Next day at nearly half-past four the three travelers walked through the passageway at the Grand Central Depot, had their tickets punched,—and Philip noticed that the man at the gate kept tally on a printed list of the numbers of different tickets presented,—and entered the mahogany and blue-plush Wagner cars. In a few minutes some one said quietly: “All right,” and the train gently moved out. “I can remember,” said Mr. Douglass, “when a train started with a shock like a Japanese earthquake. Now this seemed to glide out as if saying, ‘Oh, by the way, I think I’ll go to Chicago!’” Harry laughed. “Yes,” he said, “and how little fuss there is about it. Why, abroad, I remember that they had first a bell, then a yell, then a scream, then the steam!” As the train passed through the long tunnel just after leaving the station, Mr. Douglass remarked: “How monotonous those dark arches of brickwork are!” “Yes,” said Philip, “they should have a set of frescos put in them.” “But no one could see the pictures,” said Mr. Douglass, “we pass them so fast.” “That’s true,” said Harry, with a pretended sigh; “but they might have to be instantaneous photographs.” Philip looked puzzled for a minute and then laughed. After they left the tunnel, they passed through the suburbs of New York, entered a narrow cut that turned westward, and were soon sailing along the Hudson River—or so it seemed. There was no shore visible beside them, except for an occasional tumble-down dock, and beyond lay the river—a soft, gray expanse relieved against the Palisades, and later against more distant purple hills. It was a rest for their eyes to see only an occasional sloop breaking the long stretch of water, and the noise of the train was lessened because there was nothing to echo back the sounds from the river. Mr. Douglass found his pleasure in the scenery, the widenings of the river, the soft outlines of the hills, the long reflection of the setting sun. But the boys cared more to see the passengers. “Isn’t it funny,” said Philip, “how Americans take things as a matter of course? I really believe that if the train was a sort of Jules Verne unlimited express for the planet Mars, the people would all look placid and read the evening papers.” “Of course,” said Harry. “What else can they do? Would you expect me to go forward and say: ‘Dear Mr. Engineer, but _do_ you really think you know what all these brass and steel things are? Don’t you feel scared? Won’t you lie down awhile on the coal, while I run the engine for you?’” “Nonsense!” said Philip, laughing. “But they might show some interest.” “They do,” said Harry; “but that’s not what I’m thinking of. I’m thinking I’ll be a civil engineer.” “Why?” said Philip. “Just think,” Harry answered, pointing from the car window, “what a good time they must have had laying out this road! Why, it was just a camping-out frolic, that’s all it was.” [Illustration: ONE OF THE DECORATORS AT WORK.]