Somebody said something of the kind.

"Better be held up now," said a sententious man, "than be killed for
want of prudence."

No one was prepared to deny this, but we resented its truth and
availed ourselves of a true-born free Briton's right to doubt the
wisdom of those in authority. We all, in short, looked as though
we knew better than engine-driver, signalman or guard. That is our
_métier_.

Some moments, which, as in all delays on the line, seemed like hours,
passed and nothing happened. Looking out I saw heads and shoulders
protruding from every window, with curiosity stamped on all their
curves.

"They should tell us what's the matter," said an impatient man.
"That's one of the stupid things in England--no one ever tells you
what's wrong. No tact in this country--no imagination."

We all agreed. No imagination. It was the national curse.

"And yet," said another man with a smile, "we get there."

"Ah! that's our luck," said the impatient man. "We have luck far
beyond our deserts." He was very cross about it.

Again the first man to speak hoped it was not an accident; and again
the second man, fearing that someone might have missed it, repeated
the old jest about presence of mind and absence of body.