The Wabbit had only just settled back and started his puzzle
magazine, when the coach took off at breakneck speed. Soon it was hurtling
along the motorway, past cars and lorries and other coaches. It was so quick
that the coach shook from side to side and the Wabbit found it hard to grip the carrot aperitivo that had mysteriously appeared on a small table
beside him. Faster and faster went the coach. Trees and bridges and pylons and telegraph
poles flashed past the window as it sped through tiny hamlets, then villages,
then towns and finally the outskirts of several big cities. "Phew,"
thought the Wabbit. "This is more than I bargained for." The
Wabbit soothed his neves by insisting to himself that this was indeed a mystery
tour and mystery was the whole point. But he had an uncanny feeling that he
wasn’t going anywhere scenic. Then the coach zoomed through industrial areas
full of factories and depots and the Wabbit looked with interest at some areas
of urban dereliction. "Mmm," said the Wabbit, "perhaps we're on
an archaeological excursion," and he felt in his fur for his
archaeological tool kit, which contained small instruments and brushes. But the
Wabbit had left it in his other coat and he had to be content with a crack
hammer and chisel which somehow had fallen out the tool roll. But the coach
rolled on and on and it didn’t stop until it reached the centre of the
city. The Wabbit looked out with horror. "Oh no, I’m home in Turin!” he
groaned.
