Then I lost my breath, and when I got it back I found it wasn't
mine.
Then I began to fan myself with my hat, but I stopped when the man
behind me began to kick because I was handing him more than his
just share of the tunnel gas.
Then I began, to choke up again, and then I coughed, and then I
could feel something fat and mysterious playing hide and go seek
around my brain, but outside all was black as ink, and only from
the noise could I tell that the road was still paying dividends.
The air began to get close and thick like a porterhouse steak in a
St. Louis hotel.
I began to breathe like my wife crochets an open-faced
stocking--one, two, three, drop one; one, two, three, four, drop
one.
Then my blood began to curdle and cold chills ran up my back and
liked it so well they ran down again.
My respiration was 8 to 1, my inspiration was 9 to 6 for a place,
and my perspiration was like a cloudburst.
I had made my will with a few mental and Indian reservations, and
was choking up for the last time when, with one mighty jump
forward, the train shook itself free from the tunnel and once more
we were out in the sunlight.
After picking enough sulphur off my clothes to make a box of
matches, I reached gently over and tried to put the window up, but
it was closed tighter than a sacred saloon on Sunday.
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