THE JAWS OF DEATH
What had happened was this. The switch had been standing open so that
the northbound train might pass. Then it had been closed so that a
Wainboro train moving south would be carried onto the branch. For a few
moments, Hervey was so frantic with terror that he was controlled more
by instinct than thought. He could only listen in panic fright and watch
for the appalling sight of a headlight. He did nothing, not even think.
But now he collected his thoughts and attained to something like
composure of mind in the reassuring remembrance that a southbound train
stopped at Farrelton every night at about half past nine or a little
later. That would be the Wainboro train for which the switch had been
closed. He tried to remember just how it was. The first show at the
movies was out at nine--_about_ nine. He was a frequent patron of the
first show. On his way home from the early show, he always crossed the
tracks and often, if not usually, the gates were down while a
_southbound train went by_. Sometimes he stopped for a soda or an ice
cream (precious moments those seemed now) and still was interrupted by
the lowered gates. That would mean that he had at the very least half an
hour before the death dealing train would come thundering along.
Well, what should he do in that half hour, more or less? There was but
one thing to do and that was to keep wrenching and pulling in the hope
of freeing his foot. But he knew it was a vain hope. Perhaps in two
cases out of three a foot so caught could with much pain be released.
But he could not budge his foot. It was wedged to the crushing point
below the heavy flange of the converging rails.
Well, at least he had a half hour or so. He wished that he had not
swapped his scout knife for a belt buckle; he might then cut away the
upper of his shoe and perhaps loosen his foot enough to wriggle it free.
Any effort would be better than just waiting. He shouted again, but his
own voice shattered his morale and brought him to the very verge of
hysteria and collapse. Five minutes passed; ten minutes. It was very
quiet in the woods. A small creature, glorying in its freedom, darted
across the tracks--a quick fleeting shadow. Somewhere in the distance an
owl was hooting.
Fifteen minutes passed. Time, which had never meant anything to Hervey,
was precious now. He thought of the minutes as a miser thinks of his
gold. He reflected that if he leaned far over toward the west, he might
not be killed, only mangled and then released like a poor footless
animal from a trap. He would not be able to walk; most likely he would
bleed to death. If he could shout loudly enough perhaps some one in the
train would hear him and he would be taken to Wainboro--to a hospital.
He resolved that he would scream at the top of his voice just before the
ghastly thing happened.
Twenty minutes, twenty-five minutes. Perhaps there would be a doctor on
the train. Hervey had always laughed at the first aid scouts and had
called their bandage work bunk. But this scout without any jack-knife or
matches did not laugh now. He was not a boy of strong imagination, but
all these horrifying, crowding thoughts aroused him to a state of panic
and he yelled frantically again and again till his voice failed him and
he went to pieces completely and sobbed in bewilderment and ghastly
fright as the precious half hour closed up relentlessly, just as the
switch had closed. Another five or ten minutes elapsed; anything might
happen now.
He tried to steel himself for the inevitable. But Hervey was not
sublimely courageous; the serenity of the hero dwelt not in him. He was
just a daredevil. At Temple Camp they understood this perfectly. He did
reckless things and got away with them. He was all right as long as
there was a spectacular though perilous way out. But he had not that
bravery of character which faces danger serenely. Still I wish to give
him full credit as we follow him in the winding and sometimes dubious
trail of his career. I like him so much that it is agreeable to record
that in those tense moments, when grim death was upon him, a gentle
thought entered his scatter-brain. It came in the last few precious
moments. He wondered whether in a little while, “all of a sudden” as his
thoughts phrased it, he would see his own mother face to face. Then, as
if in answer, the modulated roar of an oncoming train broke the
stillness.
Louder and louder grew the sound until it ceased to be a distant part of
the night chorus and came out bold and strong for what it was, the voice
of a thundering, heedless, steel monster, crying down the myriad sounds
of the woodland with its alien, metallic clamor. On, on, on it came and
a patch of mellow brightness appeared as the headlight came in view
around a turn to the north and bore swiftly down upon him.
And Hervey Willetts stood and faced it. He called, but he knew that no
one would hear amid all that clank and clamor. There was a bare
possibility that the engineer might see him, but if so he would do no
more than blow the whistle. Should he lie down? Then, if seen, he might
be thought to be dead or unconscious and the train would be stopped. A
forlorn hope. And he could not lie down without breaking his ankle.
So, trembling in every nerve, his heart beating like a sledge-hammer, he
stood and faced the approaching light. He keyed himself to do it as a
stunt--as if he had been dared to do it. There was pathos in the rakish
angle of his outlandish hat, which usually bore a suggestion of bizarre
defiance. On, on, on came the thundering locomotive, painting the rails
silver with its blazing light, setting the ties in bold relief so that
they seemed like rungs of a great ladder.
On, on, on it came. It was so big and Hervey was so insignificant!
Roaring and rushing it bore down upon him. Then suddenly, the sound of
its onrush seemed to change. It was less aggressive, less appalling. Was
it slowing down? Presently his terrified gaze beheld that area of light
standing stationary and up the line he could hear a restless pulsating.
The train had stopped, perhaps a hundred yards from him. The blazing
light was steady; it did not grow larger; it was not moving. He was
_sure_. _It was not moving._ It illumined a certain crooked tree and
continued to illumine the same crooked tree. And the many toned woodland
orchestra of the dying summertime could be heard again; low, drowsy,
incessant.
Then, slowly, with a kind of diabolical politeness, the gripping switch
opened and Hervey felt the balm of infinite release from pain as he
lifted his foot out from between the iron jaws which had held it. There
followed an interchange in the language of the railroad, an interchange
fraught with sure meanings which the unnerved boy did not understand.
Four piercing screams from the restive engine, the sudden appearance of
a white light in the other direction, toward Tanner’s Corners, then two
more deafening screams. Then the sound of jostling cars and a long, slow
puff as the monster strained under the initial pull of starting. Then
long, slow, steady puffing. The illumined tree withdrew into the
bordering darkness; the big headlight was moving along.
And the boy stood watching as the train moved slowly along the main line
southward toward Tanner’s Corners. What was it all about? Why had the
switch closed in the first place? He only knew that he was free.
Bruised, suffering, but _free_. Soon he was quite alone in the quiet
woods. A cricket was chirping close at hand as if nothing whatever had
happened. They are such preoccupied creatures, these little crickets.