AN OLD ENEMY
Every night must end, although that one, as it seemed to Allan, was at least forty hours long. His greatest difficulty was to keep awake, for he had been working all day before he came on duty. More than once he caught himself nodding, until, at last, he dared not sit still in his chair, but went out upon the stretch of cindered path before the shanty and tramped up and down it, pausing now and then at the door to make sure his instrument was not calling him. The cool air of the night blew sleepiness from his eyes, at last, and he stood for a long time gazing out over the silent fields. Away in the distance a cock crew; others answered it, hailing the dawn; for the eastern sky began to show a tinge of gray. From every tree and coppice came sleepy twitterings, which, as the east grew brighter, burst into songs of joy to greet the rising sun.
Birds never make the mistake that some boys and girls do, of rising with sour faces—"wrong endfirst." They know how much it adds to the day’s happiness to start the day right; they are always glad when morning comes, and they never forget to utter a little song of praise and gratitude for another sunrise. Then they fly to the brook and take their bath, and hunt cheerfully for breakfast. Nor do they lose their tempers if they can’t find some particular worm or bug of which they are especially fond. Truly, bird-ways are worth imitating.
Allan sat down in the door of the shanty to watch the daily miracle which was enacting before him, but which most people have come to regard as a matter of course. It was the first sunrise he had seen for many months—in fact, since the days, seemingly years ago, when he had risen every night to take his trick at guarding the track from train-wreckers. Now, as he sat here, watching the brightening east, all the adventures of that time came vividly back to him, and he smiled to himself as he reviewed them one by one. He had made many firm friends—and one enemy, Dan Nolan, the vicious and vindictive scoundrel who had tried in so many ways to injure him; and had finally joined the gang of desperate tramps who had given the road so much trouble, and who, caught in the very act of trying to wreck the pay-car, had been sentenced to a term in the penitentiary.
Allan had incurred Nolan’s enmity the very first day of his service with the road. Nolan had beena member of Jack Welsh’s section-gang, and had been discharged for drunkenness. He knew, however, that the place on the gang would be hard to fill, and expected to be taken back again. But that very day, Allan, who had walked all the way from Cincinnati in search of employment, came along, and Welsh, impressed by the boy’s frank and honest face, had given him the place. Nolan had blustered, threatened, and even tried to kill him; and had ended by being sent to the State prison.
Allan’s face darkened as he recalled Nolan’s many acts of enmity, and the thought came to him that he had not yet heard the last of the scoundrel. But this gloomy mood did not endure long, for suddenly a radiant yellow disk peeped over the hills to the east, and flooded the world with golden splendour. The birds’ songs of praise burst forth afresh, and every tree, every plant, every flower and blade of grass, seemed to lift its head and bow toward the east to greet the luminary upon which all life upon the earth depends. Its warm rays drank the dew from the meadows, and over the brook, which ran beside the road, a filmy mist steamed upward from the water. Away off, across the fields, Allan could see a man ploughing, and a herd of cows wandered slowly over a near-by pasture, cropping the fresh grass and blowing clouds of warm and fragrant breath out upon the cool air. Allan resolved that so long as he held this trick, every dawn should find him at the door watchingfor the sunrise, the wonder and mystery and beauty of which he was just beginning to understand.
A call from his instrument summoned him back into the office. There were a number of orders to take for trains from east and west, which were to meet and pass at Byers, and by the time these had been duly received, repeated, and O. K.’d, six o’clock had come and gone. Six o’clock was the hour of relief, but Nevins did not appear. After that, every minute seemed an hour, and Allan began to understand Nevins’s feelings the night before, when his own relief did not arrive. He began to fear that he would miss the morning accommodation train to Wadsworth. If he did, he could not get home before noon, and he was desperately tired and sleepy. He went to the door and looked out, but saw no sign of Nevins, and was just turning back into the office, when a low, sneering laugh almost at his elbow caused him to start around. It was Nevins, who stood there grinning maliciously. He had evidently come around the corner of the house, while Allan was looking out across the fields.
“Well,” he sneered, “how d’ ye like it?”
“I don’t like it at all,” said Allan.
“After this,” added Nevins, pushing past him, “you be on time and I will. That’s all I want ofyou.”
“We’ll have to rearrange our tricks,” said Allan, his cheek flushing at the other’s tone. "I can’t get here until the evening accommodation at six-thirty;so suppose you come on half an hour later in the morning. That will even things up."
Nevins growled a surly assent, and turning his back ostentatiously, he hung up his coat and flung himself into the chair.
“There are three orders,” added Allan. “One of them—”
“Oh, shut up!” snarled Nevins. “I can read, can’t I?”
“Yes; no doubt you can. But the rules require that I explain outstanding orders to you before I go off duty.”
Nevins looked up at him, an ugly light in his eyes.
“So you’re that kind, are you?” he queried. “Little Sunday-school boy. Ain’t you afraid your mamma’s worryin’ about you?”
“Don’t you want me to—”
“I don’t want you to do nothin’ but get out!” Nevins broke in, and took the orders from the hook and looked over them. “As I said before, I can read. I suppose you can, too. So don’t bother me.”
An angry retort rose to Allan’s lips, but he choked it back; and at that instant a whistle sounded down the line, and the roar of an approaching train. He had just time to grab coat and lunch-basket and swing aboard, and in a moment was off toward Wadsworth.
He sank into a seat, his heart still hot at Nevins’s insolence; and yet, on second thought, he was gladthat he had not yielded to the impulse to return an angry answer. It was natural that Nevins should have been provoked, though the delay of the night before was not Allan’s fault in the slightest degree; and, in any event, there was no use making an enemy of a fellow who might be able to do a great deal of mischief. But one thing Allan resolved on, his lips set: he would explain outstanding orders to Nevins, whether the latter chose to listen or not.
Mary Welsh was waiting for him at the door.
“You poor boy,” she said. “You’re half-dead fer sleep!”
“Only a quarter dead,” Allan corrected, “and I’ll soon be good as new. What’s that I smell?” he added, wrinkling his nose, as he stepped inside the door. “Hot biscuits?”
“You go git washed,” retorted Mary, with affected sternness, “an’ you’ll see what it is when ye git t’ table. Hurry up, now!”
“All right,” laughed the boy. “I know you, Mary Welsh.”
And when he sat down, he found that his nose had told him correctly. The biscuits were flaky and white and piping hot, with golden butter melting over them; and there were three slices of bacon cut very thin and browned to a turn; and potato-cakes—not those soggy, squashy potato-cakes which are, alas! too familiar—but crisp and brown, touching the palate in just the right way. Ah, Mary, you have achieved something in thisworld that many of your more “cultured” sisters may well envy you! How few of them could create potato-cakes like yours!
It was after eight o’clock when Allan finally climbed the stair to his little room under the roof, and went to bed. Mary had darkened the windows, so that the light should not disturb him, and he dropped off to sleep almost at once. I know the physiologists tell us that sound sleep is impossible after a hearty meal, but, candidly, I don’t believe it. Healthy animals, at least, have no difficulty in sleeping after eating; in fact, a nap almost always follows a meal. Watch your cat or dog after you have fed them. The cat will make a hasty toilet and curl up for a snooze; the dog will drop down behind the stove or in a sunny corner out-of-doors without even that formality. It is only when the stomach has been ruined by long years of overfeeding that one must use all the precautions which physical culturists and health-food advocates and cranks of that ilk advise—must eschew biscuits for bread two days old, and half-starve oneself in order to live at all. But the healthy boy may eat whatever he pleases, in moderation, and be none the worse for it.
So all the day Allan slept, never once so much as turning over, hearing nothing of the comings and goings in the house. Indeed, Mary Welsh took care that there should be little noise to disturb him. Mamie, when she came home from school at noon,was promptly warned to keep quiet, and ate her dinner as silently as a mouse. Not until the sun was sinking low in the west and a glance at the clock assured her that he must be awakened, did she climb the stair which led to his little room and tap gently at his door.
“Allan!” she called. “Allan!”
“Yes?” he answered sleepily, after a moment.
“You must be gittin’ up, if you’re goin’ t’ ketch your train,” she said.
“All right; I’ll be down in a minute,” and he sprang out of bed and into his clothes in a jiffy.
Mary had his supper smoking hot on the table, and Mamie, who had just come home from school, sat down with him to keep him company.
“I don’t like your new position very well, Allan,” she said, as she poured out his coffee for him.
“Why not?” he asked, smiling down into the serious little freckled face.
“Why, you’re going to be away from home every evening,” she explained. “Who’s going to help me get my lessons, I’d like to know?”
Allan laughed outright.
“So that’s it? Well, we’ll have to make some arrangement about it. Maybe in the morning, as soon as I get in—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” broke in Mrs. Welsh, sharply. "When you git home in th’ mornin’ you’re goin’ straight t’ bed, jest as soon as you gityour breakfast. Mamie kin git her own lessons. It’ll do her good. You’re fair spoilin’ th’ child."
“I’ll tell you,” said Allan, “I’ll get up half an hour earlier in the afternoon. There’s no sense in my sleeping so long, anyway. It’ll make me stupid. You hurry straight home from school, and we’ll have plenty of time.”
Mamie clapped her hands. Then she sprang from her chair, flew around the table, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“Allan, you’re a dear!” she cried. “A perfect dear!”
It was at this moment that the door opened and Jack Welsh came in, grinning broadly as he saw the tableau at the table.
“Mary,” he said, “it seems to me that Mamie’s gittin’ t’ be a very forrerd sort o’ body. It’s scandalous th’ way she runs arter th’ boys.”
“Only arter one boy, Jack,” corrected his wife, “an’ I don’t care how much she runs arter him. But how did ye happen t’ git home so early?”
“I was hungerin’ fer a sight o’ your black eyes, me darlint,” answered Jack, winking at Allan, and he passed his arm about his wife’s trim waist and gave her a tremendous hug.
“Go way, ye blarney!” she cried, beating him off. “Do ye wonder your child’s forrerd when her father sets her sich an example? An’ I s’pose you’ll be wantin’ your supper now. Well, it ain’t ready!”
“No,” said Jack, releasing her, “I’ve got t’ go back t’ th’ yards first t’ see th’ roadmaster. I’ll be back in about half an hour. Come along, Allan, if you’re goin’.”
Allan put on coat and hat, picked up the luncheon-basket, which Mary had already packed for him, kissed Mamie again, and followed Jack down the steep path which led to the street. He turned at the gate to wave good-bye to Mary and Mamie, who stood watching them from the door above, then followed Jack across the maze of tracks toward the station.
“Th’ fact o’ th’ matter is, Allan,” said Jack, in a low voice, as the boy caught up with him, “I come home early on purpose t’ see you.”
“To see me?” Allan repeated, and when he glanced at Jack, he saw that his face was very grave.
“Yes, t’ see you,” said Jack again, and hesitated, as though reluctant to impart the news which he knew would be unwelcome.
“What is it?” asked Allan, and a little shiver ran through him, for he knew that Jack would not speak so without good reason.
The elder man hesitated yet a moment.
“Dan Nolan’s loose,” he said, at last, his voice hoarse with emotion.
AN UNWELCOME GUEST
“Dan Nolan’s loose,” repeated Jack, as though his companion had not heard, and then walked on in silence.
Allan’s heart gave a sickening leap—not in the least of fear, for he had never been afraid of Nolan, but of anxiety for the property of the company. He knew Nolan’s revengeful and vindictive nature; he knew that he would never rest content until he had avenged himself upon the company for sending him to the penitentiary. For himself he did not fear; Nolan, who was a coward at heart, a lazy, overgrown bully, had never dared attack him openly. He recalled how the thought of Nolan had oppressed him that morning. There was something prophetic in it!
“But I don’t understand,” he said, at last. “I thought Nolan had been sent to the penitentiary for three years.”
“So he was,” growled Jack, "an’ he’d got a stiffer dose than that if he hadn’t been the coward an’ traitor he was. You know he turned State’sevidence an’ testified agin his pals, an’ so managed t’ git hisself off with three year, while all th’ others got ten. I’d hate t’ be in Nolan’s shoes when theydogit out. They’ll certainly never rest till they git even with him."
“But how did he get out?” asked Allan, again. “He hasn’t been in the penitentiary more than six months.”
“Only five months,” corrected Jack, grimly. “Purty justice I call that! It’s enough t’ disgust an honest man! What’s th’ use o’ being honest, anyway, if that’s all they do to a dirty scoundrel like Dan Nolan? No wonder they’s lynchin’ parties every now an’ then!”
“Jack,” laughed Allan, “you don’t believe a word you’re saying, and you know it!”
“Well, anyway,” said Jack, “it makes me fair sick at heart t’ think of it! Here’s this cowardly blackguard loose agin, an’ y’ know he’s got it in fer ye!”
“Oh, I can take care of myself,” said Allan, easily.
“In a fair fight ye could,” agreed Jack. “But ye know as well as I do that he won’t fight fair. He’ll be tryin’ some of his cowardly tricks on ye, jest like he did afore. I won’t be able t’ sleep fer worritin’ about it!”
“Oh, nonsense, Jack! You don’t need to worry, at all. I’ll keep my eyes open. But you haven’t told me yet how he got out. Was he pardoned?”
“Oh, wuss’n that!” answered Jack, disgustedly. “They went an’ put him on th’ pay-roll!”
“On the pay-roll!” repeated Allan. “Oh, you mean he’s been parolled?”
“Yes; what’s that mean?”
“It means that he’s released during good behaviour. As soon as he does anything wrong he’ll be whisked back into the penitentiary, and won’t get out again till his term’s out.”
“Much good that’ll do,” commented Jack, “arter th’ mischief’s done! That’s like lockin’ th’ stable door arter th’ hoss is stole!”
“He’s probably promised to be good.”
“He’d promise anything,” said Jack; “why, he’d sell his soul t’ th’ devil, t’ git another chance at ye. Ye must look out fer yourself, me boy.”
“I will,” promised Allan, with a laugh, as he swung himself aboard the train. “Don’t worry.”
But when the train had started and he was alone with his thoughts, without the fear of Jack’s sharp eyes seeing what was passing in his mind, the smile faded from his lips. After all, seek to evade it as he might, therewassome danger. Nolan was vindictive—he would seek revenge first of all, unless his nature had been completely changed, which was scarcely to be expected. If he would fight fairly, there was very little to apprehend from him; but Allan knew perfectly well that he would not do this. He would work in the dark, undoubtedly; he wouldwatch for a chance to injure his enemy without running any risk himself.
So it was in a decidedly serious frame of mind that Allan left the train at Byers Junction and entered the little frame building which was his office. Nevins, the day man, grunted the gruffest kind of a greeting, caught up his coat and lunch-basket, and hastened away, while Allan sat down, looked over the orders, and familiarized himself with the condition of things. There was an order or two to acknowledge, and a report to make, and half an hour passed almost before he knew it.
As he leaned back in his chair to rest a moment, he happened to glance through the window, and was surprised to see Nevins walking up and down the track, at a little distance, as though waiting for some one. He still had his lunch-basket in his hand, and evidently had not yet gone home to supper. Allan watched him, with a feeling of uneasiness which he could not explain. At last, he saw Nevins make an impatient gesture, and after looking up and down the track again, walk rapidly away in the direction of the little village where he boarded.
First Ninety-eight pulled in at that moment and stopped for orders; orders for an extra west had to be received, and a train on the connecting road had to be passed on its way, and by the time he was at leisure again he had forgotten all about Nevins. He got out his copy of the book of rules,and looked through it to be sure that he was familiar with the rules which governed each emergency.
The book opened with a “General Notice,” to the effect that “to enter or remain in the service is an assurance of willingness to obey the rules; obedience to the rules is essential to the safety of passengers and employees; the service demands the faithful, intelligent, and courteous discharge of duty; to obtain promotion, capacity must be shown for greater responsibility; and employees, in accepting employment, assume its risks.”
The general rules which followed were easily remembered. Among other things they prohibited the use of intoxicants by employees, while on duty, and the warning was given that “the habitual use of intoxicants, or the frequenting of places where they are sold, is sufficient cause for dismissal.” The officials of the railroads all over the country have come to realize the need for a cool head, steady nerves, and unimpaired judgment in every man who holds a railroad position, from the lowest to the highest, and conditions which were only too common a generation ago would not now be tolerated for a moment. The standard of character, of intelligence, and of conduct required from their employees by railroads, and by almost every other industrial enterprise, has been steadily growing higher, and while skill and experience, of course, still count for much, character and habits also weigh heavily in the scale.
A whistle down the line told him that the extra west, for which he had an order, was approaching. He went to the door and assured himself that the signal was properly set, then, as the train pounded up, called up the dispatchers’ office and reported its arrival. A moment later, a heavy step sounded on the platform and Bill Higgins entered. Allan handed him the order silently, and stood waiting for him to read it, wondering if there would be another quarrel like that of the night before. But Higgins read the order aloud, without protest, then folded it up, put it in his pocket, and turned to go. Allan sat down again at his key; but after a moment he realized that Higgins was still standing beside his chair. He glanced up in surprise, and saw that the big conductor was fiddling nervously with his lantern.
“Fact is,” he burst out, catching Allan’s eye, “I made a fool o’ myself last night. I want you to fergit it, m’ boy.”
“I will,” said Allan, heartily, and held out his hand.
Bill grasped it in his mammoth palm and gave it a mighty squeeze.
“’Tain’t fer my own sake,” he added, and his voice was a little husky.
“I know,” said Allan, quickly. “It’s all right. I’ve forgotten it.”
“Thank’ee,” said Bill, awkwardly, and turned away.
Allan watched his burly figure until it disappeared through the door. He was glad that he had taken the engineer’s advice and not reported him. After all, the man was good, at heart; and besides, there were the wife and children.
He waited until he heard the train puff away, reported its departure, and then picked up the book of rules again. He ran over the definitions—definition of “train,” “section,” “extra,” and so on, which there is no need to repeat here—with which, indeed, the readers of this series ought already to be familiar.
Following the definitions came the train-rules, with instructions as to the time-card, and the signal rules. The latter are especially interesting, for every one who has travelled on a railway has noticed the signals made by hand, flag, or lantern, and has no doubt wondered what they meant. A hand, flag, or lantern swung across the track means stop; raised and lowered vertically, proceed; swung vertically in a circle across the track, when the train is standing, back; and there are other signals to indicate when the train has broken in two, and to order the release or application of the air-brakes. Rule No. 13 is that “any object waved violently by any one on or near the track is a signal to stop,” and a stop signal must always be obeyed, no matter at what cost—to run by such a signal means instant dismissal.
There are other signals, too, which are of interestto passengers, particularly the whistle signals. There are sixteen of these, but the more important ones are: one short blast, stop; one long blast on approaching stations, junctions, or railroad-crossings at grade; two long blasts followed by two short ones on approaching public crossings at grade, which is the signal most frequently heard by the travelling public. A succession of short blasts means danger ahead—and is used, too, to scare cows and horses off the track.
There is yet another class of signals, which are given with the signal-cord which runs overhead through every passenger-coach. Every one, of course, has seen this cord, and has also seen the conductor use it to signal to the engineer. It is connected with a little valve over the door of the car, and every time the conductor pulls it, there is a little hiss from the valve as of escaping steam. This is the compressed air escaping. The valve is connected with a compressed-air line which runs through the entire train, and every pull on the cord blows a little whistle in the cab of the engine. Two pulls at this cord, when the train is moving, means stop at once; when the train is standing, two pulls is the signal to start. Four pulls means reduce speed, and five, increase speed. Three pulls is the signal usually heard, and indicates that the train is to stop at the next station. It is always answered by two toots from the whistle to show that the engineer understands. This compressed-air linelong ago replaced the old signal-cord which rang a bell in the cab.
A call sounded on his instrument, and Allan laid down the book again to answer it. There was a short order to be taken, and just as he repeated it and snapped his key shut, he heard a step at the door behind him. He glanced around carelessly, then started suddenly upright, for on the threshold peering in at him stood Dan Nolan.
A PROFESSION OF FRIENDSHIP
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Nolan drew back as though to go away, but thought better of it, entered the little room slowly, and without waiting for an invitation, sat down in the remaining chair.
“Howdy,” he said, and smiled at Allan in a manner intended to be amiable.
“How are you?” Allan answered, striving vainly to guess what object Nolan could have had in coming here.
Nolan coughed dismally.
“You see I’m out,” he said, grinning sheepishly.
“Yes; I heard this evening that you had been parolled.”
Nolan coughed again.
“It’d have been murder to keep me in any longer,” he said. “One lung’s gone as it is. Th’ doctor told th’ board I’d be dead inside o’ six months if I wasn’t let out.”
And, indeed, as Allan looked at him more closely, he could see the change in him. He was thinnerand his face had a ghastly pallor, revolting to see. An experienced police officer would have recognized the prison pallor at a glance—the pallor which all criminals acquire who serve a term in jail; but to Allan it seemed proof positive of the progress of his old enemy’s disease, and his heart was stirred with pity.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “I hope you’ll get well, now you’re out again.”
Nolan shook his head lugubriously.
“Not much hope o’ that, I guess,” he answered. “Arter all, it’s no more’n I deserve fer treatin’ you th’ way I did.”
Allan stared at him in astonishment. Repentance was the last thing he had ever expected of Nolan, and he scarcely knew how to answer.
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad as that,” he managed to say, at last.
“It’s mighty kind o’ you t’ say so,” replied Nolan, humbly, “but I know better. I tell you, durin’ th’ last three months, arter I was locked up in my cell every night, I had plenty o’ time t’ think things over, an’ I begun t’ see what a blamed skunk I’d been.”
There was a whine in his voice not wholly genuine. Allan would have doubted its genuineness still more could he have seen the grimace which Nolan made at his back as he turned away to take an order. He was vaguely troubled. If Nolan was sincerely repentant, he did not wish to be unjust to him, yet,at the same time, he could not wholly believe in the reality of a change so at variance with Nolan’s character. Something of this hesitation was visible in his face, as he looked up from taking the message.
“I don’t blame you fer doubtin’ me,” Nolan added. “If I was in your place, I’d kick me out.”
“Oh, I’m not going to do that,” protested Allan, laughing at the twisted pronouns. “How did you happen to come to Byers?”
Nolan’s face wrinkled a little, but the answer came readily enough.
“I’d been to Wadsworth,” he explained. “Th’ people at th’ pen. bought me a ticket an’ sent me back—but I was ashamed t’ stay there—I was ashamed fer anybody t’ see me. They all knowed what I’d done. So I thought I’d go t’ Parkersburg, where I’ve got an uncle who kin git me work, an’ give me a chance t’ earn an honest livin’.”
“And you’re going to walk?” asked Allan.
“Sure,” answered Nolan. “How else? I ain’t a-goin’ t’ jump no train—that’s agin th’ law. An’ I knows mighty well none o’ th’ trainmen ’d let me ride.”
Allan was silent a moment. He remembered vividly the time when he himself had walked from Cincinnati to Wadsworth in search of work; he remembered how long and weary each of those hundred miles had seemed. And he had been strongand healthy, while Nolan was evidently weak and sick, not fit at all for such a journey.
Nolan, who had been watching Allan’s face intently, rose suddenly to his feet.
“Don’t you worry about me,” he said. “I ain’t wuth it. Besides, I’ll git along all right.”
“But maybe I can help you,” Allan began.
“No, you can’t; I won’t let you. I ain’t got that low,” and Nolan, crushing his hat fiercely down upon his head, strode to the door. “Good-bye,” he called over his shoulder, “an’ good luck.”
“Good-bye,” answered Allan, and watched him with something almost like respect until his figure was swallowed up in the darkness.
Outside in the night, Nolan was striding up and down, waving his clenched fists wildly in the air, his face convulsed with passion.
“Th’ fool!” he muttered, hoarsely. “Th’ fool! Th’ goody-goody ape! Wanted t’ help me! Oh, I couldn’t ’a’ stood it—I’d ’a’ been at his throat in a minute more. I’ll show him! I’ll show him!”
He circled the shanty cautiously until he reached a spot whence, through the window, he could see Allan bending over his key. He shook his fist at the unconscious boy in a very ecstasy of rage.
“I’ll fix ye!” he cried. “I’ll fix ye!”
He saw Allan stir uneasily in his chair, as though he had heard the threat, and for an instant he stood motionless, with bated breath, his clenched fist stillin the air. Then he realized the impossibility of being overheard at such a distance, and laughed weakly to himself.
“You’ve lost yer nerve, Dan,” he said. “You’ve lost yer nerve! No, I’m blamed if y’ have!” and he straightened up again and shook his fist fiercely in the air.
“Hello,” said a voice just behind him, “what’s all this about?” and a hand grabbed his wrist.
Nolan turned with a little cry of fright. He gave a gasp of relief as he recognized Nevins.
“What d’ ye want t’ scare a feller like that fer?” he demanded, wrenching his wrist loose.
“Were you scared?” asked Nevins, with a little sneer. “Lost your nerve, hey?”
“No, I ain’t lost my nerve,” retorted Nolan, savagely, “an’ you’ll soon find it out, if you tries t’ git smart withme! I didn’t tell all I knowed at th’ trial!”
Even in the darkness, Nolan could see how Nevins’s face changed, and he laughed triumphantly. Nevins echoed the laugh, but in an uncertain key.
“Oh, come, Dan,” he said, “don’t get mad. I didn’t mean anything.”
But Nolan was not one to be generous with an adversary when he had him down.
“No,” he went on slowly, "I didn’t tell all I knowed. Let’s see—last fall you was night operator at Harper’s—an’ th’ station was robbed—an’when th’ day man come on in th’ mornin’ he found you gagged an’ bound in yer chair, sufferin’ terrible. I didn’t tell th’ court how willin’ you was t’ git tied up, nor how we happened t’ choose th’ night when th’ station was full o’ vallyble freight, nor how you got a share o’ th’ swag—"
“Oh, come, Dan,” Nevins broke in, “what’s the use of raking all that up again? Of course you didn’t tell. I knew mighty well you wouldn’t give a friend away.”
“There’s no tellin’ what I’ll do if I lose my nerve,” said Nolan, threateningly. “Where ’re you stoppin’?”
“Over here at the village. And mighty dull it is.”
“Well, they’s nobody here knows me,” said Nolan. “S’pose we go over to your room an’ have a talk.”
“All right,” agreed Nevins, after an instant’s hesitation. And they walked away together. “What are you going to do now?” he asked, a moment later.
“Th’ fust thing I’m a-goin’ t’ do,” answered Nolan, his eyes shining fiercely, “is t’ git even with that dirty rat of an Allan West, who sent me to th’ pen.”
“All right,” said Nevins, heartily. “I’m with you there. I don’t like him, either. Only, of course, you’ll not—you’ll not—”
“Oh, don’t be afeerd,” snarled Nolan. "I ain’ta-goin’ t’ kill him. I got too much sense t’ run my head in a noose. Besides, that ain’t what I want. That ain’t good enough! I want somethin’ t’ happen that’ll disgrace him, that he’ll never git over—somethin’ that’ll haunt him all his life. He holds his head too high, an’ I’m a-goin’ t’ make him hold it low!"
“I see,” said Nevins, thoughtfully. “Well, we can manage it some way.”
“O’ course we kin,” agreed Nolan, and licked his lips eagerly. “Afore I git through with him, he’ll be sorry he was ever born!”
Nevins nodded.
“We can manage it,” he repeated. “Here we are,” he added, and stopped before a two-story frame dwelling-house. “My room is up-stairs. Come along,” and he opened the front door.
Nolan followed him through the door and up the stairs. Nevins opened another door, struck a match to show his companion the way, and then lighted a lamp which stood on a table in the middle of the room. Then he closed the door and locked it, and going to the window, pulled down the blind so that no one could see in from the outside. Then he went to a bureau which stood in one corner, unlocked it and got out a box of stogies, a sack of sugar, a bottle of whiskey, and two glasses. He stirred up the fire in the little stove which warmed the room, and set over it a kettle which he filled with water from the pitcher on his washstand.Nolan, who had been watching him with greedy eyes, licking his lips from time to time, dropped into a chair with a grunt of satisfaction.
“You’re all right, Nevins,” he said. “You treat a feller decent.”
“Of course I do,” agreed Nevins, “especially when he’s my friend. Now we can talk.”
An hour later, any one looking in upon them, would have seen them sitting together before the fire, their heads nodding, and the room so filled with tobacco-smoke that the flame of the lamp showed through it dim and yellow. Nevins was snoring heavily, but Nolan was still awake and was muttering hoarsely to himself.
“That’s it!” he said. “That’s th’ ticket! You’ve got a great head, Nevins! No, I’ll never tell—not arter you’re helpin’ me out this way. Why, we kin work it easy as greased lightnin’. Nobody’ll ever know—an’ that kid’ll never git over it. He’s that kind—it’ll haunt him! Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he went crazy!”
Nevins awoke with a start.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s go to bed.”
“All right,” assented Nolan, and arose heavily, and began to undress, lurching unsteadily from side to side. “But you certainly are a peach, Nevins, t’ think of a scheme like that!”
“Oh, that was easy,” protested Nevins, who was winding his alarm-clock. “That was easy.”
“It’ll fix him,” Nolan chuckled. “He’ll never sleep sound ag’in!”
“And he won’t be such a pet at headquarters,” Nevins added. “In fact, I think his connection with the P. & O. will end then and there.”
“O’ course,” Nolan assented. “But it ain’t that I’m thinkin’ of so much. It’s of him thinkin’ an’ worryin’ an’ goin’ crazy about it. Mebbe he’ll kill hisself!”
Even Nevins, hardened as he was, could not repress a shudder as he saw Nolan’s countenance convulsed with horrible mirth. There was something revolting and fiendish about it. He turned quickly and blew out the light.
“Come on,” he said, almost harshly. “Get to bed. It’s nearly midnight.”
But even after they were in bed, he could hear Nolan chuckling ecstatically to himself, and shrank away from him in disgust.
THE PRESIDENT’S SPECIAL
The operator’s work at Byers Junction was more important and difficult than at any of the other small stations on the line, because, as has already been explained, it was at that point that the track of the D. W. & I. joined that of the P. & O., and all D. W. & I. trains ran over the P. & O. tracks as far as West Junction, a distance of about eight miles. This complicated the traffic problem and the movement of trains much more than a simple crossing would have done, for the trains had to be kept out of each other’s way not only at the junction, but for the whole length of that stretch of track which was used in common by the two roads.
The P. & O. was considerably the older of the two, and had been built along the main line of traffic from east to west—the line which, in the old days, had been followed by the stage-coach. As the State became more thickly settled, other lines sprang up, and finally, when rich deposits of coal were discovered in Jackson County, the D. W. & I. was built to tap this territory and connect it with the northwestern part of the State. TheP. & O. also ran through Jackson County, and, of course, soon built a branch to the coal-fields, so that when the work of construction on the new road began it was found that it would closely parallel the P. & O. for a distance of about eight miles. The new road was short of cash at the time, as most roads in the building are, and decided to use the P. & O. track for that distance, instead of building a track of its own.
So a traffic arrangement was made, the junction points established, and joint operators placed there. This arrangement, which, as was at first supposed, would be only temporary, was continued from year to year, the P. & O. getting a good rental out of this stretch of track, and the D. W. & I. never accumulating a sufficient balance in the treasury to build a track of its own—at least, whenever itdidget such a balance, it was always needed for some more pressing purpose, and the old arrangement was allowed to stand. When a railroad has to fight to earn the interest on its bonds, it is willing to do anything that will give it a longer lease of life.
The D. W. & I. was, as will be seen, an unimportant road. It ran only one passenger-train a day in each direction, and, as it was not on the way to anywhere, its business, both freight and passenger, was purely local. At the beginning of its existence, it had hauled a great deal of coal for the Chicago market, but this business had been killed by the development of the great Pocahontasfields in West Virginia. Luckily for the road, it was discovered at this time that it might serve as a link between the mighty N. & W. and C. H. & D. to connect the Pocahontas fields with Chicago, so, while the east end of the line gradually degenerated into a streak of rust, traffic on the west end, from Wadsworth to Dayton, became heavier than ever, as train after train of coal and coke, from the West Virginia fields, passed daily over this little stretch of track, and then rushed away to the busy city by the lake. It was a good deal like a man living on one lung, or with one side partially paralyzed; yet a certain sort of life is possible under those conditions, and this one-sided traffic provided the only dividend the D. W. & I. had ever paid, and permitted the road to struggle along without going into the hands of a receiver.
Owing to this double use of this little stretch of track, the operators at both Byers and West Junction were what is called “joint operators;” that is, they served as operator for both roads, received orders from both headquarters, and so managed the traffic that there should be no conflict. This consisted, for the most part, in holding the D. W. & I. trains until the P. & O. trains were out of the way; for the trains of the more important road were always given precedence, and the others had to make the best of it and hurry through whenever there was an opening. The P. & O. dispatcher had absolute control over the track, and the D. W. & I.trains were not turned back to the control of that road until they had got back upon their own line.
At night, luckily, there was very little traffic over the D. W. & I.—so little that it had not bothered Allan at all. But during the day trick, traffic was much livelier, and it required a cool head and steady judgment to get everything past without confusion. There was, both at Byers and West Junction, a long siding upon which trains could be held until the track ahead was clear, but they were used only when absolutely necessary, for the ideal and constant endeavour of dispatcher, operator, and every other employee of a railroad is to keep things moving.
Only by keeping things moving, can a railroad be profitably operated. One stalled train soon blocks a dozen others, and any derangement of the time-card means delayed mails, wrathful passengers, irate trainmen, and a general tangle of traffic almost certain to result in accident. To keep things moving on a single-track road, such as the P. & O., requires no little judgment and experience, as well as the power of reaching the wisest decision instantly. There must be, too, in the ideal dispatcher, an element of daring, for chances have to be taken occasionally, and in railroading, more than in any other business, he who hesitates is lost. Not of foolhardiness, be it understood, for the foolhardy dispatcher soon comes to grief; but he must, as it were, expect the best, not the worst, and governhimself accordingly. Before he sits down at his desk, he must make up his mind that during his trick, every train is going to get over the road on time, and then bend every energy to accomplish that result. This, it may be added, is the secret of all successful train-dispatching.
Nevins reported on time next morning, and greeted Allan with unusual affability; but his eyes were bloodshot, and though he pretended to listen to Allan’s explanation of the orders in force, it was evident that his attention wandered and that he was making no effort to understand.
“All right,” he said, when Allan had finished. “I’ve got that all straight,” and he sat down heavily before the table.
His hand trembled perceptibly as he opened his key, and Allan, as he put on his coat, noticed the confused way in which he started to answer the dispatcher’s question about the position of a train.
The dispatcher cut in sharply.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Nevins.”
“What’s the matter—been out all night?”
Nevins, who knew that Allan had heard the question, reddened to his ears.
“Now try again,” added the dispatcher, “and brace up.”
Nevins, by a mighty effort, controlled his uncertain muscles, and sent the remainder of the message accurately, but considerably slower than usual.
The dispatcher acknowledged it.
“All right,” he said, “but take my advice and go out and put your head under the pump. You need it. The way you sent that message reminds me of a man going down the street so drunk that the only way he can walk straight is to watch every step he takes.”
Nevins reddened again and growled unintelligibly.
As for Allan, he caught up his lunch-basket and hurried out of the office, sorry that he had overheard the reprimand, but scarcely able to suppress his laughter at the aptness of it. For Nevinshadsent the message in just that slow, painful, dignified way.
The accommodation stopped at the junction a few minutes later, and he swung aboard and settled into a seat. As the train started, some unaccountable impulse caused him to lean toward the window and look back at the little shanty. A man was just entering the door. Allan caught but a glimpse of him, and yet it seemed to him in that instant that he recognized the slouching figure of Dan Nolan.
He sank back into his seat strangely troubled. Could it, indeed, be Nolan? Was he hanging about the place for some sinister purpose? Then he thrust the thought away. It could not have been Nolan. That worthy was by this time many miles away, on the road to Parkersburg, in search of a chance to make an honest living.
When Allan stepped upon the platform of the Wadsworth station that evening, lunch-basket in hand, to take the train back to Byers, he was surprised to find Jack Welsh there awaiting him.
“I didn’t want t’ go home early agin,” Jack explained. “Mary ’d scent somethin’ wrong and ’d git th’ whole story out o’ me. I don’t want her t’ be worrited about this business.”
“About what business?” asked Allan.
“Oh, you know well enough. About Dan Nolan. He was here yistidday arternoon. Some o’ th’ boys seen him over t’ James’s saloon. Jem Tuttle says he seen him jump on second ninety-eight. I thought mebbe he might ’a’ gone t’ Byers.”
“He did,” said Allan, quietly. “I saw him.”
“Ye did!” cried Jack. “I hope ye did fer him!”
“Why, Jack,” protested Allan, “the poor fellow’s nearly dead with consumption. He’s on his way to Parkersburg to look for work. He says he wants a chance to earn an honest living.”
“He told ye that, did he? An’ was ye fool enough t’ set there with your mouth open an’ gulp it all down? I give ye credit fer more sense than that!”
Allan reflected that Nolan certainly had lied about his unwillingness to steal a ride. And the figure he had seen that morning vanishing through the door of the Byers station recurred to him.
“Ididbelieve it,” he admitted finally. "Helooked so sick and weak that I couldn’t help but pity him."
“Pity a toad!” said Jack, contemptuously. “Pity a snake! An’ he’s a thousand times wuss ’n any snake! He’s jest waitin’ fer a good chance t’ bite!”
“Well, I’ll take care he doesn’t get the chance,” Allan assured him, and clambered aboard the train at the sharp “all aboard!” of the conductor.
The more he thought over the circumstances of Nolan’s appearance the night before, the more strongly was he inclined to believe that Jack’s warning was not without reason. Nolan, perhaps, hoped to put him off his guard, to catch him napping, and then, in some underhanded way, to “get even.”
“Well, he sha’n’t do that,” murmured Allan to himself. “I’ll keep my eyes open. And if Mr. Nolanisup to any such little game, I think he’ll get the worst of it.”
With which comforting reflection, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, and took a little cat-nap until the junction was reached.
When he entered the little office, he found Nevins sitting listlessly at the table, his head in his hands. He glanced up quickly as Allan entered, with a kind of guilty start, and the boy noticed how pale and tired he looked. Nevins nodded, in answer to his greeting, then got unsteadily to his feet and stood drumming nervously with his fingers upon the table.
“You look regularly done up,” said Allan. “Had a hard day?”
“Hard!” echoed Nevins, hoarsely. “I should say so—hard’s no name for it! They’ve been tryin’ to send all the freight in the country through here. And everybody snortin’ mad, from the dispatchers down to the brakemen. You heard how that smarty lit into me the first thing this mornin’. It’s enough to make a man throw up the job!”
Allan saw how overwrought he was and dropped into the chair without replying, and began to look over the orders on the hook. Nevins watched him, his face positively haggard. Just then the sounder clicked off a rapid message, as the operator at Hamden reported the passage of a train to the dispatcher at headquarters.
“Hello,” said Allan; “there’s a special coming west. Do you know what it is?”
“It’s the president’s special,” answered Nevins, moistening his lips nervously. “A lot of the big guns are on it, on their way to attend a meeting at Cincinnati. They’ve kept the wires hot all day—nothing but thirty-nine, thirty-nine, thirty-nine. The other business had to take its chance.”
Thirty-nine, it may be explained in passing, is the signal used for messages of the general officers, and indicates that such messages have precedence over all other messages except train-orders.
Nevins paused a moment longer, gazing down at Allan’s bent head, and opened his mouth once ortwice as though to speak; then, seizing his coat and hat, fairly rushed from the place.
Allan hung up the order-hook again, and as he did so, he noticed that Nevins’s lunch-basket was standing on the floor near the window. Nevins had evidently been so upset and nervous from the hard day’s work that he had forgotten it.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was 6.58. Hamden, which had reported the passage of the special, was only eight miles away, so the train would pass the junction within five or six minutes. Allan knew that when a train carrying the high officials went over the road, the way was kept clear for it, it was given the best engine and the nerviest engineer, and every effort was made to break records. There was no order for it at the junction, his signal would give it a clear track, and it would sweep by without slackening speed.
As a matter of precaution, he went to the door to be sure the signal was properly set, and stood there, looking down the track in the direction whence the train was coming. He had a clear view for perhaps half a mile, and sure enough, a minute later, he saw a headlight flash into view, and the rails began to hum as they only do when a train is running a mile a minute. A long whistle from the engine showed that the engineer had seen the signal and knew that the track was clear.
Then suddenly, the boy’s heart stood still, fordown the track, toward West Junction, he heard the chug-chug of an approaching freight!
Just what happened in the instant that followed Allan never clearly remembered. His brain seemed paralyzed; his senses swam and the world grew dark before him as though some one had struck him a heavy blow upon the head. Then, instinctively, his hand flew to the lever which controlled the train-signal and swung it over; but he had no hope that the engineer of the special would note the change. He was too close upon it, and besides he had assured himself that it showed an open track and so would not look at it again.
An instant later, there was a report like a pistol-shot. Allan heard the sharp shriek of applied brakes, the shrill blast from the whistle which told of “Danger ahead!” He saw the special sweep past, shaken throughout its entire length by the mighty effort made to stop it; then he sank limply down on the threshold of the door, and buried his face in his hands, not daring to see more.
PLACING THE BLAME
The crowd of officials aboard the president’s special was a jolly one. To get away, even for a few days, from the toil and moil of headquarters was a genuine and welcome vacation, and though there were three stenographers aboard, all of whom were kept busy, there remained plenty of time for story-telling and good-natured quizzing. At the head of the party was President Bakewell, dressed in the height of fashion, holding his present position not so much because of any intimate knowledge of practical railroading as because of his ability as a financier, his skill as a pilot in days when earnings decreased, when times were bad, and when the money for running expenses or needed improvements had to be wrung from a tight market. At doing that he was a wizard, and he wisely left the problems of the actual management of the road to be solved by the men under him.
These, with very few exceptions, had risen from the ranks. They knew how to do everything from driving a spike to running an engine. They hadbeen drilled in that best of all schools, the school of experience. The superintendents knew their divisions, every foot of track, every siding, every fill, bridge, and crossing, more thoroughly than the ordinary man knows the walk from his front door to the gate. They had gone over the road so often, had studied it so thoroughly, that they had developed a sort of special sense in regard to it. Put them down anywhere along it, blindfolded, on the darkest night, and, at the end of a moment, they could tell where they were. They knew each target by its peculiar rattle as the train sped past. They knew the position of every house—almost of every tree and rock—along it. They knew the pitch of every grade, the degree of every curve; they knew the weak spots, and laboured ceaselessly to strengthen them.
Now, as the special swept westward from general headquarters, superintendent after superintendent clambered aboard, as his division was reached, and pointed out to the president and other general officers the weak spots along it. He showed where the sidings were insufficient, where the grade was too steep to be passed by heavy trains, where a curve was too sharp to be taken at full speed without danger, where a bridge needed strengthening or replacing by a masonry culvert. He pointed out stations which were antiquated or inadequate to the growing business of the road, and suggestedchanges in schedule which would make for the convenience of the road’s patrons.
For a railroad is like a chain—it is only as strong as its weakest link, and the tonnage which an engine can handle must be computed, not with reference to the level track, but with reference to the stiffest grade which it will have to pass before reaching its destination—except, of course, in cases where the grade is so stiff, as sometimes happens on a mountain division, that it becomes a matter of economy to keep an extra engine stationed there to help the trains over, rather than trim the trains down to a point where a single engine can handle them.
The president listened to the arguments and persuasive eloquence of his superintendents, and nodded from time to time. His stenographer, sitting at his elbow, took down the recommendations and the reasons for them, word for word, as well as a comment from the president now and then. As soon as general headquarters were reached again, all this would be transcribed, typewritten copies made and distributed among the general officers; the recommendations would then be carefully investigated and approved or disapproved as might be.
At Parkersburg, Superintendent Heywood and Trainmaster Schofield, of the Ohio division, got aboard, to see that the needs of their division received proper consideration. Athens, Zaleski, McArthur,and Hamden were passed, and the two officials exchanged a glance. They had a recommendation to make which, if approved, would mean the expenditure of many thousands of dollars.
“The next station is Byers Junction,” said Mr. Heywood. “From there to West Junction, as you know, the D. W. & I. uses our track. In view of the great increase of traffic during the last year both Mr. Schofield and I feel that the D. W. & I. should either be compelled to build its own track, or that the P. & O. should be double-tracked between those points.”
“Hm!” commented the president. “How far is it?”
“Seven and a half miles.”
“Do you know how much another track would cost?”
“Not less than fifty thousand dollars.”
“What return do we get from the D. W. & I. for the use of our track?”
“It has averaged ten thousand dollars a year. But their freight business is increasing so that I believe it will soon be fifteen thousand.”
“Hm!” commented the president again. “Why don’t they borrow the money and build their own track?”
“In the first place, their credit isn’t very good,” Mr. Heywood explained, "and in the second place, for them to buy and get into shape a separate right of way would cost probably two hundred thousanddollars. We have our right of way, all grades are established, and all we have to do is to lay a second track along the one we already have."
“It sounds easy, doesn’t it?” laughed the president. “I don’t know anything that’s easier than building a railroad—on paper.”
“It would be a good investment,” said Mr. Schofield, rallying to the support of the superintendent. “It would return at least twenty per cent. on the cost. If we don’t get another track, we’ll have to shut the D. W. & I. out. A single track won’t handle the business any more. There’s always a congestion there that affects the whole road.”
The president puffed his cigar meditatively. Good investments appealed to him, and the reasons for the improvement certainly seemed to be weighty ones.
“Besides,” went on Mr. Schofield, “there’s always the danger of accident to be considered. A single one might cost us more than the whole eight miles of track.”
“Ever had any there?”
“No—none so serious as all that. But we’ve escaped some mighty bad ones by the skin of our teeth.”
The president smiled.
“Don’t try to scare me,” he said.
“I’m not. But it’s a serious matter, just the same. There’s the office now,” added Mr. Schofield, pointing to the little frame building. He sawa figure standing in the doorway, and knew that it was Allan West. “There’s the boy,” he began, when a report like a pistol-shot stopped him.
Instantly he grasped the arms of his seat, as did all the others, for they knew that the train had run over a torpedo. A second later, they were all jerked violently into the air as the brakes were jammed on and the engine reversed. Every loose object in the car was hurled forward with terrific force, and a negro porter, who was walking past bearing a tray of glasses, was shot crashing through the thin front partition, and disappeared with a yell of terror. A window, shattered by the strain, rained its fragments in upon the floor, and through the opening thus made, the occupants of the car could hear the shrieking brakes and labouring engine. In a moment, it was over; the train jerked itself to a stop; paused an instant as if to regain breath, and then, as the brakes were released, started with a jump back toward the office it had just passed. A moment later, something seemed to strike it and hurl it backward, but the car did not leave the rails. The impetus slowly ceased, and the train came to a stop just opposite the semaphore.
Without saying a word, the officials hastened outside. They knew perfectly well what had happened. A head-end collision had been averted by the narrowest possible margin; indeed, it had not been wholly averted, but had been so reduced in force that no great damage had been done.
“Lucky our train was a light one,” muttered Mr. Schofield, as he jumped to the ground. “I wonder if he thinks now I was trying to scare him?” and he shuddered at the thought of what would have happened had the engineer been unable to control the train. If it had been a regular passenger, with eight or ten heavy Pullmans crowding after the engine, even the most powerful brakes would have been unable to hold it.
Superintendent Heywood, his face very stern, hurried forward toward the engine. It was his duty to investigate the accident, to place the blame, and to see that the guilty person was punished. He regretted, as he had often done before, that the only punishment the road could inflict was dismissal from the service. Such a punishment for such a fault seemed so feeble and inadequate!
Bill Roth, the engineer of the special, was walking about his engine, examining her tenderly to see what damage she had sustained from the tremendous strain to which she had been subjected and from the collision which had followed.
“She’s all right,” he announced to Mr. Heywood. “Nothing smashed but her pilot and headlight,” and he patted one of the huge drivers as though the engine were a living thing and could feel the caress.
The superintendent nodded curtly and hurried on. Twenty feet down the track, the pilot and headlight also smashed, loomed a freight-engine.A single glance told Mr. Heywood that it belonged to the D. W. & I.
“I’ll run her in on the siding,” he said to Mr. Schofield, who was at his elbow.
The latter nodded and started on a run for the office, in order to get into touch at once with the dispatchers’ office. Neither official understood, as yet, how the accident had happened; but there would be time enough to inquire into that. The first and most important thing was to get the track clear so that the special could proceed on its way and the regular schedule be resumed.
As Mr. Schofield sprinted toward the office, he glanced at the train-signal and noted that it was set at danger. He must find out why their engineer had disregarded that warning, for he knew that the brakes had not been applied until the train was past the signal. Bill Roth was one of the oldest and most trusted engineers on the road, else he would not have been in charge of the special, but the best record on earth could not excuse such carelessness as that.
So Mr. Schofield reflected as he sprang up the steps that led to the door of the shanty. There he paused an instant, for at the table within stood Allan West, ticking off to headquarters a message telling of the accident, and asking for orders. Not until he came quite near could the trainmaster see now drawn and gray the boy’s face was. He waited until the message was finished and the key clickedshut. Then he stepped forward and laid his hand gently on the boy’s arm.
“All right, Allan,” he said. “No harm done, though it was a mighty close shave. You sit down there and pull yourself together, while I get this thing straightened out.”
In a moment he had headquarters.
“Eng. 315 running extra delayed at Byers Junction ten minutes. Will leave Junction 7.18. A M S.”
“O. K.,” flashed the answer from the dispatcher, who at once proceeded to modify his other orders in accordance with this delay.
As the trainmaster snapped the key shut, the superintendent appeared at the door.
“All ready,” he said.
“The track’s open,” said Mr. Schofield. “I’ve notified Greggs,” and the two men ran down the steps and started toward the train. “Did you notice the signal?” he added.
“Yes,” answered the superintendent, “and I asked Roth about it. He and his fireman both swear that it showed clear when they looked at it a moment before they reached it. Roth merely glanced at it and then looked back at the track. But the fireman says that it seemed to him it was swinging up just as they rushed past it. Then they hit the torpedo.”
“And where diditcome from?”
“Lord only knows. There’s something mysterious about this affair, Schofield.”
“I know there is,” and the trainmaster’s face hardened. “I’m going to stay right here till I get to the bottom of it.”
Mr. Heywood nodded.
“Yes—I think that’s best. Who’s the night operator here now?”
“Allan West,” answered the other, speaking with evident difficulty.
The superintendent stopped for an instant, then went on whistling softly.
“Too bad,” he said, at last. “Have you asked him anything about it?”