“No; he seemed all unstrung. But he kept his head. He was reporting the accident and asking for orders when I got to the office.”
“Good; I hope he wasn’t to blame—though the setting of the train-signal at the last instant looks bad.”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Schofield, “it does.”
“Of course, I’m sorry for the boy; but if he was at fault, not even all he has done for the road can—can—”
“No,” broke in Mr. Schofield, curtly; “I know it can’t. Don’t be afraid. I’ll go to the bottom of the matter, regardless of who is hurt. I’ll fix the blame.”
The superintendent nodded without replying. Both men were more moved than they cared toshow. For they were fond of the boy and had been very proud of him.
Mr. Heywood glanced at his watch, saw that it pointed to 7.18, and gave the signal to the conductor.
And as the train pulled away, Mr. Schofield started slowly back toward the shanty. The task before him was about the most unpleasant that he had ever faced.
But his countenance was impassive and composed as he mounted the steps to the door.
PROBING THE MYSTERY
Allan had recovered somewhat from the nervous shock the threatened accident had given him, and was receiving a message as Mr. Schofield entered. The latter paused a moment to look at him—at the handsome, honest, boyish face; the broad and open brow bespeaking intelligence and character, the mouth firm beyond his years, the eyes steady and fearless; and as he looked, a weight seemed to drop from his heart. Whoever was to blame, he knew instinctively that it was not Allan West.
He sat down with an audible sigh of relief, and got out a cigar and lighted it. A moment later, Allan repeated the message, closed his key and looked up with a smile. Mr. Schofield had proved himself a friend tried and true, and one upon whom he knew he could rely.
“Well,” said the trainmaster, answering the smile, “I’ve come to find out how it all happened. Suppose you tell me the story.”
Allan passed his hand quickly across his eyes.
“I really know very little,” he began. “I came on duty at the usual time, and took an order or two. Then I heard the operator at Hamden report the special. I knew it would be here in a few minutes, and as I had no order for it—”
“You’re sure therewasno order for it?” interrupted Mr. Schofield.
“Yes, sir; I had just looked over the orders on the hook. So I went to the door to be sure the signal showed a clear track.”
“Itdidshow a clear track, did it?”
“Yes, sir. I stood there a moment longer; and then I heard the special coming and saw its light flash around the curve. I watched it coming—it must have been running nearly a mile a minute.”
“It was—all of it,” said Mr. Schofield.
“Well, it was almost at the switch, when I heard another engine chug-chugging up the grade from West Junction. I don’t remember clearly just what I did for the next moment or two—I have a sort of recollection that I jerked the signal over and then I heard a shot—”
“It was a torpedo.”
“A torpedo?” echoed Allan. “But who—”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. We’ll look into that after awhile. Go ahead with your story.”
Allan paused a moment to collect his thoughts.
“I heard the brakes go on and saw the special sort of humping itself up in the effort to stop—”
“Itwashumping itself, and no mistake,” agreed the trainmaster. “And we were rattling around inside like dried peas in a pod.”
“And then,” Allan went on, “I thought I heard the trains come together, and things sort of went black before me; but I managed to pull myself together enough to report that the track was blocked. I was doing that when you came in.”
“Yes, I heard you. Now let’s find out how that freight got past West Junction. The operator there must have had an order to hold it until the special passed.”
He sat down before the key and called West Junction. The operator there, who had heard of the accident, answered almost instantly. At the same moment, the conductor and engineer of the freight, having assured themselves that no great damage had been done, and having replaced their shattered headlight by a lantern from the caboose, came in to report and ask for orders.
Mr. Schofield waited until he had received an answer to his question, then he closed the key and arose and faced them.
“The operator at West Junction says you left there at 6.20,” he said. “How does it come it took you nearly an hour to make eight miles?”
“We got a hot-box,” explained the conductor, "the worst I ever see. It was about midway of the train, so nobody smelt it till it got so bad it blazed up, and then I happened to see it when I lookedout the winder of the caboose. When we opened the box, we found it dry as a bone, not a bit of dope in it—regularly cleaned out. I’ll bet it hadn’t been packed for a month. The journal was swelled so tight it took us half an hour to get it down."
“Yes, an’ we used nearly all th’ water in th’ tank doin’ it,” broke in the conductor. “An’ then when I tried t’ start, I found th’ brakes set, an’ we lost ten minutes more lookin’ for th’ air-hose that had busted an’ puttin’ on a new one.”
A hot-box, it should be explained in passing, is caused by imperfect lubrication of the axles of cars or engines, at the point where they pass through the journal-bearings. As they revolve rapidly under the great weight upon them, the friction generates heat, unless the surfaces are properly oiled, and this heat causes the journal to swell until it sticks in the bearing and refuses to revolve at all. Not infrequently the heat is so great that it generates a flame and sets the car on fire. To keep the journal lubricated, it is enclosed in a metal box, called a journal-box, and this is filled with axle-grease, or “dope,” as railroaders call it. In every railroad yard where trains are made up, there is a gang of men whose sole business it is to go from car to car, dope-bucket in hand, and make sure that all journal-boxes are properly filled. For hot-boxes are a prolific source of trouble. So are burst air-hose. Air-brakes, operated by compressed air, are very generally in use now on freight-cars as well as passenger-coaches.The compressed air is carried under the cars in iron pipes, but the coupling is of rubber-hose, in order to allow some play as the cars bump together or strain apart, and this hose frequently bursts under the great pressure. A burst hose instantly sets all the brakes, and the train-hands must first find the break, and then replace the burst coupling with a new one.
Mr. Schofield had listened to all these explanations with furrowed brow. Now he turned abruptly to the conductor.
“When you found you had run over your time,” he demanded, “how does it come you proceeded without a flag?”
“We hadn’t run over our time,” protested the conductor, hotly. “We had till 7.08 to make the Junction. We supposed of course the operator here knew his business and would protect us.”
“You would have been protected if I’d known you were coming,” said Allan, quickly, “but I had no order for you.”
“What!” demanded the engineer, incredulously, “do you mean to say th’ dispatcher didn’t cover us?”
“I certainly do.”
“An’ you didn’t git no order fer th’ special to meet us here?”
“I got no order whatever.”
The engineer, his face very red, produced from his pocket a soiled piece of tissue-paper.
“Read that,” he said, and handed it to the trainmaster.
Mr. Schofield opened it, his face very stern.
“’Engine 618,’” he read, "’will run extra from West Junction to Byers Junction and will keep clear of special passenger-train west, engine 315, after 7.08P. M.’"
“We’d have got here all right at 7.06,” went on the engineer, truculently. “We had three minutes.”
“What time did the special pass?” asked Mr. Schofield.
“At 7.05,” answered Allan.
The trainmaster nodded, and handed the order back to the engineer.
“You boys are all right,” he said. “You’re evidently not to blame.”
The engineer chuckled.
“You bet we ain’t,” he agreed. “But that’ll be th’ last o’ Mister Dispatcher on this road, I reckon. Who was it?”
“Greggs,” answered the trainmaster, tersely.
“Hum!” said the engineer, after a moment’s reflection. “I’d never have thought Greggs’d make a break like that. If it’d been Jenkins, now.”
“When did you realize that something was wrong?” asked Mr. Schofield, with a little impatient jerk of the head.
“When I saw that signal swung up. I knowed nobody’d handle it so rough as that without mighty good cause. So I jammed on th’ brakes an’ jerkedopen th’ sand-box an’ reversed her; an’ then in about a second, I see another headlight comin’ at me, an’ I knowed what was up.
“’Git out o’ here!’ I yelled to Joe—he’s my fireman—but he’d seen her comin’, too, an’ didn’t need no warnin’ from me. I see him jump an’ I was jest a-goin’ t’ foller suit, when I see th’ other feller had his train under control. We had slowed up considerable, too—we hadn’t been comin’ very fast, but th’ heavy train behind us shoved us on—so we jest give her a little love-tap, as it were, an’ stopped.”
“A little harder one and we’d have been off the track,” added the conductor. “I can’t understand Greggs makin’ a mistake like that. I always thought he was the best man in the office. I don’t see how he could have overlooked giving you an order for us.”
“Better men than Greggs have made mistakes,” retorted the trainmaster, a little tartly.
“Well, we must be gettin’ on,” said the conductor, eying Allan, curiously. “The investigation will show who was to blame.”
Allan was already calling up the D. W. & I. headquarters.
“Eng. 618,” he reported, “delayed by hot-box, just arrived here and wants orders.”
In a moment the answer flashed back.
“Eng. 618 will leave Byers Junction at 7.38 and run extra to Wellston.”
Allan repeated it, got it O. K.’d, and handed a copy to each of the two men. They read it aloud, glanced at their watches, and stalked out. A moment later, Allan and the trainmaster heard the exhaust as the engine started. As soon as the train was past the switch, Allan turned the semaphore and lowered the train-signal to show a clear track. Then he came back and sat down by the trainmaster, who was puffing his cigar reflectively.
“You’re fonder of fresh air than I am,” remarked the latter, as a little gust of wind rustled the orders which hung on the hook near the window. “We’d better have that down, hadn’t we?”
Allan, glancing at the window, noticed for the first time that the lower sash was raised.
“Why, I didn’t know it was open,” he said, and going to it, took out the stick which supported the sash and let the sash down. “Nevins must have raised it before he went away.”
“Well, if it had been me,” remarked the trainmaster, “I’d have noticed that wind blowing down my back before this. But we don’t seem to be getting much nearer the solution of this accident—or, rather, we haven’t discovered yet why it didn’t happen.”
“Why itdidn’thappen?” repeated Allan.
“Yes. Let us review the circumstances. At 6.20, this D. W. & I. freight passes West Junction, with right of way to Byers Junction until 7.08. That gives it forty-eight minutes to make a runwhich is usually made in twenty-five or less. But it develops a hot-box and bursts an air-hose and is delayed about half an hour. Still, it would have reached here a minute or so ahead of time, and it certainly had the right of way until 7.08.
“You, however, have received no order for this freight, and thinking the track from here to West Junction clear, you set your signals accordingly for the special which is nearly due, and which passes at 7.05. Just as it is passing, you hear the freight approaching, and throw the signal over. But the engineer, being almost upon it, doesn’t see it. An instant later, however, a torpedo explodes, and the engineer manages to stop the train and begin backing before the freight hits it. The engineer of the freight, meanwhile, has seen the signal change, and then sees another headlight rushing down upon him, and manages to get his train pretty well under control before the crash comes. So not much damage is done. But why? What was to keep the special from dashing itself to pieces against the freight?”
“It was the torpedo,” answered Allan.
“Precisely. The torpedo. And where did the torpedo come from? Did it drop from heaven at precisely the right instant? I don’t believe in that sort of miracle. Did it just happen to be there? That would be a miracle, too. No, I believe that some one, at that spot, heard the trains coming, or saw you swing the signal up, realized what wasabout to happen, and placed that torpedo on the track. Now, who was it?”
Allan, of course, was utterly unable to answer.
“And whoever it was,” added the trainmaster, “why doesn’t he come and tell about it? A fellow who does a thing like that has no reason to run away and hide.”
He stopped, chewing the end of his cigar nervously, a wrinkle of perplexity between his eyes.
“He must have been a railroad man,” went on the trainmaster; “a brakeman, conductor, or section-man, or he wouldn’t have had that torpedo in his pocket. Unless it was a tramp who’d stolen it. But a tramp would have been here long ago to claim his reward; and a railroad man would have come to make his report. No; I can’t understand it.”
He was interrupted by a sharp call on the instrument. Allan answered it.
“Make report at once,” clicked the sounder, “of accident to engs. 315 and 618 at Byers Junction. Greggs.”
“Eng. 618,” Allan reported, “leaving West Junction at 6.20, delayed thirty minutes by hot-box, in collision with eng. 315 at 7.05 just west of Byers Junction. Both engines slightly damaged.”
“Why didn’t you hold special and protect eng. 618?” came the query.
“No order to that effect was sent me,” Allan answered. “I supposed the track clear.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then the sounder started again.
“Following order was sent Byers Junction at 5.50: ’Eng. 315, special west, will meet extra east, eng. 618, at Byers Junction.’ Operator at Byers, initial N., repeated this, and it was O. K.’d, so that train was fully covered and should have been protected. Useless to deny that order was received.”
Allan had turned as white as a sheet, and his hands were trembling convulsively as he opened the key.
“Will investigate and report in a moment,” he answered, and then turned to the trainmaster, his eyes dark with horror.
“You heard?” he asked.
The trainmaster nodded, and his face, too, was very grave.
“You’re sure there was no such order?” he inquired.
“I came on at 6.40,” said Allan, “and went over all the orders on the hook very carefully. I’m sure there was no such order there,” and he motioned toward the “flimsies” which hung on the wall beside the window.
Mr. Schofield took down the hook and began to go slowly over the orders. In a moment, a sharp exclamation broke from him.
“What is it?” asked Allan, a sudden horrible fear seizing his heart and seeming to crush it.
The trainmaster detached from the hook one ofthe sheets of tissue-paper, and spread it out before him, his face very stern.
“’Engine 315,’” he read, “’special west, will meet extra east, engine 618, at Byers Junction.’”
Then he leaned back in his chair and gazed at Allan with accusing eyes.
TO THE RESCUE
For an instant, Allan scarcely understood. He sat as one stunned by a terrific blow. Then the truth burst upon him like a lightning-flash. He had overlooked the order; two of the flimsy pieces of tissue-paper had stuck together, and he had not perceived it! The accident, had it occurred, would have been his fault; that it did not occur was due to no act of his, but to some mysterious, unexplainable Providence. Morally, he was as guilty as though the trains had dashed together at full speed. Even now, because of his carelessness, they might have been one piled-up mass of twisted iron and splintered wood, with a score of human beings buried in the wreckage. The utter horror of the thought turned him a little dizzy. Then he arose, and took down his coat.
“What are you going to do?” demanded the trainmaster, who had been watching him closely.
“There’s only one thing for me to do, isn’t there?” asked Allan, with a wan little smile. "That is to get out. I see I’m not fit for anythingbetter than section-work, after all. I’ll ask Jack Welsh for my old job—that is, if the road will have me."
“Sit down,” commanded Mr. Schofield, sternly. He saw how overwrought the boy was. “There’s no use jumping at conclusions. Besides, you’ve got to stay your trick out here, no matter how guilty you are. There’s your call now,” he added, as the key sounded.
Allan answered it mechanically, took down the message, repeated it, and had it O. K.’d. By the time that was done, he had partially regained his self-control.
“Of course I’ll serve out the trick,” he said. “But I didn’t suppose I’d ever have a chance to serve another. A mistake like that deserves the severest punishment you can inflict.”
“You mean you think Nevins left the order on the hook and that you overlooked it?”
“Certainly,” said the boy. “How else could it have happened?”
“I don’t know. But neither can I understand how you could have overlooked it if you were at all careful. There are only three others on the hook.”
“I wasn’t as careful as I should have been,” said Allan in a low voice, “that’s certain.”
He was sure that he, and he only, had been at fault. Any other explanation seemed ridiculous.
“Did Nevins say anything about this train when you came on duty?” pursued the trainmaster.
Allan made a mighty effort at recollection.
“No,” he said, at last; “I’m sure he didn’t. We talked a moment about the special, and he spoke of the heavy day’s work he’d had. That was all. If he’d said he had an order for it, I certainly shouldn’t have forgotten it right away.”
“Then Nevins broke the rules, too,” said Mr. Schofield, and got out his book of rules. “The second paragraph on page seventy-six reads as follows: ‘When both day and night operators are employed, one must not leave his post until relieved by the other, and the one going off duty must inform the one coming on respecting unfinished business and the position of trains.’”
“He waited until I had looked over the orders,” said Allan, with a lively remembrance of Nevins’s attitude toward that particular rule. “He supposed that I could read, and if there was anything I didn’t understand I’d have asked him.”
Mr. Schofield put his book back into his pocket, and got out another cigar. His nerves were jangling badly, and he felt the need of something to quiet them.
“Well,” he said, at last, “I’m sorry.”
And Allan bowed his head. He accepted the sentence of dismissal which the words implied; it was just. He saw all the air-castles which he had builded so hopefully come tumbling about him; he was overwhelmed in the ruins. He realized that there was no future for him in railroading; no place at the top. He had forfeited his right to serve the road, to expect promotion, by that one mistake, that one piece of carelessness. At least, he told himself, it had taught him a lesson, and one that he would never forget. It had taught him—
“IN THE NEXT INSTANT THE TALL FIGURE HAD BEEN FLUNG VIOLENTLY INTO THE ROOM.”
“IN THE NEXT INSTANT THE TALL FIGURE HAD BEEN FLUNG VIOLENTLY INTO THE ROOM.”
Some one stumbled heavily up the steps to the door, and Mr. Schofield uttered a sharp exclamation of astonishment. Allan started around to see upon the threshold the strangest apparition his eyes had ever rested on.
Two figures stood there so daubed with mud, so bedraggled with dirty water, so torn and bruised and soiled as scarcely to resemble human beings. One was tall and thin, the other not so tall and much heavier. The shorter figure held the tall one by the back of the neck in a grip so tight and merciless that such of the latter’s face as was visible through its coating of mud was convulsed and purple. One eye was closed and swollen, while the other seemed starting from its socket. Both men had lost their hats, and their hair was matted with mud, reddened, in the case of the shorter one, with blood.
All this Allan saw at a glance, for in the next instant, the tall figure had been flung violently into the room, while the other entered after him, closed the door, and stood leaning against it, breathing heavily.
For a moment, not a word was spoken. The trainmaster and Allan stared in amazement from oneof these strange figures to the other. The tall one lay where he had fallen, gasping for breath; the other, having recovered somewhat, got out a handkerchief from some recess, and made an ineffectual effort to blow his nose. Then, as he caught the expression of the others’ faces, he grinned so broadly that some of the mud on his cheeks cracked and scaled off.
“Ye don’t happen t’ have a bath-tub handy, do ye, Allan?” he inquired, in a voice so familiar that the boy jumped in his chair, and even Mr. Schofield started perceptibly.
“Jack!” cried Allan. “Why, what—”
He stopped, unable to go on, breathless with sheer astonishment.
“Is it really you, Welsh?” asked the trainmaster.
“Yes, Misther Schofield; it’s me, or what’s left o’ me,” said Jack, passing his hand ruefully over his head, and gazing down at his tattered garments.
“And who’s this?” asked the trainmaster, with a gesture toward the prostrate figure on the floor.
“I don’t know th’ dirty scoundrel’s name,” answered Jack, “but you’ll know him, I reckon, as soon as we scrape th’ mud off. But afore I tell th’ story, Iwouldloike t’ wash up.”
“All right,” said Allan, starting from his chair, “here you are,” and he poured some water from a bucket into a wash-pan which stood on a soap-box beside the window. A towel hung from a roller onthe wall, and a piece of soap lay on the window-sill. It was here he washed up every night before he ate his midnight lunch.
Jack took off the remains of his coat, one sleeve of which had been torn out at the shoulder, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and plunged his head into the water with a grunt of satisfaction. He got off the worst of the mud, threw out the dirty water, and filled the pan with fresh. From this he emerged fairly like his old self, and rubbed face and head violently with the towel. When he had finished, an ugly cut was visible high on his forehead, near the roots of his hair. He touched it tenderly, and held the towel against it, for the washing had started it to bleeding again.
“Here, let me see that,” said Mr. Schofield, peremptorily. He led Jack near the lamp, despite his protests that it was only a scratch, examined the cut, got out his handkerchief, dipped it in clean water, and washed the wound carefully. Then he took from his pocket a little case of court-plaster, drew the edges of the cut together, and stuck a sheet of the plaster over it.
“There,” he said, when the operation was finished, "that will soon be all right. And let me give you a piece of advice, Welsh, and you, too, Allan—never go about this world without a case of court-plaster in your pocket. Men, especially railroad men, are always getting little knocks and cuts, not worth considering in themselves, but which maybecome poisoned, if left open, and cause a great deal of trouble. A snip of court-plaster stops all chance of that. So take my advice—"
There was a sudden movement behind them, and Jack hurled himself toward the door just in time to catch the other mud-bespattered figure as it was disappearing over the threshold. There was a moment’s struggle, then Jack got his deadly neck-grip again, and walked his captive back into the room.
“So ye thought ye’d git away, did ye?” he demanded, savagely. “Thought ye’d give me th’ slip! Not after th’ hard work I had gittin’ ye here, me boy!”
He closed the door with his disengaged hand, then led his prisoner up to the light.
“Do ye know him?” he asked of Allan and the trainmaster, but neither of them saw anything familiar in the distorted and mud-grimed features which the rays of the lamp disclosed. They noticed, however, with what an agony of fear the prisoner stared at them with the single eye which was open.
“Ye don’t know him, hey?” said Jack, seeing their blank countenances. “Well, ye wouldn’t know yer own father under such a layer o’ mud. Let’s wash him off. Then he’ll look more nateral.”
He shoved the prisoner toward the bucket of water, in spite of his suddenly desperate struggles. Then, pinching his neck savagely, he bent him down toward the bucket, and with his free hand splashedthe water over his face. Then he forced him up to the towel, rubbed his face vigorously, and finally spun him around toward the astonished onlookers.
Allan gave a gasp of amazement.
“Why, it’s Nevins!” he said.
“Nevins!” echoed Mr. Schofield, coming a step nearer. “Why, no—yes it is, too!”
“And who may Nevins be?” demanded Jack.
“Nevins is the day operator here,” said Mr. Schofield. “Let him go, Jack; he can’t escape.”
Jack reluctantly released his grip of the unlucky operator’s neck.
“I don’t know,” he said, dubiously. “If you’d chased him five mile, an’ fought him at th’ bottom of a ditch, an’ had him hit you in th’ head with a rock, mebbe you wouldn’t be so sure o’ that!”
“But what has he done?” demanded Mr. Schofield.
“Well, I don’t exactly know,” answered Jack, deliberately, moving again between the prisoner and the door, and sitting down there. “But it was some deviltry.”
Mr. Schofield also sat down, more astonished than ever.
“See here, Welsh,” he said, “you’re not drunk?”
“Hain’t drunk a drop fer a matter o’ tin year, Mr. Schofield. Th’ effects wore off long ago.”
“Heisdrunk, Mr. Schofield,” broke in Nevins, quickly. "I smelt it on his breath. I’ll have thelaw on him. He assaulted me out there in a ditch and nearly killed me. I’ll see if a man’s to be treated that way by a big, drunken bully—"
But Mr. Schofield stopped him with a gesture.
“That will do,” he said, coldly. “Don’t lie about it. I know that Welsh isn’t drunk. We’ll have his story first, and then yours. Fire away, Jack.”
“Well,” began Jack, “jest as th’ torpedy went off—”
“Which torpedo?”
“Why, th’ one that th’ special exploded.”
“Oh, begin further back than that—begin at the beginning.”
“Well, then, jest as I jammed th’ torpedy on th’ track—”
“Was ityouput it on the track?” cried Mr. Schofield.
“Why, sure,” said Jack. “Didn’t ye know that? Who else could it ’a’ been?”
“But how did you come to do that?”
“Why,” said Jack, “whin I heerd th’ special whistling away off up th’ line, an’ th’ signal showin’ a clear track, an’ knowed they was a freight comin’ up th’ grade, what else should I do but plant a torpedy? I didn’t have time t’ git t’ th’ office—besides, I knowed they was some diviltry on an’ I wanted t’ lay low till I could git Nolan—”
“Nolan!” echoed the trainmaster, more and more amazed.
“Sure, Nolan—Dan Nolan—you raymimber him. I thought it was him I had, an’ mighty dissipinted I was whin I found my mistake. But I thought I’d better bring this feller along, anyhow, an’ find out what it was he done when he raised th’ windy there an’ leaned in—”
A flash of understanding sprang into Mr. Schofield’s eyes, and he glanced quickly at Nevins. But the latter’s face was turned away.
“See here, Jack,” said the trainmaster, leaning forward in his chair, “we’ll never get anywhere in this way. I want you to begin at the very beginning and tell us the whole story.”
“Well, sir,” said Jack, “I would, but I’m afeerd th’ story’d be too long.”
“No, it wouldn’t. We want to hear it.”
“All right, then,” Jack agreed, and settled back in his chair. “Ye may as well set down, Misther Nevins,” he added.
“Yes, sit down,” said Allan, moved with pity at the other’s bedraggled and exhausted condition. He brought forward the box which served as washstand, and pressed Nevins gently down upon it.
The latter resisted for a moment; then, suddenly, he collapsed in a heap upon the box and buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaken by a dry, convulsive sobbing.
LIGHT IN DARK PLACES
The paroxysm lasted only for a moment, then Nevins pulled himself together with a mighty effort, looking about him with a pitiful attempt at bravado. Mr. Schofield glanced at him, then turned his back, for Nevins’s countenance, not engaging at any time, was now positively hideous.
“Go ahead with your story, Welsh,” he said.
“Well, sir,” Jack began, “I waited fer Allan this evenin’ t’ tell him that Nolan had come back, an’ when he told me that Nolan had been out here—”
“Nolan out here?” interrupted the trainmaster, and Allan related the conversation of the night before.
“When I heerd all that,” began Jack, again, "I knowed that Nolan was up to no good; I knowed that he had come out here t’ do th’ boy dirt; an’ all th’ whinin’ an’ crocydile tears in th’ world couldn’t convince me no different. So when Allan got on th’ accommydation, I left a message with th’ caller fer my old woman, tellin’ her I’d be late,an’ jumped on th’ back platform jest as th’ train pulled out."
Mr. Schofield nodded. He was beginning to understand the occurrences which had seemed so mysterious.
At that moment a freight pulled in, and the conductor entered to get the orders. He cast an astonished glance at Nevins, but the presence of the trainmaster stifled any questions which may have been upon his lips, and he read his order, signed for it, and went out again. Allan went to the door, assured himself that the signals were properly set, then shut the door and resumed his seat on the table beside the instrument.
“Well,” Jack continued, "I knowed th’ boy’d be mad if he thought I was follerin’ him—he never did like it, even when Nolan was arter him last year—so I stayed there on th’ back platform, an’ dropped off in th’ dark down there by th’ water-plug. I set down in th’ shadder of a pile o’ ties an’ waited. I see Allan come over here, an’ purty soon th’ other feller come out and hiked away fer th’ village, like he had a date with his best girl an’ was an hour late.
“I was gittin’ mighty hungry, and beginnin’ t’ feel purty foolish, too; fer I really hadn’t nothin’ t’ go on except that Dan Nolan had been here th’ day afore. It was gittin’ cold, too, but I turned up my collar, pulled my cap down over my ears, lighted my pipe behind th’ ties, an’ arranged myselfas comf’table as I could. I rammed my hands down in my pockets, t’ keep ’em warm, an’ snuggled up agin th’ logs. Somethin’ jabbed me in th’ side, an’ when I felt t’ see what it was, I found I had a torpedy in my pocket. I’d put it there in th’ mornin’ thinkin’ I might need it afore night, and hadn’t been back t’ th’ section shanty since. Well, I eased it around so’s it wouldn’t jab me, and leaned back agin.
“But th’ minutes dragged by mighty slow, an’ nothin’ happened. I could see Allan, through th’ windy, bendin’ over th’ table, or readin’ in a book. I couldn’t see my watch, it was too dark, an’ I didn’t dare strike another match, fer fear somebody’d see it, but I jedge it was clost to seven o’clock, an’ I was sort o’ noddin’ back agin th’ pile o’ ties, with my eyes shet, when I heerd two men a-talkin’ on th’ other side o’ th’ pile, an’ in a minute I was wide awake, fer I knowed one o’ th’ voices belonged t’ Dan Nolan.”
Jack paused to enjoy the effect of the words. He could certainly find no fault with his audience on the score of inattention. Allan and Mr. Schofield were regarding him with rapt countenances; and at the last words, Nevins, too, had started to a strained attention, his quick, uneven breathing attesting his agitation.
“Yes, it was Nolan,” Jack repeated, “an’ th’ other one was that felly there,” and he indicated Nevins with a motion of the finger.
“‘Well, did ye do it?’ Nolan asked.
“‘Yes, I done it,’ said th’ other. ’How about th’ freight?’
“‘I left her three mile back,’ says Nolan, ’with th’ wust hot-box ye iver see. An’ when she tries t’ start she’ll find an air-hose busted. She can’t git here till way arter seven.’
“‘Th’ special’ll be along about seven-five, I think,’ says Nevins, ’an’ it’ll be a-comin’ a mile a minute.’
“‘Bully!’ says Nolan, an’ laughs to himself. ’I guess that prig’ll hev suthin’ t’ think about th’ rest of his life. I guess he won’t stay much longer withthisroad.’
“I knowed they was talkin’ about Allan,” Jack went on, "and I tell you my blood was a-boilin’ considerable; it was all I could do t’ keep myself from jumpin’ up an’ grabbin’ them two scoundrels an’ knockin’ their heads together till I’d smashed ’em. But I couldn’t see yet jest what it was they was up to. So I thought I’d set still an’ try t’ find out. An’ purty soon Ididfind out.
“‘But you’ve got t’ git th’ order back on th’ hook,’ says Nolan. ’If y’ don’t, it’ll be you who’ll suffer an’ not that rat.’
“’Niver worry,’ says Nevins, ’I’ll git it back. I’ve pervided fer all thet.’
“Even yet I couldn’t understand,” Jack added. “I couldn’t believe that any two human bein’s would be sich divils as them words’d indicate. I thoughtmebbe I was dreamin’, but I pinched myself an’ it hurt. Then I thought mebbe I hadn’t heerd right. I jestcouldn’tb’lieve my own ears.
“‘Well, I can’t stay here,’ says Nevins. ’I must be gittin’ over by th’ shanty. I’ve got t’ watch my chance.’
“‘I’ll go along,’ says Nolan. ’Mebbe I kin help. Anyway, I’m a-goin’ t’ stay till th’ thing comes off.’
“They come around from behind th’ pile o’ ties, and I see them run across th’ track an’ dodge in among that little grove o’ saplings down yonder. In a minute, they come out at th’ edge by the shanty, an’ I see one o’ them creep up an’ look through th’ windy. Then he fell flat on th’ ground, an’ I see Allan git up an’ come t’ th’ door. Th’ semyphore and train-signal both showed a clear track. I jumped up t’ start acrost an’ warn him, an’ jest then I heerd th’ special whistle. I knowed then what ’d happen unless somethin’ was done mighty quick t’ keep th’ special from runnin’ past. I grabbed out th’ torpedy an’ jabbed it over th’ rail, an’ then started on a run fer th’ shanty, but th’ special was comin’ lickety-split, an’ I hadn’t hardly gone a rod afore it come singin’ along. I stopped t’ see what’d happen when it hit that torpedy. I knowed they’d be some mighty lively times fer a minute.”
“There were,” said Mr. Schofield, ruefully, and rubbed an abrasion on his wrist.
“An’ then,” Jack continued, "my heart jumpedright up in my throat, fer I heerd that freight come chuggin’ up th’ grade. It hadn’t been held as long as Nolan thought it would, an’ it looked to me fer a minute as though th’ trains’d come t’gether right by the semyphore. But that special was comin’ like greased lightnin’. I see th’ signal go up with a jerk, then th’ ingine hit my torpedy, and th’ brakes went on. I turned around t’ see what Allan was doin’, an’ I see him kind o’ keel over in th’ door. An’ then I see somethin’ else—I see that scoundrel there raise th’ windy, put th’ stick under it, climb up to th’ sill, lean in an’ do somethin’—I couldn’t tell jest what."
“I know what it was,” said Mr. Schofield, his eyes flashing and his face very stern. “He replaced on the hook the order covering the freight, which he had taken away with him.”
“Well,” said Jack, "I knowed it was some deviltry, an’ I started fer him as fast as my legs’d carry me. He slid back t’ th’ ground, an’ reached up his hand t’ let th’ windy down agin, an’ then he heerd me comin’. He jest took one look, an’ then lighted out across th’ fields, over fences, through a strip o’ woods back yonder, up a hill an’ down th’ other side—me after him, an’ gainin’—fer I was goin’ t’ ketch him, if I dropped dead th’ next minute. I reckon we must ’a’ run three or four mile, an’ he wasn’t more’n a hunderd feet ahead o ’me, when I see him stop sudden, run a little way t’ th’ right, then stoop an’ pick up somethin’. I was almost onhim, when he throwed it at me, an’ it was a rock," Jack added, "with a sharp edge, an’ it went through my hat an’ caught me in the head. If it hadn’t been fer th’ hat, I reckon I’d been stretched out then and there.
“But at th’ time, I didn’t hardly feel I was hit. I jest jumped fer him, an’ over we went together, clawin’ like Kilkenny cats, into a ditch half full o’ mud. It was that had stopped him, but I didn’t see it till I was right on it, an’ it was too late then t’ stop. Well, that mud was somethin’ fierce—but ye kin jedge fer yerselves,” he added, with an expressive gesture at his bedraggled attire and that of his opponent.
“It didn’t last very long, though,” he added, “or I reckon we’d both been suffycated. I got one good lick at his eye, and then got a hold of his neck, an’ he jest wilted. He wasn’t no match fer me, nohow—he’s too long an’ spindle-legged. Well, I managed t’ git him out o’ th’ ditch, an’ marched him back here,—an’ that’s all,” he added, abruptly.
For a moment Mr. Schofield did not speak, but sat looking at Nevins with an expression of loathing as though that worthy were something venomous and unclean.
“Nevins,” he said, at last, "I have known a good many cold-blooded scoundrels in my day, but none to compare with you. I believe I am speaking the exact truth when I say that hanging would be toogood for you. You are a disgrace to humankind—you ought to be hunted off the earth like vermin—you and that rascally comrade of yours."
Nevins shivered and shrank together under the withering tone.
“How did you get mixed up with such a scoundrel?” asked the trainmaster, at last.
“He—he made me,” Nevins blurted out. He had intended, at first, to deny everything, to brazen it out, to affirm his innocence of any wrong-doing. But the net of evidence had been drawn too tightly around him; he saw there was no possible chance of escape.
“Madeyou?” repeated Mr. Schofield. “You mean he had a hold of some kind upon you?”
“He—I was afraid of him,” muttered Nevins, sullenly. “He said he wanted to get even with West for sending him to the pen.”
“And you agreed to help? Not only that, it was you who furnished the plan. I know very well that Nolan hasn’t sense enough to work out such a pretty one.”
“He said he wanted to get even with West,” Nevins repeated. “He wanted to break him, to disgrace him, to make him lose his job, to give him something to think about all the rest of his life.”
“Yes, it was a pretty plan,” said Mr. Schofield, musingly; “about the most fiendish I ever heard of. Suppose you tell us how it was worked.”
Nevins grinned cunningly.
“I’m not going to incriminate myself,” he said “I’m not such a fool.”
Mr. Schofield made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “You can’t incriminate yourself any more than you are incriminated. Besides, all I’m going to do to you is fire you, and I’d do that if you never spoke another word in your life. I’ve said hanging is too good for you, but I’m going to let somebody else take the trouble of having you convicted. This won’t be your last scrape—unless you make a decided ’bout face! But I’ll get Nolan,” he added. “I’ll get Nolan, if it takes a dozen years.”
“Oh, all right,” said Nevins, looking vastly relieved. "You’re welcome to Nolan; and I’m going to get as far away from here as my money will carry me. I don’t want to see Nolan, myself. It was this way. I heard that order for the freight sent to West Junction, and then, pretty soon, came the order for the special to me. Nolan was here in the office at the time, and I remarked to him that if the freight could be held up half an hour or so after it left West Junction, it would be just the chance he was looking for.
“‘I’ll fix that,’ he said, ‘if you’ll keep that order off the hook.’
“I promised him I would, and he ran out and hooked on to a freight that was just pulling out for Wadsworth. He dropped off at West Junction, and it was pretty dark by that time, so he was ableto remove the dope and packing from one of the journal-boxes of the D. W. & I. freight without any one seeing him. Then the train started, and he got aboard, and rode back on it until the hot-box stopped it. Then he dropped off, cut an air-hose, to be sure they couldn’t get here ahead of time, and then started to walk the rest of the way back.
“I put the order in my pocket, went to supper as soon as West relieved me, and then hurried back so that I would be sure to get the order back on the hook. The only thing I was afraid of was that Nolan wouldn’t be able to hold the freight long enough, and that it would pull in here ahead of the special. I was pretty sure, though, that even in that case I could get the order back on the hook without any one seeing me. I left my lunch-basket behind, and if there hadn’t been any other way, I was going back after it, and jab the order on the hook when West wasn’t looking. So there wasn’t much risk, after all.”
“No,” said Mr. Schofield, bitterly, “not for you. But how about the people in the special?”
“Well,” answered Nevins, deliberately, “I don’t believe I fully realized what was going to happen until the special came singing down the track. Then I turned sort of sick at my stomach; but I kept my head enough to raise the window, and put the order on the hook. Then I heard that fellow coming for me and lit out. But I wasn’t fast enough.”
“I’d ’a’ got you,” remarked Jack, grimly, “if I’d had to chase you clear across to ’Frisco.”
“All right,” said Nevins, who, in telling his story, had regained a little of his cheerfulness. “You beat me fairly. And I’m glad the wreck didn’t happen. Now, if you gentlemen will permit me, I will bid you a fond adieu.”
“Good-bye,” answered Mr. Schofield. “Write me where you are, the first of the month, and the pay due you will be sent on to you. And if I were you, I’d let this experience teach me a lesson. You’re young yet. You can get back all you’ve lost. And remember, besides any question of right or wrong, it pays to be honest, to do right; for every one who is dishonest or does wrong is sure to suffer for it.”
“I’ve found that out,” agreed Nevins. “I don’t believe I’ll forget it,” and he opened the door, from in front of which Jack moved grudgingly, and vanished into the outer darkness. In that instant, too, he vanished from this story, for by daybreak he was speeding west toward Cincinnati. There he bought a ticket for Denver, and somewhere in the west, at the present day, he is no doubt living—let us hope honestly and usefully.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
The lamp seemed to shine more brightly and the air of the office seemed somehow clearer and cleaner when the door shut behind Nevins and the sound of his footsteps died away. Mr. Schofield arose and shook himself, as though to rid himself of some infection. Then he glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight.
“It’s time I was getting back to town,” he said. “I’ve got to join the special again in the morning. Isn’t there an extra west about due here?”
“Yes, sir,” Allan answered. “There’s one due in about ten minutes.”
“Well, I’ll take it; I dare say the conductor can fix me up a berth in the caboose. You’d better come with me, Jack,” he added, as Allan set the signal to stop the train. “Your wife’s probably trying to figure out what’s happened to you, and I think she’s entitled to an explanation.”
“Not much sleep will she be gittin’ this night,” Jack chuckled. “She’ll be havin’ me tell th’ whole story foive times, at least!”
“And, by the way, Allan,” went on Mr. Schofield, casually, “you needn’t report for duty to-morrow night.”
Allan’s face flushed. Of course there would have to be an investigation. He had forgotten that.
“Very well, sir,” he said, quietly, though he could hear the heavy breathing which told that Jack Welsh did not think it well, at all.
“Because you know,” the trainmaster went on, smiling queerly, “that the day trick here is vacant now, and, of course, it naturally falls to you. I will get some extra man to take it to-morrow, so that you can get a good night’s rest—you need it. You will report for duty the next morning.”
Allan’s heart was in his throat, and he dared not trust himself to speak, but he held out his hand, and the trainmaster gripped it warmly.
“And I’m mighty glad,” said Mr. Schofield, not wholly unaffected himself, “that you’ve come out of this affair so well. I was afraid for a time that you wouldn’t—and I couldn’t have felt any worse if it had been my own boy. There she comes,” he added, in another tone, as a whistle sounded far down the line. “Come on, Welsh; we mustn’t keep her waiting. Good-bye, Allan,” and he sprang down the steps.
But Allan held Jack back for a whispered word.
“After all, Jack,” he said, brokenly, squeezing the broad, honest, horny palm in both his own, "itwas you who saved the train, not I. You deserve the reward, if there’s to be one. I didn’t do anything—only stood staring here like a fool—"
“Cut it out, boy; cut it out,” broke in Jack, gruffly. “You did all ye could. I jest happened t’ be there.”
“But oh, Jack, if you hadn’t been! And no one would ever have known who caused the wreck! Every one would have thought it was my fault!”
“I know three people who wouldn’t!” protested Jack. “Their names is Mary, Mamie, an’ Jack Welsh!”
“Nonsense, Jack,” said Allan, laughing, though his eyes were bright with tears. “Why, I’d have thought so myself!”
“There’s th’ train,” broke in Jack, hastily. “See ye in th’ mornin’,” and tearing himself away, he followed Mr. Schofield down the steps.
Allan, watching from the door, saw them jump aboard the caboose before it had fairly stopped. The trainmaster exchanged a word with the conductor, who swung far out and waved his lantern to the engineer; and as Allan lowered the signal to show a clear track, the train gathered way again and sped westward into the night, toward Wadsworth. He watched it until the tail lights disappeared in the darkness, then he turned back into the little room and sat down before his key, his heart filled with thanksgiving.
The dispatcher at headquarters, calling Byers Junction to send a message to the trainmaster, soon found out that he was aboard the freight, and in consequence that fortunate train was given a clear track, and covered the twenty-eight miles to Wadsworth in forty-five minutes. One o’clock was striking as Jack Welsh climbed the steep flight of steps that led to his front door. At the top, he found a shawled figure waiting.
“Why, Mary,” said he, “you’ll be ruinin’ your health, me darlint, stayin’ up so late.”
“Yes,” she retorted, “an’ I’ll be goin’ crazy, worritin’ about ye. Where’ve ye been, Jack Welsh?”
“Niver ye mind. Is my supper ready?”
“Supper? Ye mane breakfast, don’t ye?”
“Call it what ye like, so it’s fillin’. Fer I’ve got an awful emptiness inside me. Didn’t I send ye word by Dan Breen that I’d be a little late?”
“An’ do ye call one o’clock in th’ mornin’ a little late?” she queried, with irony.
“Well,” said Jack, tranquilly, walking on through toward the kitchen, “that depends on how ye look at it. Some folks might call it a little early.”
A lamp was burning on the kitchen table, and as Jack came within its circle of light, Mary, who was close behind, saw for the first time the condition of his clothes.
“Jack!” she screamed, and rushed up to him,and then she saw the piece of court-plaster on his forehead, as well as the various minor bumps and contusions which he had received. “Have ye been fightin’?” she demanded, sternly.
“Yes, darlint,” answered Jack, cheerfully.
“An’ got hurted?” and she touched the wound tenderly.
“Only a scratch, Mary; ye ought t’ see th’ other felly.”
“Who was he, Jack?”
“His name’s Nevins—but ye don’t know him.”
“Tell me about it,” she commanded, her eyes blazing. “All about it!”
“Well, it’s a long story, darlint,” said Jack, teasingly, “an’ I don’t feel quite ekal to it on an empty stomach. I guess I’d better go over t’ th’ daypo restaurant an’ git a snack. I ain’t had nothin’ t’ eat since noon o’ yistidday.”
“O’ course I kept your supper hot fer ye, Jack,” she assured him, softening instantly. “You go git washed an’ git into some clean clothes, so you’ll look a little less like a hobo, an’ I’ll have it on th’ table in a jiffy.”
Mary Welsh was one of those admirable housekeepers whom no emergency finds unprepared. Jack’s supper had long ago evaporated and dried up in the process of keeping it warm; even the tenderest steak, kept in an oven for seven hours, will acquire a leathery texture and a flavour of old shoes. But a fresh piece of steak was frying ina moment, and some sliced potatoes sputtering in the pan beside it; the coffee-pot was set on again, and the pantry rummaged for such supplies as it could furnish. It was some little time before Jack reappeared, for he had to change his clothes from the skin out, as well as get the mud off the skin itself. When, at last, he did come down the stairs, the meal, fresh, appetizing, and smoking hot, was awaiting him on the table.
“Mary, you’re a jewel,” he said, as he drew up his chair, and fell to.
“Yes,” she observed, dryly, “I’ve allers heerd that th’ way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Well, I’d rather have me heart in me belly than in me pocketbook,” retorted Jack. “Lucky I had on me old clothes,” he added; “they’ll niver be fit t’ wear agin.”
Mary sat down opposite him expectantly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Mebbe I kin wash ’em an’ patch ’em so’s they’ll be all right, Jack.”
“All right fer a scarecrow, mebbe, but not fer a swell like me. Now, Mary, you go ahead an’ tell me all that’s happened, while I finish me supper.”
“But there hain’t anything happened t’ me, Jack,” she protested, filling his empty cup. "I jest stayed at home, an’ seen Allan off, an’ got your supper. An’ then Dan Breen come an’ said you’d be late. He’d seen ye git on th’ accommydation an’ thoughtmebbe you’d been called out on th’ road somewheres. So I put Mamie to bed, an’ then jest set an’ waited. It seemed an awful long time."
Jack pushed his empty plate away from him, and glanced at the clock, which was ticking merrily away on the mantelpiece.
“Why, it’s half-past one!” he cried, in mock amazement. “We must be gittin’ t’ bed, Mary. We won’t want t’ git up at all in th’ mornin’,” but Mary was not alarmed, for she saw him fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, and knew that the story would not be long delayed.
Nor was it. Once the pipe was started, the story started, too, and Mary listened to every word with rapt attention, only interrupting from time to time, as it progressed, with an exclamation of astonishment or anger. When he had finished, she jumped up and came around the table to him, and kissed him and hugged him and even cried over him a little, for she loved him with her whole big Irish heart.
“Why, Jack, darlint,” she cried, “you’re a reg’lar hayro—like one reads about in th’ story-books.”
“A hayro!” echoed Jack, with a roar of laughter which was promptly stilled for fear of waking Mamie. “Listen to ye! Jack Welsh a hayro!”
“You’re my hayro, anyway,” said Mary, softly, as they mounted the stairs together to their bedroom.
One morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Schofield sat at his desk in his office, looking through his mail.
“You knew that Penlow is going to resign on the first?” he asked, glancing across at the chief-dispatcher, who sat facing him on the other side of the broad expanse of quartered oak.
“Yes—what’s the matter?”
“Well, he’s getting old. He’s been roadmaster nearly twenty years; and I guess he’s laid up a snug little fortune—enough to keep him the rest of his life. I think he’s sensible to quit when he’s got enough.”
“Yes—more sensible than lots of us who keep right on working till we drop. Who are you going to appoint in his place?”
“Well,” answered Mr. Schofield, slowly, “it will go naturally to one of the section-foremen—and I’m going to offer it to the best one on the road.”
The roadmaster, it may be remarked in passing, is a sort of magnified section-foreman. He has general supervision over a number of sections forming a subdivision, and all the foremen on that subdivision report to him. He has charge of all the track forces employed on his subdivision, and is responsible for keeping the track, fences, road-bed, bridges, culverts, and everything else pertaining to the roadway, in repair. He is supposed to spend most of his time out on his division, and to know every foot of it more intimately and minutely thanany one else. He must be sure that the men under him understand their duties and perform them properly; he must attend in person to the removal of landslides, snow, or other obstructions, and in case of accident must take the necessary force to the place and use every effort to clear the road. Officially, he is known as a supervisor, and it will be seen that his position is one of considerable importance and responsibility.
“I’m going to offer it to the best one,” repeated Mr. Schofield.
“I think I know who you mean,” said the chief-dispatcher, smiling. “He’ll be all right.”
“Yes, he’s a good man; and he’s done more for this road than most of us. I’d probably be a dead man by now and you’d be filling my shoes, if it hadn’t been for him. That may not seem to you a cause for unmitigated rejoicing, but it does to me. I’m not quite ready, yet, to pass in my checks. It was really he, you know, who prevented that accident at Byers. If it hadn’t been prevented, this road would have needed a whole new complement of general officers. The old ones would have been wiped out.”
The chief-dispatcher nodded.
“Found any trace of Nolan?”
“No—not a trace,” and Mr. Schofield’s face clouded. "I’ve had our detectives scouring that whole country, but he seems to have disappeared completely. I believe he has left for other parts.I only hope he’ll stay there. If I could catch him, I’d have him back in the pen. in short order."
He looked up as some one entered, and saw that the newcomer was Jack Welsh, who came in with a slightly sheepish air, holding his cap in his hand.
“I dunno what Misther Schofield wants t’ see me fer,” he had said to his wife that morning, when the trainmaster’s message was delivered to him. “I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ t’ git hauled up on th’ carpet fer.”
“O’ course you ain’t,” agreed Mary, warmly, instantly championing his cause. “An’ don’t ye take none o’ his lip, Jack. Give him as good as he sinds.”
“All right, darlint,” and Jack chuckled. “O’ course it don’t matter if I lose me job. You kin take in washin’. An’ I’m feelin’ th’ need o’ resting fer a year or two, anyway. So I’ll slug him in th’ eye if he ain’t properly respectful.”
Yet the sheepishness in Jack’s demeanour, as he stood before the trainmaster, was not due to any feeling of subserviency or false modesty. It was rather embarrassment because of unfamiliar surroundings, and because of the many eyes centred upon him and the many ears straining to hear what would follow.
“Good morning, Welsh,” said Mr. Schofield, with a gruffness assumed for the occasion. “How is everything on Twenty-one?”
“All right, so far as I know, sir,” answered Jack.
“So far as you know?”
“Well, ye see, sir, I ain’t been over it since yistidday evenin’. No tellin’ what’s happened in the night.”
“Does anything ever happen to it in the night?”
“Yes, sir; sometimes a hoss gits acrost a cattle-guard, and a train hits him an’ musses up the road-bed frightful. An’ them porters on th’ diners are allers throwin’ garbage off th’ back platform,—t’ say nothin’ o’ th’ passengers, who don’t seem t’ do nothin’ but stuff theirselves with oranges, an’ banannys an’ apples, an’ drop th’ remains out th’ windy. Th’ porters ort t’ be ordered t’ take their garbage int’ th’ terminals an’ git rid of it there, an’ th’ passengers ort t’ be pervided with waste-baskets t’ receive sech little odds an’ ends as they can’t swaller.”
“I’ll think of it,” said Mr. Schofield, making a note on a pad of paper at his elbow. “I don’t know but what the suggestion is a good one. And now, Welsh, I’m sorry to say that we’ll have to get a new foreman for Section Twenty-one.”
Jack blinked rapidly for a moment as though he had received a blow between the eyes. Then he pulled himself together.
“All right, sir,” he said, quietly. “When must I quit?”
“On the first. Who’s the best man in your gang?”
“Reddy Magraw knows all th’ ins an’ outs o’ section-work, sir. He’d make a good foreman.”
Mr. Schofield made another note on the pad.
“Penlow’s also going to quit on the first,” he remarked, casually, without looking up.
“Not fired, sir?” asked Jack, quickly. “I know he’s old, but he’s a mighty good man.”
“No; he resigned. Going to take the world easy. You’re to take his place.”
For a moment, Jack seemed not to understand. Then his face turned very red; a profuse perspiration broke out across his forehead. He mopped it away with his big red handkerchief, and I dare say, dabbed his eyes once or twice, for his first thought was of Mary’s joy when she should hear the news.
“Ye could find a better man fer it, Mr. Schofield,” he said, at last.
“No, I couldn’t,” retorted the trainmaster; “not if I searched this division from end to end. You’re the best section-foreman we’ve got, Welsh, and you’ll make the best roadmaster we’ve ever had. And I may add that I’m mighty glad of the chance to give you a promotion which you richly deserve. There isn’t a man in the employ of this road—no, not from the superintendent down—who has done more for it than you have. The road never forgets such services.”
The dispatchers had come crowding to the door, and in the corridor outside a group of trainmen had stopped, attracted by this unusual orating. Andwhen the trainmaster stopped and wrung Welsh’s hand, there was a little burst of applause, for every man on the road knew and liked Jack Welsh. This public commendation completed his confusion, and he stumbled from the room and down the stairs, looking as though he had received a whipping. It was some time before he could gather courage to go home; and when he finally got there, he found the news had preceded him. Reddy Magraw had heard it and had rushed over to congratulate him—so Mary was waiting for him, her eyes alight, and she hugged him and kissed him and made much of him.