We reluctantly consented.  The tea was well made and well served.

[Illustration:  BREAKFAST EN ROUTE]

In an instant, as it seemed, we were crossing a dark river, on which reposed several immense, many-storied river-steamers, brilliantly lit.  I had often seen illustrations of these craft, but never before the reality.  A fine sight-and it made me think of Mark Twain’s incomparable masterpiece, Life on the Mississippi, for which I would sacrifice the entire works of Thackeray and George Eliot.  We ran into a big town, full of electric signs, and stopped.  Albany!  One minute late!  I descended to watch the romantic business of changing engines.  I felt sure that changing the horses of a fashionable mail-coach would be as nothing to this.  The first engine had already disappeared.  The new one rolled tremendous and overpowering toward me; its wheels rose above my head, and the driver glanced down at me as from a bedroom window.  I was sensible of all the mystery and force of the somber monster; I felt the mystery of the unknown railway station, and of the strange illuminated city beyond.  And I had a corner in my mind for the thought:  “Somewhere near me Broadway actually ends.”  Then, while dark men under the ray of a lantern fumbled with the gigantic couplings, I said to myself that if I did not get back to my car I should probably be left behind.  I regained my state-room and waited, watch in hand, for the jerk of restarting.  I waited half an hour.  Some mishap with the couplings!  We left Albany thirty-three minutes late.  Habitues of the train affected nonchalance.  One of them offered to bet me that “she would make it up.”  The admirals and captains avoided our gaze.

We dined, a la carte; the first time I had ever dined a la carte on any train.  An excellent dinner, well and sympathetically served.  The mutton was impeccable.  And in another instant, as it seemed, we were running, with no visible flags, through an important and showy street of a large town, and surface-cars were crossing one another behind us.  I had never before seen an express train let loose in the middle of an unprotected town, and I was naif enough to be startled.  But a huge electric sign—­“Syracuse bids you welcome”—­tranquilized me.  We briefly halted, and drew away from the allurement of those bright streets into the deep, perilous shade of the open country.

I went to bed.  The night differed little from other nights spent in American sleeping-cars, and I therefore will not describe it in detail.  To do so might amount to a solecism.  Enough to say that the jerkings were possibly less violent and certainly less frequent than usual, while, on the other hand, the halts were strangely long; one, indeed, seemed to last for hours; I had to admit to myself that I had been to sleep and dreamed this stoppage.