Yet the locomotive, burning its cars, was still at the same level, giving the impression of a great calm near a geyser. . . It seemed to carry no living soul besides Miss Elson, who was following with an overexcited and inexplicable curiosity the contortions – which were certainly fairly grotesque – of our distant shadow. William Elson, Arthur Gough, and the mechanics stood motionless. As for ourselves, lined up in the pale light of our lamp, and so cramped into our masks that we were only. slightly caressed by the mighty hurricane created by our speed, we were reliving, I think, to judge from my own feelings, our evenings as children, under the lamplight, bending over our homework on the table. And we seemed to be re-creating one of my visions on such an evening: a large death’s-head moth had gotten in my window and, taking no notice, curiously enough, of the lamp, went seeking with warlike passion its own shadow cast on the ceiling by the flame, banging it again and again with all the battering rams of its hairy body: whack, whack, whack. . .

Immersed in these thoughts or this reverie, I did not notice that the vibrations caused by our speed had put out the lamp, and yet the same odd outline, still visible because the track was very white and the night quite clear, was “leading the pack” fifty yards in front!

It could not have been projected by the locomotive’s headlamps: the very kerosene from both lamps had long since gone to add more heat to the darkening boiler.

Still, there is no such thing as a ghost – then what could this shadow be?

Corporal Gilbey hadn’t noticed that our lamp had gone out, otherwise he would have sharply reprimanded Bob Rumble. Jovial and practical as ever, he encouraged us with his catcalls:

“Come on, boys, let’s catch up with it! It can’t hold out for long! We’re gaining on it. It’s running out of oil; that’s no shadow, it’s a turnspit!”

In the vast silence of the night, we hurried even more.

Suddenly. . . I heard. . . I thought I heard something like the chirping of a bird, but it had a singularly metallic tone.

I was not mistaken: there was a noise, somewhere in front, a clanking noise. . .

I was sure of what was causing it, and I wanted to cry out, to call the corporal, but I was too terrified by my discovery.

The shadow was creaking like an old weathercock!

There was no longer any doubt about the only really extraordinary occurrence of the race: the appearance of the Road hog.

And yet I shall never believe that anyone, man or devil, could have followed – and passed – us during the Ten Thousand Miles!