Near Syracuse, along the tracks of the New York Central, a night flyer sped westward. No whistles blew. No bell sounded. Faster and faster it glided, past green lights at little stations, red lights at crossings; and the clicking of the ties became a dreamy foxtrot drumming in the ears of people who twisted on lumpy mattresses in small green coffins in its shadowy Pullman cars. A suddenly frightened fireman stared out at the flying night, then made his way forward and peered into the engine cab. At the throttle was a...
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