The Emotions of a “Mug.”

If you are a railwayman, probably you have ridden the footplate. In any case, let me tell you my feelings on riding an engine for the first time—the emotions of a “mug.”

I had imagined a breathless rushing through the air, a deafening roar and rumble, showers of sparks and cinders, and a fireman dripping with sweat and stoking like one of the minions of Hell. Instead, I found order, cleanliness, a fleck or two of soot, a pleasant pulsating rumble, and less sense of speed than the passenger experiences in his carriage.

But I enjoyed other experiences of a higher order, the chief of which, perhaps, was the unobstructed view ahead: miles of twin silver threads converging to a point and disappearing round a far bend, while distant specks rushed forward, unfolded themselves as buds of scenery, burst into full view, and then made way for other moving vistas.

And the scents of the countryside which flung themselves through the open cab windows in waves and ripples of “feeling”—clover, hay, smouldering raupo, the scent of cows. It was as if Nature had pumped jets of her assorted perfumes through our windows.

But let's start from the beginning, which is the tunnels between Thorndon and Ngaio, near Wellington.

A black portal rushes at us, light disappears, and a hot, suffocating blanket

(Railway Publicity photo.)
“A squirt of oil here, a pause, and an extra squint there.”

descends upon us. It grows hotter, and the blanket is wound tighter round our heads. We try not to breathe and, when we're forced to do so, it seems that we are inhaling burning brimstone. A sense of suffocation takes possession of us. We feel that we must struggle and kick against it. The heat seems to be lifting the skin off our faces. We wonder how much longer we can bear it—and then we puff into daylight; the air clears, and we find the driver and fireman looking as we had not been anywhere near the portals of Hell. The second tunnel does not seem so bad, and we believe that we could become accustomed to suffocation in time.

We observe the driver sitting at his window, right elbow on the sill, left hand lightly touching the control lever. Occasionally his left hand changes from control to Westinghouse; the while, his glance is set ahead.