American _sang-froid_ is difficult to disturb, but on this occasion the passengers deign to manifest some interest in the cause of the delay. They bombard the conductor with questions, and skirmish round the engineer, sending their suggestions flying round his devoted head, till a peremptory order is given, and they are driven back into the cars with some loss of patience. As if by magic, a breakdown gang is soon gathered round the engine--heaven knows where they came from, whether they dropped from the skies, or emerged from the bowels of the earth, for human habitation thereabout seemed impossible, unless they had built a nest high up in the dark cypress boughs. Meanwhile various editions of the cause of our delay are freely circulated. One piece of official information at last reaches us: The mainspring of our engine is broken. One reports that they are making a new one; another that they are mending the old one. “No, they are propping it up with a piece of wood,” says a third. “That’s impossible,” cries another unlicensed authority; “the idea of an engine hobbling on wooden legs!” Then begins a game at speculation, and we all take a hand: “How long shall we be kept there?” “Perhaps all night--perhaps all day!” “Will they send help to us?” “They can’t, there’s only a single line of rail, and no telegraph near.” Then some of our fellow travellers begin to relate, at the top of their voices, a chapter of the worst accidents that have ever happened anywhere or to anybody, ending with the relation of a terrible catastrophe which happened only a week ago, when the trestle work, which runs for six miles across the Savannah river a little further on, gave way, and the whole train was precipitated into the river--“not a soul saved,” adds the narrator with great gusto. Meanwhile everybody is getting hungry; and buns, biscuits, and morsels of stale crumbly cake are fished up from bags or baskets. I have nothing to fish up from anywhere, and a good Samaritan gives me an orange and a piece of rye bread; never was voluntary contribution more thankfully received. Presently a plausible youth comes along the car selling cold hard-boiled eggs. Where he comes from, where he got, or how he cooked his eggs is a mystery; but hunger bids us hasten to invest in his wares. Alas! he and his eggs prove a delusion and a snare! The eggs we throw out of the window--but the deceiver has disappeared. By degrees the clatter of tongues ceases; silence falls over us. Alligators and frogs are croaking in the swamps; I don’t know which croaks loudest; their language seems so similar, I can hardly tell one from the other. Everybody regards the situation with irritating good temper, nobody grumbles. Are the true Americans ever heard to complain, I wonder? They are patient, cheerful always, and stoical and philosophical as Red Indians. Oh, for a good British growl! I lift my voice feebly once or twice, but am shamed into silence by the example of my companions.