And then, in that fraction of a minute, in the middle of this isolated tower on the trans-Siberian steppe, as we emerged from its empty interior, we all heard the echo of a loud voice that seemed to have entered immediately behind the locomotive. This voice cursed, swore, and fulminated.

I distinctly made out this preposterous phrase, uttered in good English – doubtless so that it should not be lost on us:

“You’re cutting my shoulder, you hog’s head!”

Then a muffled impact.

We were already coming out of the curve, and, through the sort of gateway we had a few seconds before found empty, we now came upon a barrel of that very capacity that the English call a hogshead, holding fifty-four gallons – with a large rectangular opening at its bung and, near the middle, provided with two straps like the shoulder straps of a soldier’s knapsack, as though it had been carried on a man’s back. This barrel was rocking, like any rounded object that has just been brutally flung down on the ground, like a child’s cradle.

The cowcatcher of the locomotive hit it like a football, spattering the rails and the track with a little water and sheaves of roses. Some of them, still revolving, stuck on to our blown-out tires by their thorns.

The night of the fourth day was falling. Although it had taken us three days to reach the turn, if we continued at the same speed we should be at the finish of the Ten Thousand Miles within twenty-four hours.

As the darkness came on I cast one last glance at the speedometer, which I would not be seeing again before the dawn. As I looked, the silken thread, writhing and trembling at the edge of the speedometer frame, flared up in the form of a bright blue spindle, and suddenly all was dark.

Then, as though under a shower of meteorites, blows rained down upon us, blows both hard and soft, sharp, feathery, bleeding, howling, and lugubrious, caught in our speeding path like flies, and our machine swerved and bumped against the still seemingly motionless locomotive. They remained in contact for the space of a few yards, though the mechanical movements of our legs did not stop.

“Nothing,” said the corporal. “Birds.”

We were no longer sheltered behind the tow cars, and it is remarkable that no such accident had befallen us earlier, as soon as the flying funnel was released.

At that moment, without even a word from the corporal, the midget, Bob Rumble, crawled toward me on his tow rod, to bring all his weight to bear on the rear wheel and so increase its traction. This maneuver informed me that our speed was still increasing.

I heard the chatter of his teeth, and realized that Bob Rumble had only come closer to escape what he called the “something following us.”