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Page 62:-
"Here," said Thomas, "we may be luxuriously lazy; other
people will travel for us, as it were, and we shall laugh at
their folly."
It was a Junction-Station, where the wooden razors before
mentioned shaved the air very often, and where the sharp
electric-telegraph bell was in a very restless condition.
All manner of cross-lines of rails came zig-zaging into it,
like a Congress of iron vipers; and a little way out of it,
a points-man in an elevated signal-box was constantly going
through the motions of drawing immense quantities of beer at
a public-house bar. In one direction, confused perspectives
of embankments and arches were to be seen from the platform;
in the other, the rails soon disentangled themselves into
two tracks, and shot away under a bridge, and curved round a
corner. Sidings were there, in which empty luggage-vans and
cattle-boxes often butted against each other as if they
couldn't agree; and warehouses were there, in which great
quantities of goods seemed to have taken the veil (of the
consistency of tarpaulin), and to have retired from the
world without any hope of getting back to it.
Refreshment-rooms were there; one, for the hungry and
thirsty Iron Locomotives where their coke and water were
ready, and of good quality, for they were dangerous to play
tricks with; the other, for the hungry and thirsty human
Locomotives, who might take what they could get, and whose
chief consolation was provided in the form of three terrific
urns or vases of white metal, containing nothing, each
forming a breast-work for a defiant and much-injured woman.
Established at this Station, Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis
Goodchild resolved to enjoy it. But, its contrasts were very
violent, and there was also an infection in it.
First, as to its contrasts. They were only two, but they
were Lethargy and Madness. The Station was either totally
unconscious, or wildly raving. By day, in its unconscious
state, it looked as if no life could come to it, - as if it
were all rust, dust, and ashes - as if the last train for
ever, had gone without issuing any Return-Tickets - as if
the last Engine had uttered its last shriek and burst. One
awkward shave of the air from the wooden razor, and
everything changed. Tight office-doors flew open, panels
yielded, books, newspapers, travelling-caps and wrappers
broke out of brick walls, money
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