Roger grabbed his hat with one hand and the side of the car with the other.
"They'll look back on a mile a minute," said Bruce, "as we look back on stage coach days! And in the rush hour there'll be a rush that'll make you think of pneumatic tubes! Not a sound nor a quiver--_just pure speed!_ Shooting people home at night at a couple of hundred miles an hour! The city will be as big as that! And there won't be any accidents and there won't be any smoke.

Instead of coal they'll use the sun! And, my God, man, the boulevards--and parks and places for the kids! The way they'll use the River--and the ocean and the Sound! The Catskills will be Central Park! Sounds funny, don't it--but it's true.

I've studied it out from A to Z.
This town is choking itself to death simply because we're so damn slow! We don't know how to spread ourselves! All this city needs is speed!" "Bruce," said Roger anxiously, "just go a bit easy on that gas.

The fact is, it was a great mistake for me to eat those crabs to-night." Bruce slowed down compassionately, and soon they turned and started home.
And as they drew near the glow of the town, other streets and boulevards poured more motors into the line, until at last they were rushing along amid a perfect bedlam made up of honks and shrieks of horns.

The air grew hot and acrid, and looking back through the bluish haze of smoke and dust behind him Roger could see hundreds of huge angry motor eyes.