no vehicles of any kind had met my eye, nor had I heard any sound indicating their presence. The vehicle in which Utis now approached was, in form and construction, not unlike a two-seated tricycle. The motive-power, however, was not supplied by the muscles of the rider, but by a compact electric motor, placed beneath the seat.
First starting at a moderate speed, we crossed the open square, then proceeded at a rapidly increasing rate down the main street of the village. A clear note, like that from a silver horn, and emitted from an instrument governed by a key inserted in the tiller, served to give warning of our approach. This was the more necessary, because, the entire roadway being laid with a concrete as smooth and hard as stone, our curricle—as I may freely render the native appellation of our vehicle—sped on its course as noiselessly as a shadow.
Like all the main roads, this roadway was divided into three nearly equal divisions by four rows of trees. The central, somewhat broader division, was reserved for curricles. The outer divisions were assigned to the vehicles that carried on the heavy traffic. These were of about the dimensions of a farmer's wagon, and had each its own motor, capable of exerting a force of five or six horsepower. Their low wheels were provided with exceedingly broad tires, so as not to injure the roadway. About six miles an hour was their permitted limit of speed, and they were not allowed to cross the central road without special precautions.
Human life was not held so cheap as now, when a brakeman or two a day is considered a slight sacrifice to
