And
now, since the success of motor-cars (those far greater, because
unrestricted, bores), railways have taken on for me some such charm as
the memory of the posting coaches had for the greybeards of my
boyhood, some such charm as aeroplanes may in the fulness of time
foist down for us on motor-cars. `But I rove,' like Sir Thomas More.
And I seem to think that a cheap literary allusion will make you
excuse that vice. To resume my breathless narrative I decided that I
would slowly follow the tracks of the lorry.
I supposed that these were leading me to some great scrapping-place
filled with the remains of other railway-cars foully scrapped for some
fell industrial purpose. But this was a bad guess. The tracks led me
at last through a lane and thence into sight of a little bay, on whose
waters were perceptible the deck heads of sundry human beings, and on
its sands the full-lengths of sundry other human beings in bath-robes,
reading novels or merely basking. There was nowhere any sign of
industrialism. More than ever was I intrigued as to the fate of the
old railway-car that I had been stalking. It and its lorry had halted
on the flat grassy land that fringed the sands. This land was
dominated by a crescent of queer little garish tenements, the like of
which I had never seen, nor would wish to see again.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230