This illusion was helped by its low-browed, rocky head, crouching
close to the end of the "fill," its length concealed in the clefts
of the rocks--as if lying in wait for whatever crossed its path--
as well as its ragged, half-round, catfish gash of a mouth from
out of which poured at regular intervals a sickening breath--
yellow, blue, greenish often--and from which, too, often came
dulled explosions, followed by belchings of debris which
centipedes of cars dragged clear of its slimy lips.
So I reiterate, The Beast knew.
Every day the gang had bored and pounded and wrenched, piercing
his body with nervous, nagging drills; propping up his backbone,
cutting out tender bits of flesh, carving--bracing--only to carve
again. He had tried to wriggle and twist, but the mountain had
held him fast. Once he had straightened out, smashing the tiny
cars and the tugging locomotive; breaking a leg and an arm, and
once a head, but the devils had begun again, boring and digging
and the cruel wound was opened afresh.
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