It was about this time that one of the old dispatchers resigned to seek his fortune in the West, and a new one made his début in a manner that Allan did not soon forget. He was a slender young fellow, with curly blond hair, and he came on duty at three o’clock in the afternoon, just when the rush of business is heaviest. The induction of a new dispatcher is something of a ceremony, for the welfare of the road rests in his hands for eight hours of every day, and everybody about the offices is always anxious to see just what stuff the newcomer is made of. So on this occasion, most of the division officials managed to have some business in the dispatchers’ office at the moment the new man came on.
He glanced over the train-sheet, while the manhe was relieving explained to him briefly the position of trains and what orders were outstanding. His sounder began to click an instant later, and he leaned over, opened his key, and gave the signal,.. .., which showed that he was ready to receive the message. Then, as the message started in a sputter which evidenced the excited haste of the man who was sending it, he turned away, took off his coat, and hung it up, deliberately removed his cuffs, and lighted a cigar. Then he sat down at his desk, and picked up a pen. Something very like a sigh of relief ran around the office. But the pen did not suit him. He tried it, made a wry face, and looked inquiringly at the other dispatcher.
“The pens are over yonder in that drawer,” said that worthy, with assumed indifference, and went on sending a message he had just started.
The newcomer arose, went to the drawer, opened it, and selected a pen with leisurely care. Allan watched him, his heart in his mouth. He could see that the chief-dispatcher was frowning and that the trainmaster looked very stern. He knew that neither of these officials would tolerate any “fooling,” when the welfare of the road was in question. But at last the newcomer was in his seat again. He reached forward and opened his key, and every one waited for the. .. . .., which would ask that the message, a long and involved one, be repeated. But instead, a curt “Cut it short,” flew over the line, followed by an order so terse, so admirable, soclean-cut, that the trainmaster turned away with a sudden relaxation of countenance.
“He’ll do,” he murmured, as he got out a match and lighted his forgotten cigar. “He’ll do.”
And, indeed, at a later day, Allan saw the same dispatcher receive and answer two messages simultaneously. But these were merely the trimmings of the profession. They savoured of sleight of hand, and had little to do with the real business of train-dispatching.
So Allan did not despair. Every evening, he and Jim laboured at their keys. First, Allan would send an item, perhaps, from the evening paper, and Jim would receive it. Then he would send it back, and Allan would write it out, as his sounder clicked along, and compare his copy with the original, to detect any errors. At first, errors were the rule; but as time went on, they became more and more infrequent; and at the end of two months, both the boys had acquired a very fair facility in sending and receiving. Indeed, one evening, after an unusually satisfactory bout, Jim was moved to a little self-approval.
“I think we’re both pretty good,” he clicked out. “Let’s apply for a job as operator.”
“Not yet,” Allan answered. “This line hasn’t done all it can for us yet.”
Nor for the road, he might have added, could he have foreseen the events of the next twenty-four hours.
“FLAG NUMBER TWO!”
The snow was falling steadily, a late spring snow, but as heavy as any of the winter. It had started in the early morning as sleet, which clung to everything it touched with a vise-like grip. Then, the wind veering to the north had turned the sleet to snow, soggy, tenacious, and swirling fast and faster, until now, as night closed in, nearly six inches had fallen.
It was a bad night for railroading, and the instruments in the office clicked incessantly as the dispatchers laboured, with tense faces, to keep their trains straight. The wires were working badly under the burden of snow and sleet; some were crossed, some were down, and the instruments slurred the dots and dashes which rattled over them in a way that brought a line of worry between the eyes of the men upon whom rested so great a responsibility.
As for the less experienced operators along the line, they were—to use the expressive phrase usually applied to them—“up in the air.” Theyknew that a single mistake might cost the lives of a score of people, and yet how were mistakes to be avoided when the instruments, instead of their usual clear-cut enunciation, stuttered and stammered and chattered meaninglessly. It was one of those crises which grow worse with each passing moment; when nerves, strained to snapping, finally give way; when brains, aching with anxiety, suddenly refuse to work; when, in a word, there is a break in the system to which even the smallest cog is necessary.
So it was that the trainmaster, having swallowed his supper hastily, had hurried back to the office, and stood now peering out into the night, chewing nervously the end of a cigar which he had forgotten to light, and listening to the instruments clattering wildly on the tables behind him. Although there were two of them, and their clatter never ceased, he followed without difficulty the story which each was telling, for he had risen to his present position after long years at the key.
Allan West had also hurried back to the office as soon as he had eaten his supper. It seemed to him that disaster was in the air; besides, he might be needed to carry a message, or for some other service, and he wanted to be on hand. It had been a hard day, for he had toiled back and forth across the slippery yards a score of times, but he forgot his fatigue as he sat there and listened to the crazy instruments and realized the tremendous odds against which the dispatchers were fighting.
For the trains must be moved, and as nearly on time as human effort could do it. There is no stopping a railroad because of unfavourable weather. The movement of trains ceases only when an accident breaks the road in two or wreckage blocks the track, and then only until arrangements can be made to détour them past the place where the accident has occurred. When this cannot be done, a train is run to the spot from either side, and passengers, mail, and baggage transferred.
And then the passengers get a fleeting and soon-forgotten glimpse of how the road is struggling to set things right again. For as they hurry past the place, they see a gang of men—a hundred, perhaps—toiling like the veriest galley-slaves to repair the damage; they see a huge derrick grappling with wrecked cars and engines and swinging them out of the way; they see locomotives puffing and hauling, and in command of it all, two or three haggard and dirt-begrimed men whom no one would recognize as the well-dressed and well-groomed gentlemen who fill the positions of superintendent, trainmaster, and superintendent of maintenance of way. All this the passengers pause a moment to contemplate, as one looks at a play at the theatre; then they hasten on and forget all about it. As for the labourers, they do not even raise their heads. It is no play for them, but deadly earnest. They have been toiling in just that fashionfor hours and hours; they will keep doggedly at it until the road is open.
To-night a dozen passengers in the luxuriantly appointed Pullmans of the east-bound flyer were fuming and fretting because their train was ten minutes late. They complained to the conductor; they expressed their opinion of the road at length and in terms the most uncomplimentary. They vowed one and all that never again would they travel by this route. Not that the delay really made any difference to any of them; but average human nature seems to be so constituted that it is most deeply annoyed by trifles. And the conductor reassured them, talked confidently of making up the lost time, did his best to keep them cheerful and contented, joked and laughed and seemed to be thinking about anything rather than the storm which swirled and howled outside. Only for an instant, as he passed from one coach to another, and found himself alone, did the careless smile leave his lips. His face lined with anxiety as he glanced out through the door of the vestibule at the driving snow, and he shook his head. Then he resumed his jaunty air and passed on into the next coach.
Every profession has its ethics—some citadel, some point of honour, which must be defended to the death. The physician may not refuse a call for aid, may not hesitate to risk his own life in the work of saving others—that is the implied agreement he makes with humanity when he accepts hisdiploma. The captain may not leave his ship until the last passenger has done so; his life is negligible and worthless in comparison with that of any passenger on board; if his passengers cannot be saved, he must go down with them; to think of his own life at such a time is to confess himself a coward and a traitor to a noble calling. The conductor of a passenger-train occupies much the same position. He is responsible for his train and his passengers; never must he seem worried, or admit that there is any danger; he must front death with a smile on his lips, and when the crash comes, his first duty is to the men and women entrusted to his charge. And what a glorious commentary it is on human nature that so few, brought face to face with that duty, seek to evade it!
Back in the dispatchers’ office, the situation grew worse and worse. The dispatcher in charge of the east end had lost a freight-train. He supposed that it was somewhere between two stations, but it was long overdue, and the conviction began to be forced upon him that it had somehow got past a station unnoticed and unreported, in the snow and storm. The operator swore it hadn’t; swore that he had not slept a second; swore that he had kept a sharp lookout for the train, and hazarded the opinion that it had run off the track somewhere. The dispatcher retorted that when he wanted his opinion he would ask for it; and in the meantime that sectionof track was closed until the missing train could be found.
A missing train! The words send a shiver through the bravest. Somewhere, out yonder in the storm, it is careening along the rails; its crew is confident that its passage has been noted by the operator at the last station, and that the dispatcher will keep clear the track ahead. They do not suspect their peril; they do not know that another train may be speeding toward them, and that, in a few minutes, there will be a roar, a crash, the shriek of escaping steam, and then the cruel tongues of flame licking around the wrecked cars. So the fireman bends to his task, the engineer stares absently out into the night, his hand on the throttle, the front brakeman dozes upon the fireman’s box, and back in the caboose, the conductor and hind-end brakeman engage in a social game of seven-up—
In safety, this time; for the dispatcher is one who knows his business and takes no chances. Proceeding on the theory that the train has got past, he keeps the track clear and holds up the road’s traffic until the missing train can be found. Which, of course, is as soon as it reaches the next station—for on that end of the road, every operator, knowing what is wrong, has his eyes wide open. A mighty sigh of relief goes up as it is reported; traffic starts again with a rush. And the next day,the operator who swore so positively that the train had not got past was hunting another job.
The dispatcher in charge of the west end was doing his best to keep the track clear for Number Two, the east-bound flyer, the premier train of the road, with right of way over everything; but there was no telling what any train would do on such a night, and the flyer had already been held ten minutes at Vienna because a freight-train had stuck on the hill east of there and had to double over. The dispatcher set his teeth and vowed that there should be no more delay if he had to hold every other train on the division until the flyer passed. But freight conductors have a persuasive way with them, and when Lew Johnson reported from Lyndon at 8.40 that his train was made up, engine steaming finely, and that he could make Wadsworth easily in half an hour, the dispatcher yielded and told him to come ahead.
But Johnson had exaggerated a little, for his wife was sick and he was anxious to get home to her; the engine was not steaming so well, after all, the flues got to leaking, and when the train finally coasted down the grade into the yards at Wadsworth, the flyer was only ten minutes behind. Still, a miss is as good as a mile, and the dispatcher heaved a sigh of relief, as he looked out from the window and saw the freight pull into the yards. He stood staring a moment longer, then sprang to his key and began calling Musselman.
The trainmaster swung around sharply.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“An extra west has just pulled out of the yards,” gasped the dispatcher. “It had orders to start as soon as Number Two pulled in. The engineer must have thought that freight was the flyer,” and he kept on calling Musselman.
In a moment came the tick-tick, tick-tick, which told that the operator at Musselman had heard the call.
“Flag Number Two!” commanded the dispatcher, “and hold till arrival extra west.”
There was an instant’s suspense; then the reply came ticking slowly in:
“Number Two just passed. Was just going to report her.”
The dispatcher leaned back in his chair, his face livid, and stared mutely at the trainmaster.
“There’s no night office between here and Musselman,” he said, hoarsely. “There’ll be a head-end inside of ten minutes.”
Allan had listened with white face. He shut his eyes for an instant and fancied he could see the passenger and freight rushing toward each other through the night. Then, suddenly, he sprang erect.
“Do you know the number of that outside wire on the lower cross-arm?” he asked the trainmaster.
“Yes—fifteen—”
“Can you cut it in?”
“Of course—but what—”
“No matter—do it!” cried Allan, and sat down at the key, while the trainmaster went mechanically to the switchboard and pushed the proper plug into place.
“J—J—J!” Allan called. “J—J—J!”
Would Jim hear? Was he within call of his instrument? Perhaps he was in some other part of the house; perhaps he was not at home at all. Even if he were, how would he be able—
Then, suddenly, the circuit was broken, and as Allan held down his key, there came the welcome tick-tick, tick-tick, which told that Jim had answered.
“Flag Number Two!”
Allan’s hand was trembling so that he could scarcely control the key.
“R—R,” clamoured Jim. “Repeat—repeat!”
Small wonder that he doubted he had heard correctly!
“Flag Number Two—quick—collision!”
This time Allan controlled the trembling of his hand and sent the message clearly.
“O. K.,” flashed back the answer, and Jim was gone, forgetting in his agitation to close his key.
“Who is it?” demanded Mr. Schofield, who had listened to this interchange with strained attention.
“It’s Jim Anderson,” Allan explained. “He lives in that house right by the track about a milewest of here. He and I rigged up a private line—Mr. Mickey let us use that old wire. Perhaps he’ll be in time.”
“Perhaps—perhaps,” agreed the trainmaster; but he did not permit himself to hope. The chance was too slender. How was the boy to flag the train? How could he make the engineer see him through that driving snow? It was absurd to suppose it could be done.
“I think we’d better order out the wrecking-train,” he said, to the chief-dispatcher. “Call up a couple of doctors, too; we’ll probably need them; and tell the hospital to have its ambulance at the station here before we get back. As for that fool who made the mistake—”
He stopped abruptly. For, in the driving snow, the mistake was not so surprising, after all—the flyer was running ten minutes late, and the freight had come in exactly on her time—two facts with which the crew of the extra west could not have been familiar.
“Perhaps he’s paid for it with his life by now,” added the trainmaster, after a moment, and started toward the telephone to order the wrecking-train got ready.
Then, suddenly, he stopped, rigid with expectancy, for the instrument on the table in front of Allan had begun to sound.
“A—A,” it called. “A—A.”
“Tick-tick, tick-tick,” Allan answered, instantly.
“I have Number Two, also extra west stopped here,” came the message. “What shall they do?”
“I guess I’ll have to turn this over to you, sir,” said Allan, looking at Mr. Schofield, his eyes bright with emotion. “Don’t send too fast,” he added, with a little, unsteady laugh, as the trainmaster took the key. “Neither Jim nor I is very expert, you know.”
A PRIVATE LINE
The conductor of Number Two, having consoled and encouraged his passengers to the best of his ability, went forward into the smoker and sat down in a corner seat to sort his tickets and make up his report. From time to time, he glanced out the window, and though the driving snow shut off any glimpse of the landscape, he could tell, by a sort of instinct, just where the train was. He knew the rattle of every switch, the position of every light. The quick rattle of a target told him that the train had passed Harper’s. He recognized the clatter of the switches at Roxabel as the train swept over them; then, from the peculiar echo, he knew that it had entered a cut and that Musselman was near. Then the train struck another cut, whirred over a bridge, and began to coast down a long grade, while the shrill blast of the whistle sounded faintly through the storm, and he knew that they were approaching Wadsworth. The lights of the city would have been visible upon the right but for the swirling snow. There was a sharp repeated roaras the train shot over the two iron bridges at the city’s boundary—and then there came a shock which shook the train from end to end, and sent the parcels flying from the wall-racks.
Instantly the conductor swung up his feet and braced himself against the seat in front of him. He knew that that sudden setting of the brakes meant danger ahead, and he wanted to be prepared for the crash which might follow. It is a trick which every trainman knows and which every passenger should know. The passengers who are injured in a collision are usually those who were sitting carelessly balanced on the edge of their seats, and who, when the crash came, were hurled about the car, with the inevitable result of broken bones. To trainmen and experienced travellers, the unmistakable shock which tells of brakes suddenly applied is always a signal to brace themselves against the more violent one which may follow in a moment. Often this simple precaution means all the difference between life and death.
But in this case, the train came shrieking to a stop without any shock more violent than the first, and the conductor hastened out to investigate. He found the engineer and fireman standing in front of the engine, staring at a fusee burning red in the darkness, and questioning a young fellow who stood near by.
“What is it?” demanded the conductor, hurrying up.
“This here youngster says he had orders t’ flag th’ train,” answered the engineer.
“Orders from whom?” asked the conductor sharply, turning to the boy.
“Orders from—”
The boy stopped and turned red.
“Well, go on. Who gave the orders?”
“A chum of mine,” burst out the boy desperately. “He works in the trainmaster’s office. He wired me a minute ago to flag Number Two and be quick about it. I just had time to get that fusee lighted when you whistled for the crossing.”
The conductor frowned. The whole affair savoured of a boyish prank.
“And do you mean to say,” he demanded, sternly, “that because another boy told you to, you stopped this train—”
He paused, his mouth open, and listened, hand to ear. Then he stooped, snatched up the fusee, and fairly hurled himself down the track, waving the blazing torch above his head. And an instant later, his companions caught the sound of an engine pounding up the grade toward them.
The red light disappeared through the snow; then two sharp whistles testified that the signal had been seen; and a moment later, a great mogul of a freight-engine loomed through the darkness and came grinding to a stop not thirty feet away.
Her engineer swung himself to the ground and came running forward.
“SNATCHED UP THE FUSEE, AND FAIRLY HURLED HIMSELF DOWN THE TRACK”
“SNATCHED UP THE FUSEE, AND FAIRLY HURLED HIMSELF DOWN THE TRACK”
“What’s all this?” he demanded; and then he saw the headlight of the other engine, almost obscured by the snow which encrusted it, and turned livid under his coat of tan. “What train’s that?”
“That’s Number Two,” answered the conductor, who had returned with the smoking fusee still in his hand.
“Number Two!” echoed the engineer, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. “Nonsense! I saw Number Two pull into the yards ten minutes ago!”
“No you didn’t,” retorted the conductor, grimly, “for there’s Number Two back there.”
The engineer passed his hand before his eyes and stared, scarce able to understand. Then his face hardened and his lips tightened.
“There must have been a freight ahead of you,” he said. “It came in just on your time.”
“We’re ten minutes late—and getting later every minute,” the conductor added, and stamped impatiently.
Just then the conductor of the freight came hurrying up. The engineer turned to him with a little sardonic laugh.
“Well, Pete,” he said, “I guess this is our last run over this road.”
The conductor’s face turned ghastly white.
“Wha-what do you mean?” he stammered.
The engineer answered with a wave of the hand toward the headlight glaring down at them.
“That’s Number Two,” he said.
“Number Two!” echoed the conductor, blankly. “But then—why weren’t we smashed to kindling wood?”
“Blamed if I know,” answered the engineer, turning to clamber back on his engine. “And I don’t much care. I reckon we’re done, anyway.”
And they were, for a railroad never forgives or overlooks a mistake so serious as this.
Jim Anderson came out of the house a moment later with an order from the trainmaster for the freight to back into the yards, and the flyer to follow.
Only the driving storm had kept the passengers on the flyer from coming out to inquire what the matter was; and when the conductor swung himself on board again, he was greeted with a volley of questions. What was the trouble? What had happened?
“Trouble?” he repeated, with a stare of surprise. “There wasn’t any. We had to stop for orders, that was all.”
“You stopped pretty sudden, it seems to me,” growled one old traveller.
“The engineer didn’t see the stop signal till he was right on it,” answered the conductor, blandly.
“Snow so thick, you know.”
And the passengers returned to their seats satisfied, and none of them ever knew how narrow their escape had been—for it is the policy of all railroadsthat the passengers are never to know of mistakes and dangers, if the knowledge can by any means be kept from them.
However, the employees in the yards at Wadsworth had realized the mistake almost as soon as the dispatchers had—and there was quite a crowd waiting to greet the trains—a crowd which even yet did not understand how a terrible accident had been averted. It was not until the conductor of the flyer stepped off upon the platform and told the story in a few words, with voice carefully lowered lest some outsider should hear him, that they did understand; and even then, it was not as clear as it might have been until Tom Mickey came along and told how he had permitted the boys to use the old wire.
As for the engineer of the freight, he dropped off his engine the moment it stopped, and hurried away to his home without even pausing to remove his overalls. Six hours later, he was boarding a train on the N. & W., to seek a job in the south. The conductor remained for the inquiry and tried to brazen it through, but the evidence showed that, instead of staying out in the storm to watch for the arrival of Number Two and give the engineer the signal to go ahead, he had told the latter to start as soon as the passenger pulled in, and had ensconced himself in his berth in the caboose and gone comfortably to sleep. So he, too, was informedthat the P. & O. no longer required his services.
When Jim Anderson reported for work next morning, his foreman told him he was to go at once to the office of Mr. Heywood, the division superintendent. He obeyed the order with some inward trepidation, crossed the yards to the division headquarters, mounted the stairs, and knocked tremulously at the door of the superintendent’s office. A voice bade him enter. He opened the door, and saw, sitting at a great desk, a small, dark, dapper man who was dictating at fever heat to a stenographer. He paused for an instant, looking inquiringly at Jim.
“I’m Jim Anderson,” said the boy. “My foreman told me—”
The superintendent nodded.
“That will do, Graves,” he said to the stenographer. “Send young West in here at once.”
“Very well, sir,” answered the stenographer, and went out.
Mr. Heywood turned abruptly in the direction of his visitor.
“So you’re Jim Anderson?” he began.
“Yes, sir.”
“It was you who flagged Number Two last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me about it.”
Jim told the story as briefly as he could. Allan came in before he had finished.
“Now let’s hear your story,” added the superintendent, turning to Allan, and the latter related his share in the adventure.
“There’s only one thing I don’t understand,” said the superintendent, when Allan had finished, turning back to Jim, “and that is how you came to have that fusee.”
Jim reddened.
“I found it, sir,” he explained. “You remember when the caboose of Number Ninety-seven was derailed about a month ago, near the bridges, and rolled down the bank and was smashed to pieces?”
“Perfectly,” answered the superintendent, dryly.
“Well,” Jim continued, “I suppose the box of fusees in the caboose must have been broken open and scattered about. Anyway, I found this one the next day in some bushes at the foot of the embankment. I suppose I should have returned it to the company—but—well—I thought I’d keep it for the Fourth of July.”
His voice trembled and stopped, and he stood with hanging head, like a criminal waiting his sentence.
Let it be explained here that a fusee is a paste-board tube filled with powder—the same sort of powder which produces the red fire which forms a part of every exhibition of fire-works. At one end of this tube is a spike which can be thrust intothe ground. The other end of the tube is closed by a cap containing a piece of emery-paper. To light the powder it is only necessary to remove the cap and scrape it on the end of the tube till a spark falls into it. A fusee burns with a bright red light for exactly ten minutes, and no train may run past one which is burning.
Its uses are manifold. It makes a brilliant danger signal, and one which no engineer can fail to see, which no mist nor snow can obscure, and which no wind can extinguish. But it is usually used by night—as torpedoes are by day—to protect the rear of a train which has been temporarily disabled and delayed between stations.
If a train is stopped by a hot-box, for instance, a brakeman is at once sent out to protect the rear. He walks to a distance of two or three hundred yards, carrying a flag in the daytime or a lantern by night, with which to stop any train which may happen to come along before his train is ready to proceed. Ordinarily, there is no danger to be apprehended from in front, because the dispatcher will permit no train coming toward them to pass the next station until the train which is in trouble arrives there.
As soon as the heated journal has been cooled sufficiently to allow the train to proceed, the engineer blows four blasts on the whistle to recall the brakeman. But, obviously, during the time that he is walking back to the train and the train itself isgetting under way, another train may come along at full speed and run into it. So, before he returns, the brakeman sticks a fusee in the middle of the track and lights it. It will burn for ten minutes, and during that time no train may run past the spot, so all danger of accident is avoided. If the breakdown occurs during the daytime, the brakeman will affix two torpedoes to the track instead of using the fusee. The first train which runs over these torpedoes explodes them, and the engineer must at once get his train under control, reduce speed, and look out for a stop signal. A single torpedo is a signal to stop.
It was one of these fusees, a number of which are carried in every caboose, which had enabled Jim Anderson to flag Number Two, and lucky it was that he had it, for on a night such as the one before had been, a lantern would almost certainly have failed to be seen. But Jim did not think of that, as he stood there with hanging head. His only thought was that he should not have kept the fusee, that it belonged to the company—that he might be thought a thief. He looked up at last to find the superintendent smiling at him.
“My boy,” said Mr. Heywood, “if, as you go through life, you never do anything worse than you have done in keeping possession of that fusee, you will never have any reason for remorse. It had been abandoned there by the company; you found it. You were under no obligation to return it. Wehad lost it through our own carelessness; it may have been missed, but was thought not worth searching for. So dismiss that from your mind. I called you boys before me for a very different purpose than to reproach either of you. In the first place, I want to thank you for your prompt and intelligent action, which saved the road what would probably have been one of the worst wrecks in its history. It is the sort of thing the road never forgets.”
There were four cheeks now, instead of two, that were flaming red. The praise was almost more embarrassing than the expected blame.
“In the second place,” continued the superintendent, “I have ordered Lineman Mickey to overhaul your private line and to equip it with up-to-date instruments.”
He smiled as he looked at the beaming countenances before him.
“In the third place,” he went on, "I have ordered a box of fusees and another of torpedoes left at your home, Anderson. And they’re not to be used on the Fourth of July, either—at least, not more than one or two. They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but it’s just possible that some day we may want you to flag another train out there, and so we provide you with the means to do it.
“In the fourth place,” he added, rising andglancing at his watch, “I’m going to offer you the first positions as operator that are vacant. Now don’t thank me,” he protested, as exclamations of pleasure burst from the young lips before him. “I don’t deserve any thanks. I’m simply looking out for the best interests of the road. We want operators who are more than mere telegraphers—we want men who are equal to an emergency, who have their wits about them, who can think quickly, and who don’t get rattled—men like that are a good deal harder to find than you might think. That’s the reason we want you two. I don’t believe that one boy in a hundred would have had the wit to act as promptly and intelligently as you did last night. Now, I’ll let you know—”
The door burst suddenly open and a girl rushed in—a girl of perhaps seventeen, with flushed, excited face—the loveliest face, Allan thought, that he had ever seen.
“Oh, papa!” she cried. “Our train will start in a minute! We mustn’t miss it!”
Mr. Heywood laughed and glanced at his watch again.
“We won’t miss it, Bess,” he said. “We’ve got three minutes and a half. No train has ever started ahead of time on this road since Mr. Round took charge of it. Good-bye, boys,” he added, and shook hands with them heartily. "Hold yourselves ready for orders—and meanwhile get all the practice youcan. Come, Bess," and the father and daughter went out together, leaving the boys staring after them with a mixture of emotions difficult to describe.
THE CALL TO DUTY
One can easily understand with what enthusiasm Jim Anderson and Allan West continued the study of telegraphy. Here was something worth while, something vital, something with which great things might be accomplished; for surely there are few things in this world greater than the saving of human life.
Then, too, there was the protection of the company’s property. A collision such as that which had been averted would have demolished engines and cars worth a hundred thousand dollars. Damage suits, destroyed freight, the interruption of traffic, the cost of repairing the right of way, the loss of prestige which attends every great wreck—all these might easily have carried the total loss to a quarter of a million.
Yet neither in this accident nor in any other was it the money loss to the company of which the officials thought. They thought only of the danger to the passengers, for the passenger is the road’s most sacred trust. In his behalf, the road exacts eternalvigilance from every man in its employ. His safety comes first of all. For it, no railroad man must hesitate to risk his life; nay, if need be, to throw his life away. He enters the service of the road on that condition—and rarely does he fail when the moment of trial comes, as it is sure to come, sooner or later.
The boys, then, had reason to be pleased with what they had accomplished. The superintendent kept his word, and instruments of the latest pattern were soon installed by Lineman Mickey, while the current for the line was furnished by the company’s batteries, and was stronger and more constant than their own little battery had been able to give them. Nor was that all the help they had, for the trainmaster and the dispatchers took an interest in their work, and drilled them in the various abbreviations and code signals in use on the road, as well as the calls for the various offices.
They were permitted to “cut in” with the main line whenever they wished; the messages which flashed over it were then repeated on their own sounders, and they could try their hands at transcribing them. Needless to say, they progressed rapidly under this tuition, which was the very best they could have had; and the day came at last when Allan, sitting at his desk sorting the mail, could understand perfectly what all the instruments about him were saying.
There is within us, so scientists say, a sort ofsecond-self which takes care of all actions which become habitual, without troubling us to think of them, or to will their performance. Thus we breathe without any effort of consciousness—a wise provision of nature, else we should die of asphyxiation as soon as we went to sleep. The muscles which control the heart keep on working of themselves from birth to death. Thus, too, while the baby must distinctlywillevery step it takes, the child soon learns to walk or run automatically, without thinking about it at all, the muscles moving of themselves at the proper instant. So the fingers of the piano-player come to perform the duties required of them instinctively; and so, at last, the ear of the telegrapher recognizes a certain combination of sounds as having a certain meaning, and the brain has no need whatever to puzzle them out. The sounds are recorded mechanically, and the brain furnishes the translation.
Nay, more than that. The operator, worn out by long hours, sometimes goes to sleep beside his key. His slumber is so deep that the roar of passing trains does not disturb it, nor the clicking of his sounder, as messages flash over the wire. But let his call be sounded, that short and insistent combination of dots and dashes which means his office—a single letter usually—and he will start awake. The ear has caught the call, has sent it into the brain, and some second-self there rouses the sleeper and tells him he is wanted. Operators are not supposedto go to sleep on duty; to be caught asleep means a “lay-off,” if not dismissal. Yet theydogo to sleep, for the long hours of the night pass slowly, and there are times when the weary eyes refuse to remain open. If it were not for the little monitor within which stays awake, on guard, listening for its call, accidents on the rail would be of much more frequent occurrence, and few operators but would, sooner or later, lose their jobs. And there is nothing especially peculiar or remarkable in this. Almost any one, worn out with fatigue, will go to sleep with the buzz of conversation about him; but let some one speak his name insistently over and over and the sound of it will somehow waken him. An operator’s call is as familiar to him as his name, and will attract his attention just as surely.
It was to this sixth sense, this second-self, that Allan was at last able to assign the duty of listening to the instruments in the office. He knew what they were saying, without having to stop all other work to listen; nay, without consciously listening at all. He had reached the place where he was competent to “take a trick”—much more competent, indeed, than young operators usually are.
But still there came no opening for a regular position. A railroad does not “play favourites,” no matter how deserving they may be. So long as a man does his work well, his position is his; and he stands in regular line for promotion. Incompetencybrings its punishment, swift and sure; just as signal services, in time, bring their reward; but reward and punishment are according to an established rule.
For the record of every man is kept minutely from the hour he enters the employ of the road. What he may have been or done before that does not matter, once employment is given him—he starts square. But even the smallest thing he does after thatdoesmatter, as he finds out, in course of time, to his amazement and chagrin. The trainmaster keeps, in a drawer of his desk, a little book bound in red leather, wherein entries are made every day; and the heart of the trainman who is “on the carpet” falls when he sees it produced. It affects him a good deal as the book wherein the Recording Angel writes will affect most of us at the Day of Judgment.
It happened, at this particular moment, that all the operators’ positions on the road were filled by competent men, and so Allan had to wait until some one of them was promoted or resigned. As for Jim, he had reconsidered his decision to become an operator. He had a natural love and aptitude for machinery, and he finally determined to remain in the branch of the service where he was, and seek promotion where he would probably deserve it most. But Allan’s mind was made up, and he lost no opportunity to perfect himself. Often, after supper, he would return to the dispatchers’ office and prevailupon the night operator to permit him to attend to his work for awhile, and in this way he got valuable practice; but he longed for the day when he should be given a key of his own—when the responsibility would be all his.
The chance came at last. He was just finishing up his work, one evening, preparatory to going home to supper, when the instrument on the chief-dispatcher’s desk began to call. Allan, without really listening, heard the message:
“Night man at Byers Junction reported sick. Send substitute.”
The chief-dispatcher clicked back “O. K.,” and closed the key. Then he wheeled about in his chair and met Allan’s eager eyes.
“There’s a job for you,” he said, “if you want it.”
“Want it!” echoed Allan. “I certainly do!”
“And if you think you can fill it,” the chief added. “The work at Byers is pretty heavy.”
“I’ll do my best,” Allan promised.
The chief looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded quickly and glanced at his watch.
“You’ll do,” he said. “And you’ve only got thirty minutes. You’ll have to catch Number Sixteen.”
“All right, sir; I’ll catch it,” said Allan, and he went down the steps two at a time.
Mary Welsh was just spreading the cloth preparatory to getting supper when Allan raced up thesteps leading from the street below and burst in at the door.
“Why!” cried Mary. “What ails th’ boy!”
“Hooray!” yelled Allan, and seized her and danced around with her in his arms. “I’m going to be an op-e-ra-tor!”
“Well, I’m sure,” gasped Mary, releasing herself and reaching up to push the loosened hairpins back into place, “that ain’t so wonderful. You’d ought t’ been a oppeyrator long ago! A railroad ain’t got no sense o’ gratitude!”
“There, there!” cried Allan. “The road’s all right—and I’ve got to catch Number Sixteen—and I wonder if there’s a crust of bread or a cold potato, or anything of that sort handy?”
“Crust o’ bread, indade!” snorted Mary, glancing at the clock. “You’ll have your supper. Go an’ git washed, an’ I’ll have it ready fer ye in a jiffy.”
“All right,” said Allan, “but I warn you I’ll be back in just a minute and a half.”
Indeed, it was not much longer than that; but when he came in again, his face shining from a vigorous rubbing, supper was almost ready—an egg fried to a turn, with a bit of broiled ham beside it, bread and butter, blackberry jam, a glass of milk, and a piece of apple-pie—just the sort of toothsome, topsy-turvy meal a healthy boy likes.
“Mary,” he said, “you’re a jewel!” and he stopped to hug her before he sat down.
“None o’ yer blarney!” she retorted, and affected to push him away, as she gave the last touches to the table.
Allan pulled up his chair and fell to with an appetite born of health and good digestion—an appetite unspoiled by over-indulgence, or by French confections, requiring no stimulus but that which work honestly done gave it. He ate with one eye on the clock, for he was not going to run any risk of missing his train, and at the end of five minutes, pushed back his chair and rose with a sigh of satisfaction.
“That was great!” he said. “Now if I may have one of those luscious doughnuts of yours, or a piece of that pie, to keep the wolf from the door to-night—”
“Doughnut, indade!” cried Mary. “What do you suppose I’ve been doin’ all this toime! Here’s your lunch,” and she set on the table a little basket, covered with a snowy napkin.
Allan’s eyes were shining at this new proof of her thoughtfulness for him.
“Mary,” he began.
“There, there,” she interrupted; “git along or you’ll miss your train. Good-bye. An’ take good keer o’ yerself, my dear.”
Allan snatched up hat and basket.
“Good-bye,” he said. “I’m certainly a lucky boy!”
She stood at the door watching him as he crossed the yards.
“Yes,” she murmured to herself, turning back into the house as he passed from sight, “an’ I’m a lucky woman!”
Dan Breen, the caller, met Allan as he stepped upon the station platform.
“Here’s yer card,” he said, and held out a little envelope.
“My card?” repeated the boy, taking the envelope mechanically.
“Yes, yer card; how did ye expect t’ ride—pay yer way?”
“Oh,” said Allan, understanding suddenly; “my pass. Yes; thank you,” and he swung aboard Number Sixteen just as it was pulling out.
When the conductor came through to collect the tickets, the boy proudly produced the card, which commanded all employees of the road to “pass the bearer, Allan West, on all trains, over main line and branches, Ohio Division, P— & O— Railway.” The conductor glanced at it and then at the boy, nodded, and passed on.
Half an hour later, with fast-beating heart, Allan dropped off the train at the little frame shanty which served as the operator’s office at Byers Junction. The day operator had been compelled to work thirty-five minutes overtime, and was in no very genial humour in consequence, for if there is one point of honour upon which all operators agree, it is that they shall relieve each other promptly.So the day operator, whose name was Nevins, and who knew that his supper would probably be cold when he got to it, merely nodded to the boy when he appeared in the doorway, put on his coat and hat, picked up his lunch-basket, and went out without saying a word.
Allan, his pulses racing, set his basket on the table, took off coat and hat, hung them on a nail near the window, and looked about the little room. The instrument was calling, but not for him, so he had leisure to examine the orders which fluttered from a hook on the wall near by. One was for a train which would be due in a few minutes, and Allan went to the door to see that the signals were properly set and burning.
White is no longer a safety signal on any of the larger railroads. The colours now in use are red for danger, and green for safety. Under the old system, the red lens of the lantern might drop out or a tramp might smash it, leaving the lantern showing a white light past which the engineer would run, thinking everything all right. So green was substituted for white, and now white means danger just as much as red does. The only light past which an engineer may run is a green one. In fact, the first rule under the “Use of Signals” is that a signal imperfectly displayed, or the absence of a signal from a place where one is usually shown, must be regarded as a stop signal.
The railroads are trying all the time to find somethird colour which can be used satisfactorily in signalling. Red for danger and green for safety are very well, as far as they go; but a caution signal is badly needed—one which will not absolutely stop a train, but which will warn the engineer to get it under control and proceed carefully. No such signal which will do the work required of it under all conditions has as yet been devised, although yellow is now used on some roads for this purpose.
Of course there are one or two other colours used. A combined green and white signal, for instance, is used to stop a train at a flag station; and a blue flag by day, or a blue light by night, displayed at one or both ends of an engine, car, or train, indicates that workmen are under or about it. When thus protected, it must not be coupled to or moved, and no man may remove these signals but the one who placed them there. This rule is enforced absolutely to safeguard, as far as possible, the lives of the employees of the road.
The only fault in the system—as in all systems—is that human beings are not infallible, and mistakes are sometimes bound to happen. The signals may be wrongly set, or when rightly set, may not be seen. Fog or smoke may obscure them, and the engineer rushes by, trusting that all is well. If he obeyed the rules, he would stop and make sure; but that would delay the train, perhaps needlessly, and trains must be run on time. The engineer whofails to run on time, either through timidity or overcaution, is very soon relegated to the work-train or the yard-engine—a humiliating fall for the master of the queenly flyer.
As Byers was a junction, there were two signals there for the government of trains, one a train-signal on the front of the shanty, and the other a semaphore just outside the door. The train-signal was merely an arm or signal-blade, operated by a lever inside the shanty. Normally, this arm hung down in a perpendicular position and showed green, which meant proceed; but when the operator wanted an approaching train to stop, he pulled the lever, raising the arm to a horizontal position. At night, of course, it would not be possible for an engineer to see the position of this arm, so at the inner end of it was a large casting with two holes in it, one fitted with a green lens and the other with a red one. Behind this a lamp was placed, and when the arm hung down for safety, the light shone through the green lens. When it was raised, the red lens was thrown before the light and indicated danger.
The semaphore was a tall pole just outside the door. At its top was a cross-arm, bearing at either end red lanterns at night, to indicate its position, and operated by a lever at the foot of the pole. When the arm at the top stood in a perpendicular position, displaying the signals one above the other, it indicated that P. & O. trains could pass; whenthe arm was thrown to a horizontal position, displaying the signals one beside the other, it cleared the track for the connecting road. A ladder on the side of the pole enabled the person in charge of it to mount and attach the lanterns at nightfall. He was supposed to take them down and fill and clean them sometime during the day. There is, it may be added, a semaphore at every railroad-crossing which is worked on just this principle.
Allan had, of course, in preparing himself for the duties of operator, familiarized himself with all the signals used; and, as has been said, he stepped to the door of the shanty to assure himself that the train-signal was raised and showing red and that the lanterns on the semaphore were burning properly, so that the train which was almost due would stop to receive the orders intended for it. Then his heart gave a sudden sickening leap, for the light of neither train-signal nor semaphore was showing at all!
Already he fancied that, far down the road, he could hear the hum of the approaching train! The day operator, despite the lateness of the hour, had not taken the trouble to light the signals. It was not his duty, strictly speaking, but there are times when more is expected of a man than his mere duty. It might not have really mattered, of course; the absence of any signal would bring the train to a stop, if the engineer obeyed the rules; but at the very least, it would have been his duty to report atheadquarters that the signals at Byers were not burning, and Allan would have incurred a reprimand, and a severe one, in the first half-hour in his new position.
All this flashed through the boy’s mind much more rapidly than it can be set down here. In an instant, he had sprung to the train-signal, lowered it, touched a lighted match to the wick of the lamp, and then, as the flame flared up, hoisted the signal into place. Then, with a single glance, he assured himself that the semaphore lanterns were not in the shanty. Evidently the day man had not taken the trouble to bring them down and clean them; and the boy, without pausing to take breath, started to climb the pole. As he neared the top, he saw the lanterns swinging in place; but to light them, especially for the first time, was a ticklish job.
He heard the train whistle for the crossing half a mile away, and his hands began to tremble a little, despite all effort to steady them. He reached out, drew one lantern to him, snapped it open, and, after an instant’s agony, got it lighted. Then he grabbed for the other. It swung for a moment beyond his reach, and the effort nearly overbalanced him; but he caught himself, got it at last, drew it to him, lighted it, and snapped it shut again, just as the headlight of the approaching engine flashed into view. He ran hurriedly down the ladder. As he reached the door of the office, heheard his call. He jumped to the instrument and answered.
“Where have you been—asleep?” came the question.
“I was fixing the lanterns on the semaphore,” Allan answered.
“Hasn’t first ninety-seven reached Byers?”
“There’s a train just pulling in,” Allan answered, and at that moment the conductor appeared in the doorway.
“Are you first ninety-seven?” Allan asked him.
“Yes,” replied the newcomer. “Any orders?”
Allan handed them to him with a sigh of relief that all was well, and notified the dispatcher that first ninety-seven had reached Byers at 7.16.
It may be well to explain, at this point, that the regular freight-trains on every road are usually run in sections, the number of sections depending upon the amount of freight to be moved. For instance, if, toward the middle of the afternoon, there has accumulated in the yards at Wadsworth only enough west-bound freight for a single train, the cars are made up, and at seven o’clock, immediately following the accommodation, regular west-bound freight-train No. 97 is started toward Cincinnati, and runs as nearly as possible on the schedule given it in the time-table.
If, however, there are too many cars for one engine to handle, they are made up into two trains, and the first one that goes out is called the first section,and displays at the front of the engine two green lights to show that another section is following. Ten minutes later, the second section is sent out, displaying no signals. Theoretically, both sections constitute one train, and the track cannot be used by any other train until both get by; but this is a theory which is constantly broken in practice. Sometimes, when freight business is heavy—in the fall, for instance, when the grain crops are being moved and the merchants throughout the country are laying in their supplies for the holidays—there will be three or four sections of each of the regular freight-trains.
But while this system allows for a certain expansion of traffic to suit the road’s business, by far the greater part of the freight in the busy season is handled by “extras”—that is, by trains which have no place on the time-card and no regular schedules, but which must run from station to station, whenever the track happens to be clear. For instance, as soon as Number Two, the east-bound flyer, pulls into the yards at Wadsworth, an extra west-bound freight will be started out, with orders to run extra to the end of the division. The conductor is armed with the time-card, and must keep out of the way of all trains which appear on it. He is also provided with meeting orders for all the other extras which happen to be going over the road at the same time, and must take care to comply with them. As he goes from station to station,he is kept informed as to whether any of the regular trains are behind time, so that he need not wait on any of them unnecessarily, but may get over the road as rapidly as possible. The actual conduct of the train is left largely to him and to the engineer, so that their responsibility is no light one.
All of this sounds much easier than it really is. As a matter of fact, the task of carrying on the business of a single-track road, where it is practically impossible for all trains to run on time, where meeting-points must be provided for all freight-trains, without delaying them unduly, and where the passenger-trains must have always a clear track and opportunity to make up as much time as possible, if they happen to be late, is one of the most delicate and nerve-racking that could be imagined, though under the new double-order system it is not so bad as it was under the old single-order one.
The burden of keeping things moving and of getting the trains over the road in the shortest possible time, falls principally upon the dispatcher at headquarters, but every operator along the road bears his part, and an important part. He must keep awake and alert for any orders the dispatcher may wish to send him; he must note the passage of every train and report to the dispatcher the exact moment at which it passed; and he must be sure that the station signals are properly displayed, and that all orders are properly delivered. Upon the faithful fulfilment of these duties does the safetyof trains depend; but especially upon the second, for unless the dispatcher knows accurately the exact position of every train, disaster is sure to follow.
Only once that night did Allan have any trouble. That was about three o’clock in the morning. There had not been many orders for Byers, for traffic was light, and he had passed the time listening to the orders sent the other operators and studying the time-card and book of rules with which all operators are provided. But at last his sounder began to clatter out the already familiar "-..., -..., B, B," which was the call for Byers. He answered it and took down the following message on his manifold sheet:
“Hold extra east, eng. 632, at B.”
Allan repeated it at once from his copy, and a moment later, “Com 3.10 C R H” was flashed back to him.
The “com” meant “complete,” showing that the order had been accurately repeated; the “3.10” was the time the order was sent, and the “C R H” were the initials of the superintendent, which are signed to all train-orders. Three copies must be made of every such order, one for the conductor, one for the engineer, and the other for preservation by the operator. This is done by using tissue-paper for the orders—which are usually called “flimsies” for that reason—between the sheets of which carbon-paper has been placed. A steel-pointed instrument called a stylus is used to write with, insteadof pen or pencil, in order that the impression through the three sheets may be clear and distinct.
A few minutes after Allan had taken the order, the extra east pulled in, and the conductor, Bill Higgins, stalked into the office.
“Any orders?” he asked.
Allan handed him two copies of the order just received, then waited, his own copy in his hand, for Higgins to read the order aloud to him, as required by the rules. But instead, the conductor merely glanced at it, then, with a savage oath, crumpled it up in his hand and started to leave.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Allan asked.
“Read it? I have read it!” answered Higgins, savagely.
“Not aloud to me,” Allan pointed out.
“What do you mean, you young fool?” demanded Higgins, turning upon him fiercely. “D’ you think I don’t know my business?”
“I only know,” replied Allan, paling a little as he saw that Higgins had been drinking and was in a very ugly mood, “that the rules require you to read that order aloud in my presence.”
“Well, what of it? That rule was made, mebbe, by th’ same fool that just sent this order holdin’ me here fer an hour, when I could git into Hamden easy as pie afore Number Ten was due! What do I care fer th’ rules? This here road’s goin’ t’ blazes, anyway!” and he turned to go.
“Very well,” said Allan, evenly; "you will do asyou think best, of course. But if you don’t obey the rules, I shall have to report you."
At the words, Higgins sprang around again, purple with rage.
“Report me!” he shouted. “Why, you young whipper-snapper, I’ll spoil that putty face o’ your’n,” and he raised his fist.
“Hello, here,” called a voice from the door. “What’s the trouble?” and Allan glanced past the irate conductor to see the engineer standing in the doorway. “What’s up, Bill?” he repeated, coming in. “What’s the kid done?”
“Threatened to report me if I don’t read this here order to him,” answered Higgins sullenly.
The engineer glanced sharply from one to the other.
“Isthatall?” he said. “And you were going to fight about a little thing like that, Bill?”
“No kid shall report me!” growled Bill, but he looked a little foolish.
“Well, then, read the order,” advised the engineer, easily.
Bill hesitated an instant, then smoothed out the crumpled paper.
“’Hold extra east, engine 632, at Byers,’” he snapped out, and handed the engineer his copy.
“’Hold extra east, engine 632, at Byers,’” repeated the latter. “Correct.”
The conductor turned without another word and left the office. The engineer followed him with hiseyes until he disappeared in the darkness, and then turned back to Allan.
“Would you really have reported him?” he asked, eying the boy curiously.
“Yes,” answered Allan, slowly. “I think I should. He was drunk.”
“He has been drinking,” admitted the engineer. “Personally, I detest him. But he’s got the sweetest little wife you ever saw, and three kids that worship him; so he can’t be wholly bad. What would become of them if he’d lose his job? Of course, you can report him yet, if you want to. But I’d think it over first,” and the engineer followed Higgins out into the night.
Allan did think it over, and the result was that the superintendent never heard of that encounter in the little Byers office.