So he leaned back on the crimson velvet-cushion of his seat, and felt
very comfortable and composed, thinking of nothing in particular. He
became pleasantly interested, as the daylight began to make things
visible without, in trying to count the number of wires on the
telegraph-poles. It would have been easy enough if they had only kept
along at an invariable level; but they were always rising--rising--then
jumping through the pole with a snap!--then ducking suddenly--sinking,
crossing one another--sometimes scudding along close to the ground,
then flying up beyond the range of the window--anon scooting beneath
a dark arch--now indistinguishable against a pine-wood--then
rising--rising--jumping--ducking--sinking--as before. Though exerting
all his faculties of observation, it was impossible to be quite certain
how many wires there were.
He was nearly alone in the car, and would probably continue to be for an
hour or so at least. He reversed the seat in front of him, and put up
his feet, leaving the telegraph-wires to scud and dodge unnoticed. He
fixed his eyes upon the sweltering stove in the farther corner of the
car. There was a roaring fire within, as he could tell by the vivid red
that glowed through the draught-holes beneath the door, and showed here
and there along the cracks.
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