The thundering Overland Limited, rushing onward like a frightened
thing, screamed its terror over the desert whose majesty did not even
permit of its catching up the shriek of the panting engine to fling it
back in echoes. The desert ignored, and before and behind the
onrushing train the deep serenity of the waste places was undisturbed.
Within the train the desert was nothing. Man's work defied the heat
and the sand and the sullen frown outside. Here in the Pullman
smoking-car were luxury, comfort, and companionship. Behind drawn
shades were the whir of electric fans, an ebon-faced porter in snowy
linen, the clink of ice in long, misted glasses, the cool fragrance
of crushed mint. Even the fat man in shirt-sleeves reading the Denver
_Times_, alternately drawing upon his fat cigar and sipping the glass
of beer at his elbow, was not distressing to look upon. The four men
busy over their daily game of solo might have been at ease in their
own club.
At one end of the long car two young men dawdled in languid comfort,
their bodies sprawling loosely in two big, soft arm-chairs, a tray
with a couple of half-emptied high-ball glasses upon the table between
them. They had created an atmosphere of their own about them, an
atmosphere constituted of the blue haze from cigarettes mingled with
trivial talk. The immensity outside might have bored them, so their
shade was drawn low.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25