He began at once to look for a place where Baldy might be led down in safety. This wasimpossible where he stood—it was far too steep and rocky. A detour made with infinite pains and exertion brought him to the cabin by a path that he thought the sure-footed beast might follow.
How John found his way to the half-frozen beast and then slowly got him back to the cabin he never knew. Only his indomitable pluck and his training pulled him through. But at last the terrible journey was safely accomplished, and boy and steed stood before the low door.
John took off the saddle, and the intelligent animal, bending his knees a little, squeezed through. The boy followed, throwing the saddle blanket over the horse's shivering flanks and wondering if they were safe, even now. At best it was a poor shelter; the wind blew the sharp, powdery snow through the chinks in the logs and kept the temperature almost as low within as without, but at least there was a roof and a wind break.
After a short rest, John scrambled up the slope to the dead tree and broke off some branches. The wood was still dry, except on the very outside, and made good kindling. Soon a fire was blazing, and boy and beast absorbed the heat gratefully. Only those who have suffered great and deadly cold can realize the delight of sittingbefore a blaze once more. The very sight of the flames puts life into the veins and makes a mere nightmare of what was just now a grim and awful reality.
Thoroughly warmed, and with new courage and strength, John went outside again and began to stop up the chinks with snow and to scrape banks of it up against the walls. The heat from within melted the inner surface, which afterwards froze and prevented the wind from blowing it away.
All day John was kept busy gathering wood and patching the walls. By nightfall a good supply of fuel had been collected and the little cabin was by comparison comfortable. There was little sleep for the boy that night, however. The fury of the storm did not abate; the wind howled round their little refuge, shaking it so it seemed as if it would be impossible for it to withstand the blast.
All night long he listened to the roaring of the wind, taking "cat naps" during the short lulls that came at intervals. The fire required constant replenishment, and Baldy, unaccustomed to confinement in such a small space, was so restless that continual watchfulness was necessary to keep from under his feet, though the good horse would never have harmed his young master exceptby accident. Both boy and beast began also to suffer greatly from hunger.
At dawn the gale subsided somewhat, and John realized that he must get food at once if his life and that of his horse were to be saved. Breaking through the snow bank which had piled up against the rude door, he made his way to a creek half a mile down the mountain and cut with his knife an armful of poplar saplings and carried them back to the hut. Baldy tore off the bark from these and munched it contentedly; another armful was added to the store, and then John bade his equine friend good-by and started off to find food and shelter for himself.
The six miles that separated the lonely cabin from the mining camp were the longest and most trying that John had ever travelled, he thought. Great drifts barred his way, the wind, still strong, blew in his face and seemed bent on his destruction, his empty stomach weakened him, and lack of sleep undermined his resolution.
From dawn till noon day he battled with the snow, and when at last he reached his father's house he was hardly able to answer the questions which his overjoyed family put to him.
A man was sent back to look after Baldy. He found that good horse chewing poplar bark as calmly as if he was in his own stable, though thecabin was so small and the horse so large in comparison that it appeared to be resting on his back, like the howdah on an elephant. For several days Baldy was kept in the cabin and fed on hay, which had to be carried to him on foot; then, after considerable trouble, for a trail had to be stamped down much of the way, he was led back in triumph to the camp, where John, rather weak in the knees, greeted him joyfully.
For a week Ragged Edge Camp did not receive any mail. Late one afternoon John appeared on snowshoes, bearing the precious packet. He had to repeat his story many times, and Burns had the satisfaction of qualifying his admiration of the boy's pluck with an emphatic "I told you so."
John continued to carry the mail between Ragged Edge Camp and the railroad every three or four days: at first on foot, then, as the snow melted, on his faithful Baldy once more.
Though his work took him away from camp much of the time, John was continually running foul of the boys who belonged to the other faction, and Ben was the object of their unceasing abuse. A crowd of these fellows would stop their games and yell at them those taunts which are so exasperating to a boy:
"There go those Western jays."
HE ... BUCKS, PITCHES, KICKS. (Page 265.)
"Look at the kids that don't know the difference between a baseball and a lump of mud."
It was true that our boys were not up on the national game or any other game played simply for amusement; their sports were merely another form of some kind of work.
Then the camp boys began to taunt John on his fighting abilities, their object being to get him to stand up against some one who would be sure to beat him. This was one of John's weak points; he was immensely proud of his prowess as a fighter; so when one of the boys said in his presence: "Worth said to-day that he could lick Casey," he did not correct the falsehood there and then, but put on an air of superiority that had the effect desired. Casey, though not a big fellow, was out of his 'teens, and had the reputation of being a "scrapper from 'way back," as the boys said. He also heard the young mischief-maker's statement. "Jab him, Casey; he's only a bluffer," said several of his companions. He could not ignore the challenge which was plainly indicated, and, according to boy customs, not to be avoided. Few boys know how much bravery it takes to dare an unjust imputation of cowardice. John and Casey were soon talking hotly—not that they had anything against each other, but they were being egged on and neithercould withstand the pressure. The result was a fight, the consequences of which had great influence, on one of the principals at least.
Casey was really a grown man, and John had never fought in earnest with one old enough to wear a mustache, but his blood was up now and he would not back down.
The two retired behind a large stable and a crowd of men and boys formed a ring.
"Keep him at arm's length," whispered Ben, as he took off his brother's coat andcinchedup his belt firmly round his waist. "Don't let him hug you and you'll lick him, sure." Ben spoke confidently, but he was in reality consumed with anxiety. John said nothing, but the look of reckless determination on his face spoke volumes.
The two antagonists now stood face to face, but neither had yet struck a blow. "How do you want to fight?" Casey asked.
"You fight your way and I'll fight my way," John answered; and at the word struck out. The crowd yelled "Foul," but neither took any notice. The blow was not a hard one, but it served its purpose, for it stopped the talk and began open hostilities.
Casey came at John, his arms jerking back and forth, but hitting nothing. John drew his lead and then, as his guard was lowered, threw in hisown left with staggering effect. This angered Casey greatly, and he rushed his opponent in a vain effort to get in a deciding blow at once; but his rushes were avoided nimbly, and as his defence was careless many blows were rained on his head and body. Evidently the boy knew more about boxing than he did, Casey thought, and as the method of fighting was left undecided he determined to change his tactics. In a rough-and-tumble fight he knew his age and strength would tell. To close in and grapple with John was his purpose now. So far the battle was in the boy's favor, and a number of the wavering ones came over to his side. "He's getting low now, Worth. Swing on him," said one of them; and John, acting on the advice, quickly landed a stiff one on the jaw. Casey fell, but John stood to one side and waited till he got up. He was angry clear through. Again and again he rushed, but was beaten off each time. He aimed a savage blow, which John almost succeeded in dodging. It landed lightly, but gave Casey the opportunity he sought and they clinched, the miner hugging with all his might.
"Oh, John!" muttered Ben.
"Good work," yelled the crowd, who had suddenly deserted to Casey's side.
It was the greatest squeeze that John had everhad. The blood rushed to his head, his breathing became more and more difficult, but still he struggled, twisted, and strained, and at last both fell and the man's terrible grip was loosened. He did not let go, however, and in a couple of seconds both were on their feet and struggling with might and main to gain the mastery. Again they went down, this time John underneath and on his back. The crowd paused an instant before pulling Casey off, but during that pause he made good use of his time, raining blow after blow on John's upturned face. John was licked.
Most of the spectators followed the victor, but some remained behind, not to sympathize and condole, but to jeer at John's defeat and laugh at his discomfiture. It was gall and bitterness to the boy, and he was glad to get away out of earshot. Ben helped him put on his clothes and led him down to the creek to bathe his bruised face. "What's the matter with your hand?" Ben said suddenly, as he noticed the blood trickling over the knuckles of his brother's right hand.
"He chewed it," John answered.
"What! bit you!" Ben exclaimed.
"My arm was around his neck and he grabbed my thumb in his mouth. He wouldn't have got me so easy but for that."
For a time neither boy said a word. How aman could do such "dirty work" as Ben said, was more than he could understand.[A]
[A]John Worth bears the marks of Casey's teeth on his thumb to this day.
[A]John Worth bears the marks of Casey's teeth on his thumb to this day.
On the way back to the house several fellows stopped to call at John as he went by, for the news had spread. He realized that it would take a long time to live down this disgrace. His heart was sore; it seemed as if this was the culmination of all his hardships; he felt as if his life had been all work and no play, that his efforts to do his duty had not been appreciated, that though other boys might enjoy themselves much of the time (and he had seen them in this very camp) he must work, work, work; he felt, in short, very much abused and at swords' points with everybody—his brother excepted. One more blow of bad luck, he thought, would "cap the climax" and would result in he knew not what desperation.
Before the boys had reached the house the news of his defeat had been made known there, and Mr. Worth, thinking that John had become more or less a bully, determined that the lesson he had received should be a lasting one.
"Hello, John!" he said jovially, as the two boys came slowly in, "you met your match to-day, I hear. Whipped you well, didn't he?"
John hung his head and tried to hide the tears that would rush out over his swollen cheeks.
"Hold up here, let me see your face," said the father roughly. "Well, he did give it to you: eyes blacked, face scratched, mouth swollen—you're a sight. You'll be more careful next time, I guess," he added.
John turned on his heel and left the room.
"Ben," he said, on meeting his brother outside, "I'm going away."
"Going away?" Ben repeated in wonder. "Where are you going?"
"I don't know; I don't care. I'm not going to show my face in camp again; even father at home laughs and jeers at me. I'm going to leave to-night."
"I'm glad I'm going, Ben, but I'm sorry to leave you; you'll go back and tell them I've gone—and be good to Baldy, won't you? I'll write to you when I get to Helena."
It was long past midnight, and Ben was starting his brother on his journey to the great city that neither had seen. It was his present objective point; how far beyond he would go he did not dream.
"How much money have you?" inquired Ben anxiously.
"Nearly ten dollars, with your three. That'll keep me going till I get a job."
"But say, John, wait a few days and we can sell a horse or a saddle." Ben hung on to his brother's arm and tried to pull him back; his small, freckled face was full of entreaty and trouble. "Regan will buy the three-year-old after pay day. You'd better wait."
"Oh, I've thought of all that," said John. "Icould ride the colt off, for that matter, but I'm not going to take away a thing—except enough money to last till I get work."
"Don't forget to write, John, will you? They'll blame me at home for not telling about this, so don't make it too hard for me." Ben's voice was not very steady, and the note of appeal in it affected John greatly. "Tell me if work is plenty, for I'm going myself before long—I'll be so lonesome."
They shook hands without a word, each turning his face away, ashamed of the tears that would come despite their efforts to suppress them.
"Good-by."
"Good-by."
Ben turned down the trail toward home and John continued on in the opposite direction. Day was just breaking; the stars still shone above, while the sun's mellow light brightened the east. Neither boy had any eyes for the beauties of the sunrise; it was hard for them to part and neither could think of anything else. They had been not only brothers but "pardners." Never beforehad they been separated. Rocked in the same shoe-box cradle, playing with the same rude toys, sharing the same pleasures and the same fears, braving the same dangers, and dividing bread or blanket when need be, they had grown up so closely that they did not realize the bond till it was about to be broken.
Brothers still they would be, but "pardners" never again.
When out of sight, each, unknown to the other, dropped to the earth and cried bitterly. Ben's share of grief was the heavier. No change of scene for him; no excitement of anticipated adventure; no new sights, experiences, or friends; the world was not spread out before him to enter at will and to roam over; none of the delights of freedom were to fall to his lot. Only duty, weary, commonplace, devoid of companionship and boyish sympathy. He went sorrowfully home.
John, his cry over, felt better. The sun was now coming out in his full strength, the birds poured forth melody, the cool morning was refreshing. In spite of the parting wrench he could not help feeling exhilarated, and the thought that, no matter what might happen, he was free, made him almost joyous. He sprang up, dashed the tears from his eyes, and startedalong the trail, shouting aloud: "I don't care." He repeated it again and again, trying to convince himself that he really didn't care.
It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to; he knew his father's character, and he did not fear pursuit. He wished now that he had walked manfully up to him and told him. "But he laughed at me," he said aloud, arguing with himself. "I donotcare," this between his teeth; and then he marched on, his head held high, defiantly.
It was fifteen miles to the railroad, John knew; but how much further to Helena he had no idea—he had not thought of it before.
The trail he was following led him across the range down to the main road on Savage Creek. The mountain walk was fine, the air cool and bracing, the sounds of bird and insect grateful. Before long he reached the creek and drank deeply of its clear waters, washing his bruised face and hands. This he did gingerly, for his wounds were still fresh and his bitten thumb, which no one at home had seen, pained him exceedingly. The danger from a wound by the human tooth is very great, but John realized nothing but the pain.
The slices of bread and meat which Ben had wrapped in an old newspaper for him were eatenwith relish. Though he was somewhat tired, and his body still stiff from the hard usage of the day before, he could not bear to sit still and think. At intervals the tears welled up in spite of his efforts to keep them back. "I won't think," he said, and repeated his assertion, "I don't care," to keep his courage up.
A piece of bread still in his hand, munching as he walked, he struck off down the trail at a strong pace, resolved to reach the railroad and get to Helena quick.
After several miles of sharp walking along the Savage Creek road, he heard the heavychug-chugand rattle of freight wagons ahead of him. He soon overtook them and hailed the driver.
"Hello, kid; where'd you come from?" called that worthy cheerily, from his perch on the near wheel mule, his leg thrown carelessly over the horn of the saddle, the picture of contentment.
"Up the road a way," answered John evasively. "How far is it to the railroad?"
"What d'ye want of the railroad?" asked the "mule skinner" sharply, bringing his foot down and sitting erect.
John knew that these freighters did not look with favor on the railroads or with any one or thing connected with them, for they declared bitterlythat the railroads robbed them of their business.
"It's only a couple of miles to the railroad," the man continued. "But it's eighteen miles to a station. A railroad's no good without a station; climb in this and take a ride."
John climbed up as the wagon moved slowly along. He was tired, and the cheerful "mule skinner" was a desirable companion, for the time at least. The man lifted his leg again and turned in his saddle, the better to talk to his passenger.
"I was comin' down the road last month," he began, "and the pesky train half a mile away scared my mules nigh out of their wits. Mules don't like trains; don't blame them neither. It's thrown the critters out of work and is forcin' me clear out o' business—how there, you Mag!" he interrupted himself to shout, as the dainty-footed mule swerved to avoid a mud-hole. "Notice that mule?" queried the teamster.
John nodded an assent.
"She's one of the finest near leaders in the country; watch her gee." A long jerk line ran from the driver's saddle to the bit of the near leader of the eight-mule team. He pulled the line gently and the leader swung promptly to the right. He pulled steadily and the intelligent animal swung back into the road.
"See that? Only a touch and she's awake. That mule's a dandy; been offered two hundred for her—she's little, too." John only nodded, but the teamster, glad enough to have a listener, rattled on about his grievances, the all-absorbing railroads and the men who ran them and spoiled his business.
The wagon did not travel fast enough for the impatient passenger, so before long he scrambled down again.
"Must you go?" inquired the teamster. "Well, you leave the wagon road at the third bridge ahead, and if you cut across to your left you'll come to the railroad." The boy thanked him and started off on a brisk walk down the road. "But it's eighteen miles to a station, and a railroad's no good without a station," shouted the mule skinner, determined to have one more rap at the iron trail.
"So long," yelled the boy in return, and continued at a brisk pace, in his effort to drown gloomy feelings by rapid motion.
At the third bridge he left the road, struck across to the left, and came upon the railroad. It was a disappointment, though he found all that could be expected when a "station is eighteen miles away." The shining rails stretched away, before and behind him, till they ran together inthe distance. The journey was a weary one, the track rough with boulders, the ties hard and unyielding to his heel, and just too near together to allow of an easy stride. Momentarily the heat of the sun increased, and the track seemed to reflect it back more intensely. There was no shade and the heavens were brazen. He stopped at every brook to drink and bathe his blistering feet and cool his aching hand. Though he had eaten nothing since early morning he did not feel hunger, except in its weakening effect. On and on he trudged, hour after hour, until swinging his legs became mechanical and he ceased to feel even weariness. At length a cooling rain began to fall, wetting him thoroughly and arousing him to faint gratitude for the relief it brought.
Just before nightfall an object loomed up far down the track; it was the station at last! The boy struggled on, limping, his mouth open and dry, his bitten hand swollen to twice its usual size; and now reaching a water tank near the platform, he dropped down by it, cruelly tired.
After a short rest, he raised his head and looked around. Not another building was in sight but the station, and not a morsel of food had he eaten since early morning. "I'll tacklethe station people for something to eat," he said to himself, and, suiting the action to the word, presented himself at the door. A woman was there, but in the dusk she took him for a tramp, slamming the door in his face when he asked for food. His only hope now was to catch a train and reach some settlement. The station agent dashed his last hope by saying that the last train for the night had gone; but noticing the boy's forlorn appearance he spoke to him kindly, so John plucked up courage to say: "Where can I buy something to eat?" The man responded by bringing him food, and, while the boy was gratefully eating, told him that he would be glad to let him rest on the waiting-room floor during the night, but since the rules of the road did not permit of this the best shelter he could offer was a vacant building across the track. John accepted the suggestion gladly, for he was tired in every fibre. "Good night; that supper was bully, thank you," he said to the agent.
"Looks like rain," said the other, following to the door. "Hello, there's a fire in that house already; must be some other fellows there for the night. You'll have company, but look out that they don't rob you. Good night."
As John approached the outhouse he saw through the half-open door a blazing fire and ahalf dozen tough-looking men seated around it, warming themselves and drying their tattered clothes.
A hesitating knock on the door frame received a chorus of "Come ins." The old door swung back on its leather hinges with a jolt and John entered.
The ruddy firelight gleamed on the face of a slovenly fellow who sat beyond the fire. It was a well-fed face, rounded, and not ill-looking in contour, but grimy and littered with little tufts of whisker; a gray flannel shirt, red neckerchief and greasy-collared tan canvas coat clothed the upper part of his body, and John cast his eye about on four other specimens of the same type, seated on ties about the blaze.
"Where from, kid?" asked one, as all turned to observe the newcomer. All they saw was a weary, hesitating boy. "Come up to the fire," they said cordially, and moved to make room for him. "Which way you goin'?"
"I'm going West," he answered, his glance taking in the whole crowd.
"We're goin' West too. Did you come in on that last freight?" asked one.
John shook his head.
"No? Well, we all got put off here a little while ago; the con and other brakies got ontous and fired us. We wanted a sleep anyhow—been ridin' two days straight." (John wondered for a time what "con" and "brakies" meant, but finally concluded that the words might be translated into conductor and brakeman.)
"I walked in," said the boy innocently.
A look of pity showed plainly on each hobo's face as he echoed "Walked?" That any one would walk, with a railroad near, was beyond the comprehension of these tramps, for tramps they were—the regulation kind.
"You're green on the road, kid," said one, whose name was Jimmy, as John soon learned. "You'll soon get sick of counting ties," he continued, gazing curiously at the boy, as did they all. "Why, kid, I've travelled this country from side to side and from top to bottom in the last fifteen years and I've yet to walk a step—except off one side to get feed," he added in explanation.
"But I hadn't money to ride," said John, innocently.
"Money? Ho! ho! Why I haven't seen the color of coin this summer. What d'ye want of money? Beat 'em; we'll show you." He spoke with a sort of professional pride, and the expression was reflected on the faces of the other men.
John's bruised countenance had been noticed,but as he had evidently been whipped in some fistic argument it was etiquette not to question too openly, but to approach the matter indirectly. By degrees they learned that he had had trouble and left home.
"I left home just at his age, boys," said Big Larry, an American-born Irishman.
"That so?" said one encouragingly.
"Yep, 'twas like this. Back in the East—" And Larry launched forth on a recital of the circumstances which led him to "take to the road" and follow it ever since.
Two others had similar experiences. Jimmy, however, frankly admitted that he took to it from choice. "When I was twenty-one," he began, "I was engaged to be married, and expected to settle down and be a family man." This statement seemed to amuse the hoboes, for they laughed uproariously. "My mother—she's a widow," Jimmy continued unmoved, "gave me five hundred dollars to set me up in the butcher business in our town in Ohio. Well, things went on fine till pretty near the happy day, when I began to see that the girl was getting offish and I told her so. She got hot and said something about another chap that I didn't like, and I quit her—quit her cold." A grunt of approval went round the circle.
"It cut me up some and I got to drinkin' a little, and soon I was drinkin' harder. The five hundred my mother gave me and the five hundred I had already saved up went in no time, for before long I was drinkin' like a fish all round the town. My mother wanted me to swear off, and said she'd give me another start, but I knew it wasn't no use and told her so and pulled out of the town on a freight train. Been at it ever since."
"Pretty tough on your mother," said Larry.
"You must 'a' had about a thousand, Jimmy," ventured a less thoughtful one.
"Yes, it was pretty tough on the old lady, but I was no good for that place, and she'd spent enough money on me. Had about a thousand, an' it's more than I've had since all put together, an' more than I'll ever see again," the tramp added, musingly. "I'll never leave the road now; I like it. A man doesn't have to worry about anything, he's better without money an' he gets enough to eat, always seein' new places, learnin' about the country, and findin' new friends."
Most of this speech was made for John's benefit, and he listened with interest.
"Now, boys, not one of us had seen the other forty-eight hours ago, and yet here weare round our fire talkin' sociable, spinnin' yarns and hearin' 'em told; and I'll bet we're happier than any six millionaires in New York city."
"Yes, we are," they said emphatically, in chorus. John thought much and said nothing.
"People s'pose we don't have to work," said Shorty, another of the group, "but I'd like to see them dudes work from Chicago to 'Frisco on a freight train. Why, them fellers don't know a brake beam from a drawhead, to say nothin' of ridin' rods, breakin' seals on box cars, foolin' brakies, and a hundred other of the little fine points of our trade."
"An' then," chimed in another, "if we don't work much, we don't get much, so what's anybody else got to kick about, s'long's we're satisfied?"
Everybody agreed, and the group dropped into a cheerful silence.
John had listened, it must be confessed, rather admiringly; the freedom and apparent ease of the life fascinated him, and he had half a mind to become a hobo. He did not realize the degradation that went with it, the dishonest acts that were necessary to secure food without money, the hardship it entailed, and the constant uncertainty of it all.
CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER. (Page 227.)
The thing that bothered him was the food supply, and he finally ventured the question: "Where will you get your breakfast in the morning?"
"Breakfast? Well, we may not get it till dinner time, but we'll get it. There are a few houses at a gravel pit half a mile ahead, where we got supper last night, but they're hard to work and we'll have to get to Helena before we chew," explained Larry cheerfully. "But you're all right with that hand of yours," broke in Jimmy. "You can work the sore-hand racket all right; just show that to a motherly-looking woman and she'll fill you up quick."
"I worked the sore-hand dodge myself for a beautiful hand-out last night down at the gravel pit," said Shorty.
John began to realize that it was a pretty precarious and mean way of living, to depend on people's generosity for sustenance.
As the evening passed the talk subsided, and when the suggestion to sleep was given there was not a dissenting voice—from John least of all. All lay down in a row, their feet toward the fire. The coats had been taken off and spread over the row so that each made a covering of two thicknesses.
Toward morning the boy was awakened by ahand that fumbled about his pocket—the one which contained his money. Fortunately he had taken the precaution before going to sleep to put his own hand in and grasp the money. His hand was being slowly withdrawn when he quickly turned over, and then, fearing to sleep again, he rose and sat down by the wall, his head against the rough boards.
At daybreak a freight train came rumbling into the station and stopped. In an instant the tramps were up, and, separating, ran for the train. John was left alone, wondering what to do, but only for a minute, for Jimmy came running back, and with a hurried "I'll help you," rushed him over to a pile of ties. When the trainmen had gone into the station, Jimmy took the boy over to a car and pointing under it said: "Never rode a brake beam? Well, I'll show you. See that brake beam?" He pointed out the bar that held the brake shoes and crossed from wheel to wheel under the car. "And those rods running lengthwise from it? Well, you sit on the bar and hold on to the rods. See, like this," and he slipped under the car and sat down on the wooden bar, his legs dangling and his hands grasping the rods. "I see," said John, and in a second had taken Jimmy's place.
"Good, here's my board; I'll get along with mycoat wrapped round if I need to," and he handed a board a foot long and eight inches wide, having a slot cut in one end. This John fitted over the rod, and it gave him a safer and more comfortable seat.
"Here they come; keep dark." Jimmy disappeared, and the conductor's lantern came swinging down toward the engine; his feet crunched the gravel as he passed, and John's heart was in his mouth.
"Pull out at once," was the order, and the engine backed viciously for its start, nearly jerking John from his perch.
"Say, kid, I forgot to tell you"—it was Jim alongside again—"look out and don't get pinched in the air-brake rods; they're bad. When the train's stopping, keep low and you'll be all right. I'm on the next car behind."
The train was now gathering headway, and John wondered how Jimmy would reach the wheel trucks between the now fast revolving wheels. A peculiar sensation came over the boy—half fear, half exhilaration. The whirring wheels clacked and thumped the rail joints, the ties flew underneath dizzily, the dust rose like a fog, and the wind of the train rattled the small stones of the roadbed together; the heavy car swayed above him dangerously near, and John,half choked and wholly terrified, wondered if he would come out of this irresistible whirlwind of a thing alive. All he could do was to grip the rods at his head and hang on.
For a time John could do nothing but hang on like grim death. He was half unconscious; the noise was so great, the dust so thick, and the motion so altogether terrifying that he was nearly stupefied. After a while, however, he noticed that the dreadful racket did not increase, that the clicking of the wheels over the rail joints had become regular, and that all the sounds had a sort of humming rhythm. His nerves quieted down somewhat, and he realized that he was still alive. His grasp on the braking rods overhead relaxed slightly, and he began to look around him—as much as the dust would allow. The train was moving at good speed. The ties below seemed first to rush at the boy threateningly, and then in a twinkling disappeared behind; the telegraph poles along the track had the same menacing attitude and seemed bent on his destruction; objects further off went by more leisurely. It looked as if the whole earth, and everything onit, was trying to run away from the standing train.
John soon found that it made him dizzy to watch the earth slip away from under him, so he turned his eyes to his surroundings. The wheels moved so swiftly that they would have seemed to be standing still were it not for the side motion, alternately checked by the flanges; a spot of mud on the rapidly turning axle looked like a white ring. Though this mode of travelling was dangerous, dirty, and unpleasant in many ways, John decided, in the recollection of his fatigue the day before, it was at least better than walking.
In half an hour the wheels thudded heavily over a switch joint, the speed of the train slackened, and the cylinder of the air brake under the centre of the car groaned a warning. John remembered his instructions and bent low to avoid the big iron lever. He watched it swing slowly toward him—nearer, nearer; the rod attached to it tightened until its vibrations sung in his ear. The train slowed up and then stopped with a jolt. "Phew! that was close," he murmured to himself. He did not dare to get out of his cramped position for fear he would be run over. His eyes, nose, and mouth were filled with dust, his back ached from his stooping posture, and the smell ofgrease and foul air escaping from the released brake was overpowering.
"Come out, kid, it's all right." It was Jimmy who spoke. John crawled out, glad of a change. A short stop was made at the station, during which the boy and the tramp lay in hiding in a ditch.
The engine tooted, and they rushed up the embankment, but before either man or boy could reach his perch the train had begun to move. John managed by following Jimmy's directions to scramble under and on to his brake-beam seat, but by the time he was safely stowed away the car was going at a good speed. The boy feared greatly for his friend's safety. Jimmy, however, seemed entirely unconcerned; he ran alongside and caught one of the side rods that run under every freight car and look like the truss of a bridge; putting his foot on the end of the brake beam, he swung himself under and was soon sitting in state opposite John, but half a car's length from him. This was in reality a very difficult feat, though it seems simple. If, in jumping from the ground to the bar, his foot should slip, it might easily get caught in the revolving wheels, or it would be easy for him to lose his hold when swinging under—sure death would follow in either case. John only breathed comfortablywhen he saw his companion seated in comparative safety on the other braking gear.
Before Helena was reached several such stops were made and John learned to swing himself under to his perilous perch, when the car was in motion, with comparative ease.
It was a long and most tiresome trip for the boy. Although he got accustomed to this mode of travelling before long, the dirt and smells, the constrained position, and the necessity for caution and concealment were all very disagreeable to him. He was overjoyed when he heard one brakeman call to another: "Well, Dick, you'll see your old woman in three hours now."
The train came to a halt before entering the railroad yards of Helena, and Jimmy (who seemed to consider it his duty to look after John) was alongside in a minute. "We'll leave here, kid," he said. "There's p'lecemen in Helena, so I hear, and they nab a man climbing from under a car."
A collection of wooden houses huddled round the station and "yard" was all they saw at first, and John at least was disappointed, for he had heard much of the magnificence of the place. He learned soon that this was but the extreme suburb and that the town itself was some two miles away.
Jimmy was for separating there and then, each to forage for food on his own hook, but John, mindful of his many kindnesses, insisted that they should share the meal which he procured. The supply of ham and eggs and steak that they put away testified not so much to the excellence of the fare as to the keenness of their appetites.
This important business finished, they inquired about the town itself and learned that it was reached by a trolley car. Here was a brand-new experience right away. John had heard of electric cars, but had never seen one, and he thought it a wonderful machine; but even more wonderful was the fact that for a ride of two miles a fare of only five cents was charged. He wished that he had a hundred eyes and almost as many ears, so that he might take in all the strange sights that greeted him at every turn. Jimmy, with transcontinental experience, explained many things in language interlarded with strange hobo slang. When the yellow trolley car finally reached the town, the boy opened his eyes in wonder—here was the real city.
The companions walked along the busy street, which to John's amazement was paved with stone blocks, the sidewalks being covered with bricks and flags. As he saw the crowds of people he thought there must be some sort of a celebrationgoing on. In front of a saloon a number of men were gathered, and among them Jimmy recognized some friends. John, however, was not content to stand and listen to long discussions as to the best routes to travel, the most likely places where "hand-outs" might be had, and all the rest of the talk that tramps indulge in; so he started off on his own hook on a tour of discovery. "Don't get lost, kid," Jimmy shouted, as the boy went off.
All his life he had been accustomed to almost unlimited space, to nearly perfect quiet, except the noise of the elements, the voices of wild things and of the few human beings. All at once he was thrown into the midst of a bustling Western city, packed solid with business buildings and dwellings, the surface of the earth shod with iron and stone, the very sky stained with smoke, and the air filled with the roar of traffic, the whistle of locomotives, the clang of the electric-car bells, and the shouts of street hucksters. He was almost stupefied with wonder. Then natural boyish curiosity took possession of him, and he began to notice things separately and in detail. He walked along with eyes, ears, and mouth wide open; his head turning constantly as some strange object caught his gaze. The frequent big "saloon" sign did not surprise him,nor did the "Licensed Gambling House" placard cause him to wonder; he knew them of yore, they were all a matter of course to a Western boy. But when he came to a building six or seven stories high he stopped short in the human tide, like a spile in a rushing stream, and stood with mouth agape in amazement. The plate-glass windows and the gay display behind them, the brilliant signs and elaborate decorations delighted him.
He was walking along slowly, when he caught sight of the most wonderful "outfit" he had ever seen, and stood still in his tracks to take it in. It was a closed carriage with a fine big pair of horses whose trappings were decorated in bright silver. His fresh young eyes took these details in at once, but what caused him to stare was the big man on the box. Perfectly motionless, a stony stare on his smoothly shaven face, John wondered if he was made of wood. His whip, held at just the proper angle in heavy tan gloves, white trousers painfully tight, high top boots, and green coat shining with brass buttons, the whole get-up topped by a big, shining silk hat. For several minutes he watched him, but not a sign of life did he betray. Then a woman, richly dressed, came out of a nearby store and entered the carriage, saying as she did so, "Drive home, James." The dummy made a motionwith his hand toward his hat, flicked the whip over the horses' flanks, and the carriage moved off.
John's awesome gaze gave way to a laugh: "Why, he isn't an English lord," he said to himself, "he's only a teamster," and he laughed again.
A boy with a package stopped to look at him. "Whatcher laughin' at?" said he.
"Didn't you see that outfit?" said the other, between chuckles.
"Mean the kerrige?" John nodded. "That's Fleischman's rig. Never seen one before?"
"I've seen 'em in pictures, but I never thought they were true," and John laughed again. "I suppose peopledogo down to dinner at six o'clock as I've read they do," he said at last, a puzzle that had long baffled him clearing away.
"Sure. Whatjer think they did, go up to dinner?" returned the other boy scornfully.
"Why, I didn't see how they could go down 'less they ate in a cellar," said John in explanation. "Who ever heard of people eating dinner at night, anyway?"
From this talk and the big white felt hat that he wore, the boy with the parcel gathered that the other was a stranger to the town and town ways. He felt quite superior and determined to makethe most of it. "Come on down the street with me," he said, and John followed, elbowing his way among the people as he saw the other boy do. They went along together, Charley Braton (John soon learned his name) pointing out the principal buildings, grandiloquently. Charley, who was an errand boy in a dry-goods store, reached his destination and invited his new-found friend to come up, so both stepped into the hallway and then through an iron doorway into a sort of cage, where several other people were already standing. John wondered what it was all about, and was just framing a question when a man slammed the gate and grasped a wire rope that ran through floor and ceiling of the cage. Of a sudden the floor began to rise, not smoothly, but with a jerk that drove the boy's heels into the floor. John's breath caught and he clutched Charley's arm. "Seven," called out the latter, and the car stopped with a jar.
"Elevator?" inquired John.
"Yep. 'Fraid?" questioned the other with a grin.
"Nah. Little bit surprised though; never rode on one before."
"Lots of people get scared, though," said Charley, and began a long account of how an old ranchman and Indian fighter lost his nervecompletely during his first elevator ride, and finally pulled his pistol on the elevator man to make him "stop the thing."
Charley's errand done, they entered the elevator again, which descended so suddenly that John felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. Both stairs and elevators were new to our country boy, and he concluded that he did not care for either, but he was far too proud to show any trepidation before his new acquaintance.
The boys separated, Charley returning to the store and John to the group of tramps at the saloon. It was not an attractive circle round the beer keg that the boy joined, and even he realized that they were more dirty and shiftless than any men he had known. But one at least of them had been kind to him, and he was grateful.
"Well, kid, wha'd'ye see?" shouted Jimmy as he drew near.
John told the story with gusto of all the wonders he had seen, and especially his view of the "carriage teamster."
"That's nothin'," said one man. "You see them on every corner in N'York." Immediately there arose an animated discussion as to the possessions of this or that millionaire, and there wasnot one of the tramps who did not know some one in the household of a plutocrat. The talk grew apace, and each narrator put forth all his available knowledge of the traits and habits of millionaires. All referred familiarly to individuals of seven-figure fame as "Tom" or "Joe" or "George."
John and Jimmy meanwhile withdrew unnoticed, and the latter evidently had some definite destination in view, for he started off at a brisk pace along the street, commanding the boy to come on. John did so without question, and soon they reached an office building, which Jimmy entered. They finally stopped before a door bearing the sign "Doctor Hamilton," and at this the tramp knocked. A boy opened the door and ushered in the two rough-looking specimens. "Doctor in?" asked Jimmy, hat in hand. The doctor, a mild old gentleman, approached, and John's protector spoke up: "Doctor, beg yer pardin for comin' in, but this here kid has a pretty bad hand," and he held up the boy's swollen member. "There ain't nobody to look after it and it needs a good washin' at least."