Railing Under Sealed Orders.

A mystery train is not trained like other trains. It rails under sealed orders, and its assembly is a dissembly in the dead of night. Each member of its crew wears his Sunday clothes, so that no one knows his mate. They all wear rubber collars to soften their voices to a whisper. The driver's oil-can contains the spirit of mystery, and the furnace is fed with coal from Scotland Yard. The guard is disguised as a guide, and wears yodels on his hat. The shunters wear tamashunters on their heads and chamois-punters on their feet, so that they will not wake the sleepers. Even the engine's pants are of a subdued design, and its cow-catcher is cowed. The carriages all have their seats turned back to front so that they know not whether they are going or coming back, and their windows are blinded. The van is disguised as a “why” wagon, and the rails are wrapped in sausage skin to add to the mystery. Even the wheel-tapper plays “taps” with a rubber hammer, and is Scotch, thus ensuring dead silence. Every carriage is turned three times on the turn-table to make it giddy, and the ticket clerk is hypnotised into the belief that he is Christopher Columbus or the Wandering Juniper. When dissembled, the train is cleaned by secret-service men with vacuum cleaners, and is then ready to go where it doesn't know it's going. Even the stationmaster walks backwards, and the porters port their helms to starboard when they report. Is it any wonder that mystery trains provide more thrill than a banana skin on a spiral staircase.

One of these days some one will write a thriller called “The Mystery of the Mystery Train,” wherein the Terrible Three are kidnapped, and the secret screwed out of them with screw-jacks and ticket punches. Then everyone will know where the mystery train is going, except the train and the staff, and the mystery will be one on the mystery train.