Дети железной дороги

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,andwhat’sthat?"

           "That"wasalow,hummingsoundontherailwayline,atremblingofthewiresbesideit,abuzzing,hummingsoundthatgrewlouderandlouderastheylistened.

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