Along the winding sides of the mountains have been laid two rails like
steel ribbons for a dozen miles, from the coal beds to water and
railroad transportation. Put a half dozen loaded cars on the track,
and with one man at the brake, lest gravitation should prove too
willing a helper, away they go, through the springtime freshness or the
autumn glory, spinning and singing down to the point of universal
distribution.
[Illustration: Incline at Mauch Chunk.]
On one occasion the brake for some reason would not work. The cars
just flew like an arrow. The man's hair stood up from fright and the
wind. Coming to a curve the cars kept straight on, ran down a bank,
dashed right into the end of a house and spilled their whole load in
the cellar. Probably no man ever laid in a winter's supply of coal so
quickly or so undesirably.
But how do we get the cars back? It is pleasant sliding down hill on a
rail, but who pulls the sled back? Gravitation. It is just as willing
to work both ways as one way.
Think of a great letter X a dozen miles long.
Lay it down on the side against three or four rough hills. Bend the X
till it will fit the curves and precipices of these hills. That is the
double track. Now when loaded cars have come down one bar of the X by
gravity, draw them up by a sharp incline to the upper end of the other
bar, and away they go by gravity to the other end.
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