotyetquitedarkinthetunnelwhenPhylliscaughtatBobbie’sskirt,rippingouthalfayardofgathers,butnoonenoticedthisatthetime.
"Iwanttogoback,"shesaid,"Idon’tlikeit.It’llbepitchdarkinaminute.IWON’Tgooninthedark.Idon’tcarewhatyousay,IWON’T."
"Don’tbeasillycuckoo,"saidPeter;"I’vegotacandleendandmatches,and—what’sthat?"
"That"wasalow,hummingsoundontherailwayline,atremblingofthewiresbesideit,abuzzing,hummingsoundthatgrewlouderandlouderastheylistened.
