The trains
faced one another. Mr. Jinks and his scarlet horse thought themselves
quite safe in their special carriage, unaware that it was labelled
"Beast" with a label that overlapped the roof and hid all view of the
landscape through the windows on one side. Apparently they slept in
opposite corners, with full consciousness of complete security. Mr.
Jinks was tucked up with woolly rugs, and a newspaper lay across his
knee. The scarlet horse had its head in a bag of oats, and its bridle
was fastened to the luggage rack above. Both were supplied with iron
foot-warmers. There was a _fearful_ fog; and the train was going at a
_TREMENDOUS_ pace.
So was the other train. They approached, they banged, they smashed to
atoms. It was the most appalling collision that had ever been heard
of, and the Guard and Engine-Driver, as well as the Ticket-Collectors
and Directors of the Company, were all executed by the Government the
very next day from gallows that an angry London built in half an hour
on the top of St. Paul's Cathedral dome.
It took place between the footstool and the fireplace in the thickest
fog that England had ever known.
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