“Though it’s no more than ye deserve, Jack,” she said, at last. “Indade, it’s not so much. Why, Reddy tells me that Mr. Schofield stood up there before th’ whole crowd an’ said you was th’ best man on th’ road, from th’ sup’rintindint down.”
“I’ll break Reddy’s head when I ketch him,” threatened Jack. “But o’ course I was dissipinted that they didn’t make me gineral manager. I told Mr. Schofield so, an’ he said I should ’a’ had th’ job, only it didn’t happen t’ be vacant.”
Back in the offices, Mr. Schofield continued the work of going through his mail, another big batch of which had just been brought in. Among the letters he opened, was a long, portentous-looking one from general headquarters. He glanced through it and chuckled.
“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” heremarked. “That narrow escape at Byers has convinced the general officers that we need a double track there. That shaking up they got did more good than all the talk we could have talked. We can go ahead with it as soon as we like,” and he tossed the letter across the desk to the chief-dispatcher, his face shining. “I don’t know anything that could have pleased me more,” he added. “It means so much to this division. Do you know, George, I’m glad things happened just as they did! Providence certainly had its eye on us that time!”
ALLAN ENTERTAINS A VISITOR
Allan, meanwhile, had assumed the day trick at Byers Junction—a position carrying with it increased responsibilities, and, it may be added, an increased salary. He had long ago started an account at the Wadsworth Savings Bank, to which he was now able to make a substantial addition every month.
Only one incident served to mar the pleasure of those first days in his new position. Jim Anderson had come to him one evening with a face in which joy and sorrow struggled for the mastery.
“Read that,” he said, and thrust a letter into Allan’s hand.
Allan opened it and read. It was a letter from an uncle, a brother of Jim’s father. The two had been estranged by family differences years before, and the brother, who had moved to Philadelphia and engaged in business there, had dropped entirely out of the other’s life. Now he was writing that his own wife and child were dead, that he was getting old and lonely, and that he would be glad to havehis brother’s son and widow live with him. He could offer the latter a good home, and the former would be sent to college, and drilled to succeed his uncle in business. Although he did not say so, it was evident from the letter that if Jim proved worthy, he would take the place left vacant by the death of his uncle’s own boy.
“Well,” asked Jim, when Allan had finished, “what do you think of it?”
“Think of it? Why, I think it’s fine! Don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Jim, hesitatingly. “For one thing, I don’t want to leave Wadsworth. For another thing, I want to be a machinist.”
“Well, here’s a chance to be a big one. There are scientific courses at college which will give you just what you need. You won’t have to work in the shops all your life—you can be bigger than all that.”
“Then you’d advise me to go?”
“I certainly should,” answered Allan, warmly. “Though I’ll miss you awfully,” he added.
“I tell you what,” said Jim, “maybe I can persuade uncle to—”
But Allan interrupted him with a shake of the head.
“No,” he said; “it’s not the same. You’re his nephew and have a claim upon him—besides, you’re going to take his son’s place. I haven’t any claim.”
And Jim, looking at him, decided to say no more about it.
“But I’ll come over and visit you,” Allan promised, “the first vacation I get.”
So a few evenings later, he saw Jim and Mrs. Anderson off on their way to Philadelphia, and then walked slowly homeward, a very lonely boy.
Now that his evenings were again his own, he spent many of them at the Wadsworth Public Library, and also bought some carefully selected books of his own—which is about the best investment any boy can make. Every boy ought to have for his very own the books which he likes best, and these should be added to every year, as the boy’s taste changes and matures, so that his library will come to be a sort of index of his growth and development. Not many books, but loved ones, should be the motto.
Allan had, in his common-school education, a splendid foundation on which to build, and on this he reared a beautiful and noble edifice—an edifice which any boy who wishes can rear for himself—of acquaintance with the best books. This house of the imagination, with its lofty halls and great rooms, and gilded towers, was empty enough at first, but it soon became peopled with most engaging friends,—among them John Halifax, Tom Pinch, John Ridd, David Copperfield, D’Artagnan and his three comrades, Henry Esmond, Amyas Leigh, and that sweetest, bravest of all maidens,Lorna Doone. He accompanied great travellers to far countries; he fought with Richard Lion Heart against Saladin, with Napoleon against Wellington; with Washington against Howe and Clinton and Cornwallis. He read of the gallant Bayard, fearless and without reproach, of King Arthur and his knights, and something of the beauty and romance of chivalry entered into his own soul. In a word, he was gaining for himself a priceless possession—a possession worth more to its owner than gold, or silver, or precious stones; a continual delight and never-failing comfort—a knowledge of good books.
The librarian advised him as to the best editions to buy for his own use, and he soon found that nearly all the great books were published in little volumes to be slipped easily into the pocket, and costing not more than fifty or sixty cents each. It was these little volumes which he grew especially to love—they were so companionable, so pretty, and yet so strong and serviceable. He got into the habit of putting one into his pocket every morning. He could read it on the train, going out and returning, and during the day in such odd times as his work permitted. It is wonderful how much one can accomplish in the way of reading by watching the spare moments; Allan realized, as he had never done before, how much of every day he had wasted. The time that had been lost was lost for ever; butthe present and the future were his, and he determined to make the most of them.
No one can associate with wise and witty and gallant people, even in books, without showing the effects of it. Some of their wisdom and wit and gallantry, be it never so little, passes to the reader; he learns to look at the world and the people in it with more discerning eyes; life gains a larger meaning; it becomes more full of colour and interest. The result, in the end, is what, for want of a better word, we call culture; a word meaning originally the tilling and cultivating of the ground, and afterwards coming to be applied to the tilling and cultivating of the mind. Its most valuable result is the acquirement of what we call taste—another clumsy word and inexpressive, by which we mean the power to discern and to enjoy the right things—good literature, good music, good pictures—and to know and to reject the wrong things.
It was this faculty which Allan was gradually acquiring—so slowly and subtly that the change was not perceptible from day to day—scarcely from month to month. But at the end of a year, he was quite a different boy; he had grown mentally and physically; he was getting more out of life; he was beginning to understand the people about him; he could distinguish the gold from the dross, the true from the sham; and the more this power grew, the more did his respect and love and admiration grow for the humble friends amongwhom his lot was cast. They were genuine and true, speaking from the heart, happy without envy, honest and kind, ready to excuse and to forget another’s fault and to reach out a helping hand to any one who needed it. He began to see, dimly and imperfectly, that the great, warm heart of America beats, not in the mansions of the rich, but in the humble and unpretentious homes scattered up and down this great land of ours, each sheltering a little family, living its own life, struggling toward its own ideals, and contributing its own mite to the world’s happiness and progress.
Nearly a year had passed; a year of which every day had brought its pleasures and its duties. Allan had become one of the best operators on the road; the difficult business of the position at Byers Junction he handled easily and without confusion. He had gained confidence in himself. The trainmen liked him, for they found him ever willing and helpful; they respected him, too, for his decisions were prompt and intelligent and always just. The dispatchers knew they could rely on him, and the business of the junction was left more and more under his control. In fact, he came to be himself a sort of dispatcher over those eight miles of track between his office and West Junction.
As he stands in the door of the office this spring morning, watching a passenger-train which has stopped at the big tank to take water, he is worthlooking at. His face is not handsome, as we use the word, but it is frank and open, with a manliness beyond its years. His eyes are blue-gray, clear, and direct; his mouth is a little large, with sensitive lips and a quirk at the corner which shows a sense of humour—altogether an attractive face and one to inspire liking and confidence.
A good many people had left the train, during its halt, to stretch themselves and get a breath of fresh air. These clambered on board again, at the conductor’s signal, and after a preliminary puff or two, the train started slowly, clinking over the switch, and rattling away westward. A moment later, Allan’s eyes caught a glint of colour at the edge of the little grove of saplings near the office, and a girl, carrying a bouquet of wild flowers, ran up the little bank to the track. She stood for an instant staring after the disappearing train, took a quick step or two as if to follow it, then, evidently seeing the uselessness of such pursuit, turned and walked slowly toward the operator’s shanty. Not until she was quite near did Allan recognize her; then, with a curious little leap of the heart, he saw that it was the girl who had rushed into Superintendent Heywood’s office one day long ago, to summon him to his train. Allan remembered that her father had called her Bess.
She came up the little cinder path and stopped before the door without any hint of recognition in her eyes.
“Can you tell me when the next train for Wadsworth leaves?” she asked.
“Not until five-nine,” he answered.
“And it is now?”
“It is now one-fifty-one.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, and he saw that in the year which had intervened since he had seen her last, she had grown more distractingly pretty than ever—more mature and womanly. “Well,” she continued, her foot on the lowest step, “I suppose I may as well come in and sit down. This is the station, isn’t it?”
“This is the operator’s office,” he said. “The Byers station is that frame building you can just see up the track yonder.”
“It seems an awful way,” she remarked, gazing pensively in the direction of his gesture.
“It’s nearly half a mile; altogether too far for you to walk,” said Allan, with conviction.
“Oh, then I may stay here?”
“You certainly may,” Allan hastened to assure her, and placed his best chair at her disposal. “But it isn’t—well—palatial.”
She glanced around the dingy little room, with its rusty stove, its primitive lavatory, its rough, clapboarded walls, and then at the fresh-faced young fellow anxiously awaiting the verdict.
“It’s cosy,” she said, and settled herself comfortably upon the chair.
“I’m afraid I don’t keep it quite as tidy as Imight,” said Allan, suddenly conscious that it was anything but tidy. “You see the old broom wore out, and we haven’t got a new one yet.”
“Well, it’s about time for spring house-cleaning, you know—do men ever have spring house-cleaning?”
“This one will,” Allan promised, and smiled down into her friendly eyes.
Just then the familiar signal, “31,” which heralded the transmission of a train-order, sounded from the table, and he sat down to receive it. After it had been repeated and confirmed, he turned again to his guest.
“Hadn’t I better wire your father,” he asked, “that you are here and will be home on Number Thirteen this evening?”
She stared at him in amazement.
“Why, how do you know who my father is?” she demanded.
“I happened to be in his office one day about a year ago, when you came after him,” he explained.
“Oh,” she said, but she still looked at him a little doubtfully.
“My name’s West,” he added.
“Allan West?” There was a genuine interest in her eyes now. “Oh, I’ve heard papa speak of you.”
“Nothing very bad, I hope?”
“No—quite the contrary. Why,” she added, gasping a little, as though just realizing it, "thenyou’re the boy who—who saved the pay-car and—"
“The very same,” he interrupted, blushing in spite of himself. “Shall I send the message?”
“Yes; please do. Papa will be worried when he comes to the train to meet me and finds me not on it—especially as my coat and grip and umbrella are. He’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.”
“You were left, then?” he asked.
“Yes; I was on my way home from visiting a friend at Deer Park, and was so tired with sitting, that when the train stopped here to take water, I thought I’d get off and walk the kinks out. Then I saw a beautiful patch of these wake-robins and violets just at the edge of that little grove, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to gather a few; and I suppose I must have gone into the grove deeper than I intended, for I didn’t hear the train start, and was never so astonished in my life as when I came out on the track and found it gone.”
Allan smiled at the earnestness with which she told the story.
“I’ll wire your father,” he said, and called up headquarters. For a few minutes there was a sharp interchange of dots and dashes. Then Allan closed the key and turned back to her.
“It’s all right,” he said. “He understands.”
“I think it’s perfectly wonderful your being able to talk to each other that way,” she commented. “What did he say?”
“He said,” stammered Allan, confused by the sudden question; “he said it was all right.”
What Mr. Heywood really said was: “All right. Keep her there and bring her in on thirteen, and don’t make love to her any more than you can help.”
She noticed the stammer and gazed at him with her clear eyes, which, he saw now, were blue.
“Was that all he said?”
“Well, he said he’d meet you at the train this evening.”
“Yes; and what else?”
“He said,” answered Allan, floundering desperately, “that, if you had to be left somewhere, he was glad it was here.”
The Vision bent over ostensibly to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt, but in reality to conceal a smile. When she sat erect again, her face was quite demure.
“So am I,” she agreed. “It would have been horrible to be left at a place where I didn’t know any one—of course, I don’t really know you,” she added, hastily, “but I’ve heard papa speak of you so much that you seem to be a sort of friend of the family.”
“I should like to be,” he said, colouring at his own temerity.
“Well, it isn’t so difficult. We’re really rather a companionable family.”
He gasped a little at the dazzling vista the words suggested.
“I don’t know what I should have done,” she went on, “if I had had to sit here so long without any one to talk to or anything to read. Oh, you have a book there,” she added, noticing the little book which was lying open face downward beside the key. “What is it?”
“This,” answered Allan, laughing and picking up the thin little volume bound in black, “is the book of rules. I’m afraid it wouldn’t interest you. But I have a splendid one in my pocket.”
He went to his coat and got it out.
“Have you ever read it?” he asked as he handed it to her.
She glanced at the title.
“Les Misérables,” she read, making rather a botch of it. “What does that mean?”
“’The miserable ones,’ I think.”
“I don’t like to read about miserable people.”
“Oh, they’re not all miserable,” he protested, taking the book eagerly, and opening it. “The old bishop, for instance, Bishop Welcome—may I read you something?”
She nodded, her eyes on his glowing face.
“The old bishop, you know, gave all his money to help others, went to live in the little old hospital and made them move the beds to the building which had always been the bishop’s palace. He said it was all a mistake—that there should be twenty-six people crowded together in that little building, while the big one next door had only him and his sisterand his housekeeper in it. He never locked his door, and came to be so loved by the people that they called him Bishop Welcome. Let me read you this chapter,” and he turned to the seventh of the first book. “I don’t pronounce the French names very well, but you mustn’t mind.”
“I won’t,” she promised, and settled herself more comfortably in her chair. He interested her strangely—he was somehow different from the other boys she knew. They never talked to her in this way.
And he began to read her the account of the bishop’s meeting with that redoubtable brigand, Cravatte, a bold wretch who had organized a band of outlaws, and even robbed the cathedral at Embrun of all its gold-embroidered vestments. In the midst of the excitement, the bishop arrived, on the way to visit his parishioners in the mountains. His friends attempted to persuade him to turn back.
“‘There exists, yonder in the mountains,’ said the bishop, ’a tiny community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?’
“‘But the brigands, monseigneur?’
“‘Hold,’ said the bishop, ’I must think of that. You are right. I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God.’
“‘But, monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!’
“‘It may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?’
“‘They will rob you!’
“‘I have nothing.’
“‘Do not go, monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! you are risking your life!’
“‘Is that all?’ asked the bishop. ’Well, I am not in the world to guard my life, but to guard souls.’”
So he went, and the brigands did not harm him. He reached the little village, and wished to celebrate a mass, but there were no vestments. Nevertheless, the mass was announced, and then one night there was left at the house where the bishop was staying a great chest, and when it was opened all the vestments which had been stolen from the cathedral were found there, together with a paper reading, “From Cravatte to Bishop Welcome.”
“Wouldn’t you like to do a thing like that?” asked Allan, with sparkling eyes, when the chapter was finished.
And Bess Heywood nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
For a moment their hearts were very close together; for the wholesome, generous heart of youth longs ever to do noble deeds; to emulate the hero who "never turned his back, but marched breastforward;" to fight with strong and valiant soul; to ride forth in knight-errantry, with lance a-rest and sword on thigh, against wrong and treachery and deceit. And well it is that youth dreams dreams and sees visions and makes high resolves, however middle-age may laugh, and cynics sneer, and graybeards shake their heads. For, in the words of Philip Sidney, “Who shoots at the midday sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is he shall shoot higher than he who aims but at a bush.” So let youth aim at the sun while it has heart for the venture; and leave crabbed age to choose the bush for its mark if it will.
FACING THE LION
So the afternoon passed happily; with reading, with talking, with little confidences, interrupted, now and then, by the busy instrument on the table, or by some trainman stalking in to get his orders, and going out with a knowing smile upon his lips. All too soon, as it seemed to Allan, the night man came up the steps; for the first time in his experience, Allan found the sight of him unwelcome. Ten minutes later, the train was bearing him and Bess Heywood homewards. That half-hour journey never seemed so short.
Mr. Heywood was awaiting them on the grimy Wadsworth platform.
“Thank you, Allan,” he said, “for taking care of the runaway. I thought she was old enough to travel alone, but it seems I was mistaken. I’ll have to send a nurse along hereafter.”
“Good-bye, Allan,” said the Vision, holding out her hand, and Allan was quite shocked, when he took it, by its smallness and softness.
“THE AFTERNOON PASSED HAPPILY.”
“THE AFTERNOON PASSED HAPPILY.”
“Good-bye,” he answered, but his tongue dared not pronounce her name.
He watched them until they disappeared in the darkness, then turned away across the yards, meditating anxiously whether a Being with a hand so small and soft, so evidently fragile, could long withstand the buffets of a world so rude and harsh as this one.
“Well, young lady,” said Mr. Heywood, at the dinner-table that evening, “I hope you were sufficiently punished for your thoughtlessness in wandering away from your train.”
“It wasn’t such terrible punishment, papa,” answered Bess. “I had a very pleasant afternoon. I think Allan is just fine.”
“So do I,” agreed her father promptly. “He’s a nice boy.”
“And he knows such a lot,” added Bess. “I felt a perfect booby.”
“Quite a salutary feeling for a young lady,” nodded her father. “Especially for one who has always had an excellent opinion of herself.”
“Oh, papa!” protested Bess. “I’m not conceited!”
“No, not that precisely,” agreed her father; "but most girls, when they get to be about eighteen, and have all the boys making sheep’s-eyes at them, begin to think that this world was made especially for them, and that nobody else has any right in it,except perhaps to hustle around and provide them with ribbons and chiffon ruffles. It’s good for them to get a hint, now and then, that the world is really something more than a pedestal for them to stand on."
Bess sighed, a little dismally.
“I never understood before,” she said, “how awfully I’ve been wasting my time.”
“If you never waste any more, my dear, you’ll have nothing to regret. Most women don’t wake up to the fact that they’re wasting their time until they’re middle-aged, and by that time they’ve fallen into such a habit of doing so that they can’t change.”
“I believe,” added Bess, thoughtfully, “that I’ll ask Allan to the party I’m going to give next week.”
“Do, by all means,” said her father, heartily. “It will do you good, and it won’t hurt him.”
So it came to pass, a few days later, that the postman mounted the steps to the little Welsh cottage and left there a tiny envelope addressed to “Mr. Allan West.” Mary received it, and turned it over and over.
“It’s from a girl,” was her comment. “Bad cess to her. But I knowed th’ girls couldn’t let sich a foine-lookin’ lad as that alone. They’ll be makin’ eyes at him, an’ pertendin’ t’ edge away, an’ all th’ toime invitin’ him on—don’t I know ’em!” And Mary grew quite warm with indignation, entirelyforgetting that she herself had been a girl once upon a time, and an adept in all the arts of that pretty game of advance and retreat which she now denounced so vigorously.
She laid the letter on Allan’s plate, and noted the little shock of surprise with which he found it there when he sat down to supper that evening.
“Hello; what’s this?” he asked, picking it up.
“It’s a letter come fer ye this mornin’,” answered Mary, and she and Jack and Mamie all waited for him to open it, which he did with a hand not wholly steady.
“‘Miss Elizabeth Heywood,’” he read, “‘requests the pleasure of Mr. Allan West’s company, Thursday evening, April 28th. Seven o’clock.’”
“Well, of all th’ forrerd minxes!” burst out Mary. “Why, when I was a girl, I’d a’ no more thought o’ writin’ a young man t’ come an’ see me—”
Jack interrupted her with a roar of laughter.
“Why, Mary,” he cried, “don’t ye see! It’s a party she’s askin’ him to—th’ sup’rintindint’s daughter!”
“A party! Th’ sup’rintindint’s daughter!” and Mary paused between jealousy for her boy and pride that he should have received such an invitation.
“An’ of course he’ll go,” added Jack, with decision. “It’s a shame t’ kape a foine felly like Allan shut up here with us old fogies.”
“Well, I’ll say this,” said Mary, pouring out thecoffee, “if hedoesgo, they won’t be no finer lookin’ young felly there.”
And I am inclined to think that Betty Heywood thought so, too, when she came forward to meet him that Thursday evening.
“How glad I am to see you,” she said, with a bright smile of welcome.
As for Allan, he was for the moment tongue-tied. If she had been a vision in her gray travelling-suit, what was she now, clad, as it seemed to him, in a sparkling cloud of purest white? She noticed his confusion, and no doubt interpreted it aright—as what girl would not?—for she went on, without appearing to notice it:
“And I want my mother to know you. Here she is, over here,” and she led the way to a beautiful woman of middle age, who sat in a great chair at one end of the room, the centre of a little court. “Mother, this is Allan West.”
Mrs. Heywood held out to him a hand even smaller and softer than her daughter’s.
“I am glad to know you, my boy,” she said. “Mr. Heywood has spoken so much of you that I feel as though I had known you a long time. Won’t you sit down here by me awhile?”
Betty gave a little nod of satisfaction, and hurried away to meet some other guests, whirling away with her the circle which had been about her mother’s chair. Allan sat down, thinking that hehad never heard a voice as sweet as Mrs. Heywood’s.
“We invalids, you know,” she went on, with a little smile, “must be humoured. We can’t go to people, so people must come to us. It’s like Mahomet and the mountain.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” answered Allan, with a shy glance of admiration, “but of the fisherman and the Princess.”
“So you know your Arabian Nights!” said Mrs. Heywood, colouring faintly with pleasure at the compliment. “That is right—every boy ought to know them. But you make me feel a sort of impostor. I have used that reference to Mahomet and the mountain all my life, but I don’t know that I ever really heard the story. Do you know it?”
“Bacon tells about it in one of his essays,” Allan answered. “It seems that Mahomet announced one day that he would call a hill to him, and offer up prayers from the top of it. A great crowd assembled and Mahomet called the hill again and again, but it didn’t move, and finally, without seeming worried or abashed, he announced that, since the mountain wouldn’t come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the mountain, and marched away to it as proudly as though the mountain had obeyed him.”
“That is the first time I ever heard the whole story,” said Mrs. Heywood, laughing, and she shot him a little observing glance, for he seemed anunusual boy. Then she led him on to tell her something of himself, and almost before he knew it, he was telling her much more than he had ever thought to tell any one. There was a subtle sympathy about her—in her smile, in her quiet eyes—which there was no resisting.
She sent him away, at last, to join the younger guests, but he did not feel at ease with them, as he had with the older woman. They were all polite enough, but youth is selfish, and Allan soon found that he and they had few interests in common; there was nothing to talk about; they had not the same friends, nor the same habits of thought; there were no mutual recollections to laugh over, nor plans to make for next day or next week. Of his hostess he saw very little, for her other guests claimed her attention at every turn—Betty Heywood was evidently immensely popular.
So Allan was glad, on the whole, when the time came to take his leave, and as he walked homeward under the bright stars, he was forced to admit that his first evening in society had been, in a way, a failure. He resolved that he did not care for it and would not go again. Indeed, he had no chance, for Bess Heywood’s friends voted him a “stick,” and soon forgot all about him. Nor did that young lady herself preserve a very vivid recollection of him, for her days were filled with other duties and pleasures. Her mother’s invalidism threw upon her much of the responsibility of household management,and she was just at the age when social claims are heaviest and most difficult to evade. Not that she sought to evade them, for she enjoyed social relaxation, but in the whirl of party and ball, of calling and receiving calls, the memory of that afternoon in the operator’s shanty at the Junction grew faint and far away.
And Allan, in the long evenings, buried himself in his books and banished resolutely whatever dreams may have arisen in his heart, with such philosophy as he possessed.
He soon had other things to think about. One of the dispatchers, in a moment of carelessness, had issued contradictory orders which had resulted in a wreck. In consequence he was compelled to seek a position somewhere else, and everybody below him in the office moved up a notch. The extra dispatcher was given a regular trick, and his place in consequence became vacant.
A day or two later, Allan received a message from the trainmaster ordering him to report at headquarters, and when he did so, he found that he was to be initiated into the mysteries of the dispatchers’ office.
“That is, if you want the job,” added Mr. Schofield.
Allan pondered a moment. The responsibilities of such a position frightened him. As an operator, he had only to carry out the orders sent him; but as a dispatcher it would be his duty to issue thoseorders. The difference was the same as that between the general of an army and the private in the ranks. The private has only to obey orders, without bothering as to their wisdom or folly; if a defeat follows, it is the general who must answer for it. So each dispatcher has under him, for eight hours every day, one hundred miles of track, and a regiment of operators and trainmen, who must obey his orders without question. That stretch of track is the battlefield, and the victory to be gained is to move over it, without accident, and on time, such passenger and freight trains as the business of the road demands. This is the problem which confronts the dispatcher every time he sits down before his desk.
All this flashed through Allan’s mind in that moment of reflection. And yet he did not really hesitate. He knew that the only road of advancement open to him lay through the dispatchers’ office. There was no way around. If he faltered now, he must remain an operator always.
“Of course I want the job, sir,” he said. “The only question is whether I’m good enough.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” said Mr. Schofield, grimly. "The principal thing to remember is that never, under any circumstances, must you lose your head. Keep cool, and you’ve got the battle half won. But if you ever let the work get on your nerves, it’s all over. You don’t remember Dan Maroney? He was before yourtime. Well, Maroney was one of the best operators we had on the road, a bright fellow, and I finally called him in to take the extra dispatcher’s trick. He seemed to pick up the work all right, and I hadn’t any doubt he would make a good dispatcher. One night, the regular dispatcher reported sick, and so I sent for Dan. He took off his coat and sat down at the desk, and the dispatcher who was going off duty explained to him how the trains lay and what orders had been issued. Dan seemed to catch on all right, so the other dispatcher put on his coat and went home. About twenty minutes later, I happened into the office, and there was Dan, lying back in his chair, white as a sheet and trembling like a leaf.
“‘Why, what’s the matter, Dan?’ I asked. ‘Are you sick?’
“‘No, I ain’t sick, Mr. Schofield,’ he said, and grinned the ghastliest grin I ever saw on a man’s face. ‘But I ain’t fit for this job. I’ve lost my nerve.’
“And, in fact, he was nearly scared to death. Well, we tried to bolster him up and help him along, but it was no use. He’d lost his nerve, as he said, and he never got it back again. He’s agent and operator now at Bluefield, and that’s as far as he’ll ever get. So whatever you do, don’t lost your nerve.”
“I’ll try not to,” said Allan.
“I’ve often thought,” added Mr. Schofield, "thata dispatcher was a good deal like a lion-tamer. You know, the tamer enters the cage with perfect safety so long as he keeps his beasts under control. But the moment he loses his nerve, they seem to know it, some way, and perhaps he gets out of the cage alive and perhaps he doesn’t. If he does, he never dares go back. He’s lost his grip on the beasts and they no longer fear him. Well, the railroad is like that. Lose your grip on it, and it’s all over; the only thing to do is to get out as quick as you can."
“I’m going to do my best,” said Allan. “I’ll look it right in the eye.”
“Good. That’s the spirit! You will report here for duty to-morrow morning at seven o’clock. I’ll send Jones out to Byers in your place.”
And Allan left the office, resolved that whatever happened, he would keep his nerve.
THE FIRST LESSON
The dispatchers’ office is, as has already been remarked, the brain of the railroad. It is there that all orders relating to the movement of trains originate; and these orders keep the blood circulating, as it were—keep the system alive. Let the brain be inefficient, and this movement becomes clogged and uncertain; traffic no longer flows smoothly, as it does when the brain is well. Fortunately, the brain of a railroad can be replaced when it breaks down or wears out, and in so far the road is superior to a mere human being, who has only one brain and can never, by any possible means, get another. And so there is about the road something terrible and remorseless.
Every one has heard the story of Frankenstein, that unfortunate scientist who conceived the idea that he might make a man; who did really succeed in manufacturing a being something akin to human shape, and in animating it with life. But, alas, he could not give it a soul, and the monster turned against its creator, pursuing him and his loved ones with implacable fury and torturing them with fiendishdelight. The railroad is such a monster; made by man to be his servant, but greater than its maker; grinding out men’s lives, in its fury; wearing out their brains in its service, and then discarding them; for the road must have always the best, and the jaded and second-best must step down and out.
Nowhere is the ruthlessness of this great machine more evident than in the dispatchers’ office, for it is here that the strain is always at the highest; and it is here, too, that deterioration is at once apparent, and is swiftly and inexorably punished. A defect of judgment, a momentary indecision, a mistake, and the delinquent’s days as a train-dispatcher are at an end.
In the office at Wadsworth there were always two dispatchers on duty. One had charge of the hundred miles of track stretching eastward to Parkersburg, and the other had charge of the hundred miles of track stretching southwestward to Cincinnati. The first is called the east end and the other the west end. There are six dispatchers, each of them being on duty eight hours a day. The first trick begins at seven in the morning and lasts till three in the afternoon; the second begins at three and lasts till eleven at night, and the third begins at eleven and lasts till seven in the morning. The new dispatcher begins with the third trick, east end, and gradually works up, as the other places are made vacant by promotions and dismissals, to the first trick, west end. From there, he graduates tothe chief-dispatchership, and on to trainmaster, superintendent, general superintendent, and general manager. That is the regular ladder of promotion—a ladder which, it may be added, very few have the strength to climb.
All the men in the dispatchers’ office of course knew Allan, and liked him, and he received a hearty greeting when he arrived for his first morning’s instruction. He drew up a chair beside the first trick man on the west end, popularly known as “Goody,” not because of any fundamental traits of character, but because his name happened to be Goodnough. “Goody” had reached his present position of primacy by working up regularly through the various grades, and train-dispatching had become to him a sort of second nature. He was a good-humoured, companionable fellow, with an inexhaustible fund of anecdote and a fondness for practical jokes which not even advancing years and a twinge of rheumatism now and then could diminish. It is related of him—but, there, to recount half the things related of him would be to add another book to this series.
Allan, as we have said, drew up his chair beside him and took his first real lesson in train-dispatching. He had, of course, a general idea of how the thing was done, but never before had any one taken the time or trouble to explain its intricacies to him. The dispatcher sat before a long desk, on which, beside his key, sounder, bottle of ink, pens, and soon, lay the train-sheet, upon which the movement of every train was entered. The sheet, reduced to its simplest form, appears on the opposite page.
Just as Allan sat down, the operator at Harper’s called up and reported that Number Seven had passed there at 7.02. The dispatcher acknowledged the message and wrote “7.02” in the column devoted to Train No. 7, opposite Harper’s. A moment later, the operator at Madeira reported the passage of No. 70 at 6.04. This was also duly acknowledged and noted, and so on through the day, the columns of figures on the sheet were added to, showing the position, at that particular moment, of every train, freight or passenger, on the west end of the division. On the opposite side of the table sat the dispatcher in charge of the east end, recording, in a precisely similar manner, the progress of the trains on his end of the line.
When a conductor and engineer are called, they report at once at the dispatchers’ office, where there is a registry-book which they must sign. Passenger conductors and engineers, as well as passenger-engines, have regular runs, which they always make unless some accident prevents. Freight conductors and engineers are assigned to trains in the order in which they sign the book. There are in the employ of the road two men known as “callers,” whose sole business it is to notify the trainmen when they are wanted. For instance, three freight-trains are scheduled to leave, one at ten o’clock, another at 10.10, and a third at 10.20. It is the caller’s business to see that the crews for these trains are ready to take the trains out. A freight crew consists of engineer and fireman, conductor and two brakemen. The conductor and one brakeman, known as the rear-man, ride in the caboose. The other brakeman, known as the front-man, rides in the cab of the engine, and makes himself useful by ringing the bell, watching for signals, and so on, when he is not engaged in setting or releasing the brakes, or helping make up the train.
P. AND O. RAILWAY--Train Sheet
For each train that goes out, then, five men must be in readiness. The caller looks through his book, sees whose turn it is, goes to the dwellings of the men to be called, and notifies them of the hour they must be on duty. If any of them are ill or absent, he goes on and calls some one else. The passenger-trainmen, having regular runs, know, of course, the hours they must report for duty and do not need to be called. They are also paid a monthly salary, whereas the earnings of the freight crews vary with the amount of business done by the road. For each man must wait his turn. When business is slack and few freight-trains are needed, that turn is often a long time coming; but when business is heavy it frequently happens that the road finds itself short of men and the same crew which has just brought in one train is compelled to take out another, and is sometimes on duty for sixteen, twenty-four, and even thirty-six hours at a stretch. It isthen that nerves give way, that memories fail, that eyes which should be alert grow dim and weary,—orders are forgotten, signals are unseen, and a bad accident follows. Freight-men are paid by the trip, and not infrequently, in busy seasons, they make double time—that is, get in two days’ work in every twenty-four hours.
As has been said, the engineers and conductors register at once at the dispatchers’ office. Then the engineer goes on to the lower yards to look over his engine and see that it is in good shape, while the conductor waits for his orders. These are given to him in duplicate, one copy for himself and one for the engineer. He reads his copy aloud to the dispatcher, compares his watch with the big official clock, and then goes down to his train. As soon as the engine is coupled on, he gives the engineer his copy of the orders, which the engineer must read aloud to him. Then they compare watches, and the conductor goes off to show the orders to the rear brakeman, while the engineer shows his copy to the fireman and front brakeman. Thus every member of the crew knows under what orders the train is to proceed and its movement is not dependent upon the memory of one man alone. The dispatcher has also kept a copy of the orders, which he files away. At the time appointed in the orders, the conductor gives the word and the train starts on its journey.
The dispatcher has, meanwhile, entered the numberof the train, the names of conductor and engineer, the number of the engine and the number of cars on the train-sheet, as well as the hour and minute of the train’s departure. When it passes the first station, the operator there calls up the dispatcher and reports the hour and minute at which it passed. This also is entered on the sheet, and as the train proceeds, the column of figures devoted to it grows. The record of east-bound trains starts at the top of the sheet and grows downward, while that of west-bound trains starts at the bottom of the sheet and grows upward. It should be remembered that east-bound trains always bear even numbers, and west-bound trains odd numbers.
By this method, the dispatcher keeps a record on the sheet before him of the progress of every train. He knows the exact position of every train, or, at least, he knows the last station passed by each, and the probable time of its arrival, barring accident, at the next station. His problem is to keep all the trains moving, to keep a clear track for the passengers so that they can run on time, and to arrange meeting-points for trains going in opposite directions so that there will be no unnecessary delays.
It should be understood that, while a few of the larger railroads are double-tracked, the great bulk of the railroad business of this country is done over single-track roads. On these roads, points of meeting or passing must be at sidings, upon which one train can run while the other passes on the maintrack. Such sidings are usually at stations, and the problem of making the trains meet there is a very delicate one.
In order to accomplish this with the least delay, the trains are divided into classes. The east-bound passengers always have the right of way, and expect a clear track. West-bound passengers must make arrangements to get out of the way of east-bound ones, but have precedence over all other trains. Regular freight-trains must make provision to leave the track clear for the passengers, while the extra freights, which have no regular schedule, creep from station to station as best they can, giving all the other trains a clear track—a sort of yellow dog which every one is privileged to kick.
All the regular trains, passenger and freight, run by the time-card. That is, each of them has its regular time for reaching and leaving every station on the road, and as long as all the trains are on time, things move smoothly and the dispatcher has an easy time of it. But it is indeed a red-letter day when all trains are on time. So many things may happen, there are so many possible causes of delay, that almost inevitably some of the trains will run behind. It is then that the dispatcher shows the stuff that is in him; if he knows his business thoroughly, he will not only keep the trains moving promptly, but will give those that are behind a chance to make up some of the time which they have lost.
The rules given for dispatchers in the book of rules are short—only about a third as long as those for section-foremen. They state that the dispatcher reports to the superintendent, that it is his duty to issue orders for the movement of trains and to see that they are transmitted and recorded, that he may not go off duty until another dispatcher relieves him and that he must explain to the dispatcher coming on the train-orders in force.
But how small a portion of the dispatcher’s duty this really represents! He must “know the road,”—every grade, siding, and curve. Nay, more; he must know the pitch of every grade, or he will give his engines such heavy loads that they will not be able to get over the road. He must know the capacity of every siding, or he may name one as a meeting-point for trains too long to pass there, except by breaking the trains up and see-sawing by a few cars at a time. He must know the capacity of every engine, so that he can tell just how many cars it can handle. He must know the disposition of every conductor and engineer, for some will complain without cause, while some will never ask for help until they absolutely need it. As a telegrapher, he must be expert in the highest degree; he must be quick and sure of decision, of an iron nerve and with a calmness which nothing can disturb.
None of which things are mentioned in the book of rules!
WHAT DELAYED EXTRA WEST
“Well, how’re ye goin’ t’ like it?” asked Jack Welsh at supper, that evening, noticing how thoughtfully the boy was eating.
“Oh, I shall like it,” answered Allan, confidently, looking up with a strange light in his eyes. “A position like that gives one such a sense of power and of responsibility. It’s worth doing.”
Jack nodded.
“That’s it!” he said. “That’s th’ spirit! Buck up to it, an’ it ain’t half so hard to do. That’s th’ way with everything in this world. Th’ feller who’s afeerd he’s goin’ t’ git licked, most ginerally does.”
“Well, I may get licked,” said Allan, “but if I do, it’ll be because I’m not strong enough, not because I’m afraid.”
“I’ve seen little men lick big ones by mere force o’ will,” said Jack. "Th’ big man was whipped afore he started in. I believe that most o’ th’ people who make a failure in this world, do it because they don’t keep on fightin’ as long as they’ve got anywind left, but sort o’ give up an’ turn tail an’ try t’ run away—an’ th’ fust thing they know they git a clip on th’ jaw that puts ’em down an’ out."
In the days that followed, Allan certainly felt no inclination to run away. He applied his whole mind to acquiring a full knowledge of the dispatcher’s work. He studied diligently the various forms of train-order, and picked up such information as he could concerning the capacity of the various engines and the character of engineers and conductors. At the end of the week, he felt that he had the office work of the dispatcher pretty well learned. Another week was spent in “learning the road”—a week during which every daylight hour was spent in travelling over the road on freight and passenger, learning the location and length of sidings, the position of switches, water-tanks, and signals. Whenever he could he rode on the engine, for though that method of travel had long since lost its novelty, its fascination for the boy had increased rather than diminished. Besides, there was always a great deal of information to be picked up from the engineer, as well as no little entertainment. For the engineer, especially if he was an old one, was sure to possess a rich store of tales of the road—tales humourous or tragic, as the case might be—tales of practical jokes, of ghosts, of strange happenings, or of accidents and duty done at any cost, of fearless looking in the face of death.
He had taken a trip over the entire east end, onthe last day of the week, and decided to make the return trip on an extra freight, which was to leave Belpre, the eastern terminus of the freight business, about the middle of the afternoon. So he got a lunch at the depot restaurant at Parkersburg, and then walked across the big bridge which spans the Ohio there, reaching the yards at Belpre just as the freight was getting ready to pull out. He was pleased to find that the engineer was Bill Michaels, an old friend, who at once suggested that there was a place in the cab at Allan’s disposal, if he cared to occupy it.
Allan thanked him and clambered up right willingly, taking his place on the forward end of the long seat which ran along the left side of the cab—the fireman’s side. He watched the engineer “oil round”—that is, walk slowly around the engine, a long-spouted oil-can in his hand, and make sure that all the bearings were properly lubricated and all the oil-cups full. The fireman meanwhile devoted his energies to feeding his fire and getting up steam, and Allan perceived, from a certain awkwardness with which he handled the shovel and opened and shut the heavy door of the fire-box, that he was new to the business. But even a green fireman can get up steam when his engine is standing still, so the needle of the indicator climbed steadily round the dial, until at last, the pressure threw up the safety-valve and the engine “popped off.”
The fireman leaned wearily upon his shovel and scraped the sweat from his forehead with bent forefinger.
“Hot work, isn’t it?” said Allan, smiling.
“’Tain’t near so bad as ’twill be,” returned the fireman, whose name was Pinckney Jones, and who was known by his intimates as Pink, or Pinkey, a nickname which he had tried in vain to live down. “It’ll be a reg’lar wrastle t’ keep ’er goin’. Something’s got int’ th’ cantankerous old beast, an’ she won’t steam t’ save ye.”
He bent again to his task, raking and shaking up the fire, and throwing two or three more shovelfuls of coal into the blazing fire-box. Then the engineer clambered up, followed by the front brakeman, and took his seat on the other side of the cab. He stuck his head out the window, to watch for the conductor’s signal. Presently it came, he opened the throttle gently, and the train, slowly gathering headway, rattled over the switches, out of the yards, and straightened out for the journey westward.
“You want to be mighty careful this trip, Bill,” remarked the brakeman. “We’ve got two car-loads of wild animals back there. If we have a smash-up, there’ll be lions and tigers and Lord knows what all runnin’ loose about the country.”
“Thatwouldcreate considerable disturbance,” agreed Bill. “Well, I’ll try to keep her on the track. Where’re they billed to?”
“They’re goin’ to the Zoological Garden at Cincinnati. There’s a whackin’ big elephant in the first car and a miscellaneous lot of lions, tigers, snakes, and other vermin in the second. Yes, sir, therewouldbe lively times if they got loose.”
“Ain’t there nobody with ’em?”
“Oh, yes; there’s a couple of fellers to feed ’em; but these ain’t the broken-to-harness, drawing-room kind of wild animals. They’re right from the jungle, and are totally unacquainted with the amenities of civilization.”
And then, well pleased with his own facility of diction, he got out a plug of tobacco, bit off a piece, and offered the plug to Bill. Bill accepted the offer, took a tremendous chew, and returned the remnant to its owner.
“And now, Pinkey,” he remarked, to the perspiring fireman, “if you’ll kindly git up a few more pounds of steam, we’ll be joggin’ along. Mebbeyoudon’t object to stayin’ here all night, butI’dlike t’ git home t’ see my wife an’ children.”
“I’m a-doin’ my best,” responded Pinkey, desperately, “th’ ole brute jestwon’tsteam, an’ that’s all they is to it.”
“Yes,” said the engineer, with irony, but keeping one eye on the track ahead, “I’ve heerd firemen say th’ same thing lots o’ times. You’ve got to nuss her along, boy—don’t smother th’ fire that a-way. An’ keep th’ door shet.”
“How’m I a-goin’ t’ git th’ coal int’ th’ fire-box if I don’t open th’ door?” demanded Pinkey.
“Jim, swing it fer him,” said the engineer to the brakeman, and the latter, who had assisted at the breaking-in of many a green fireman, demonstrated to Pinkey how the door of the fire-box must be swung open and shut between each shovelful of coal. To fire an engine properly is an art which requires more than one lesson to acquire, but Pinkey made a little progress, and after awhile had the satisfaction of seeing the indicator-needle swing slowly up toward the point desired.
Just then, Michaels, glancing at his water-gauge, saw that it was getting rather low, and opened the throttle of the injector in order to fill the boiler; but instead of the water flowing smoothly through from the tank, there was a spurt of steam which filled the cab. He tried again, and with the same result.
“You blame fool!” he snorted, turning an irate face upon the unfortunate fireman, “didn’t you know enough t’ see that th’ tank was full afore we left Belpre? What ’d you think we’d steam on—air?”
“Itwasfull,” quavered Pinkey. “I helped th’ hostler fill it.”
“Oh, come!” protested the engineer. “Mebbe you’ll tell me it’s full now!”
Without replying, Pinkey stooped and opened alittle cock on the front of the tank, near the bottom. Not a drop of water came out of it.
“Dry as a bone!” cried the engineer, his face purple. “Mebbe you’ll say I used it—mebbe you’ll say th’ engine drunk up a whole tankful inside o’ ten mile. Th’ only question is,” he added, with another glance at his gauge, “kin we git to Little Hocking?”
Little Hocking, the nearest station, was about four miles away, and it looked for a time as though the water in the boiler would not be sufficient to carry the train so far, and the fireman would be compelled to draw his fire, while the brakeman tramped to the next station for help. Such an accident would have made both engineer and fireman the laughing-stock of the road, besides leading to an investigation by the trainmaster, and a session “on the carpet.” So Bill, although boiling mad, nursed the engine along as carefully as he could, making every pound of steam count, and finally drew up in triumph beside the water-tank at Little Hocking.