AN ACT OF FOLLY AND A CRUEL DISPATCH.
THE ridicule that he had to endure on account of “Lord Steerem,”
combined with the mortification of losing the boat-race, was more than
Ben Watkins could endure. He was heard to declare at the beginning of
the long vacation that he should never return to X—— College again;
and as for boat-racing, he had had enough of it to last the rest of
his life. Then he disappeared, but where he went or what became of him
none of his recent companions either knew or cared. They had had quite
enough of Ben Watkins, with his mean disposition and overbearing ways,
and were quite willing to lose sight of him.
As the summer wore on Myles Manning steadily increased his list of
friends. His fellow-reporters on the _Phonograph_ liked him because
he was good-natured, obliging, and of a happy disposition. Those on
the other papers liked him because, while he was keen in pursuit of
news and would use every honest method to obtain a “beat” on them,
he never forgot that he was a gentleman or descended to dishonorable
means to accomplish his purpose. Mr. Haxall liked him because he did
not shirk his work nor show the slightest disinclination to accept any
assignment, no matter how unpleasant its nature.
When Van Cleef was given the enviable summer job of visiting the
principal watering-places and resorts of the country, for the purpose
of writing letters from them to the paper, Myles was assigned to his
night station-work. He particularly hated this, but he attended to it
as well and thoroughly as though he had chosen it, and only Mr. Haxall
suspected, from a chance remark, how distasteful it was to him.
He studied the best models of newspaper-writing carefully, and before
the summer was over developed an easy and pleasant style of his own.
He was becoming recognized on the paper as a valuable man, but his
salary still continued to be what it was at the first, and there was
no intimation that it would ever be raised. The boy tried to send five
dollars of it home every week, for family affairs were becoming worse
and more discouraging with each day, but he found it very hard to keep
up his neat personal appearance and also pay his weekly board-bills
with the small sum that remained.
It would seem from all this that our hero must be a paragon of virtue;
and, as some of those who have followed his fortunes thus far would
say, “Altogether too good to live.” If this were the case this story
might as well end right here, leaving the reader to imagine how Myles
rose from one position to another until he finally became proprietor
of the great paper on which he was now but one of the humblest
workers. That it does not thus end was because the young reporter was
possessed of two grave faults, either one of which, if unchecked, would
eventually lead him to disgrace and ruin. He was in danger of becoming
both a drunkard and a gambler.
Myles would have been terribly shocked if any one had said this to
him, and would have indignantly denied it. At the same time he could
not have denied that he was fond of all sorts of games of chance, nor
that he rarely refused an offered glass of wine. He had fallen into
the habit of drinking, now and then, while in college, because he was
too good-natured to refuse an offered “treat,” and too generous not
to “stand treat” in turn. Now, as a reporter, he found the temptation
to do these same things increased a hundred-fold. It seemed as
though almost every assignment on which he was sent led to accepting
or offering drinks of some kind of liquor. He began to think that
the gaining of interesting items of news depended largely upon his
willingness to “stand treat” for, or be “treated” by, those from whom
he sought it. Several times he had returned to the office flushed and
noisy with wine, and once or twice Mr. Haxall’s keen eye had detected
him in this condition. It was for this reason that the city editor had
decided to wait a little longer and test him a little further before
advancing his salary. He liked the young fellow and was watching him
anxiously. He even went so far as to warn him of the dangers and
temptations that beset a reporter’s path, though he did not make his
allusions personal.
Thus matters stood with Myles Manning when one day, toward the end of
September, Mr. Haxall called him to his desk and said,
“Mr. Manning, it now looks as though the most general and serious
railroad strike this country has ever seen were about to break out. If
it does it will be a very different thing from the horse-car strike
in which you received your first lessons at reporting. That was only
a local affair, while this will be of interest to the whole country.
Of course the _Phonograph_ wants the earliest news of it, and I am
sending out half a dozen of our best reporters to important railroad
points that seem likely to become centres from which the strikers will
operate. At these points we must have our steadiest and most reliable
men, of whom I count you as one. You will, therefore, start at once for
Mountain Junction, the terminus of the Central and Western Divisions
of the A. & B. Road. Send us full dispatches of all that happens,
and remain there until relieved or recalled. Here is an order on the
cashier for your expenses, and if you find yourself in need of more
money you can telegraph for it. Remember that the _Phonograph_ expects
to receive the news—and all the news—from its reporters, but that it
has no use for their individual opinions. Those are formed for it by
its editors.”
With the promptness that Mr. Haxall liked so well Myles answered,
“All right, sir. I think I understand,” left the office at once, and
the next train westward bound over the A. & B. Road carried him as a
passenger.
As Mr. Haxall turned again to his desk, after having started Myles on
this important and perhaps dangerous mission, he said to himself:
“I hope I have done right to trust him with this job. He is entitled to
at least one fair trial on big work and a chance for himself outside
the city. At any rate we can’t get badly beaten whatever happens, for
Rolfe, in Chicago, is certain to get hold of any thing important from
the Junction and send it in on chance.”
Mountain Junction was a railroad town in every sense of the word. Here
the main line of the A. & B. Road was met by an important branch,
and here were located its car-shops, locomotive-works, and general
repair-shops. It was in a coal and iron region, and several large mines
were in operation not far from it. Its entire population, therefore,
consisted of the families of railroad employés and miners. During the
daytime it was a scene of busy industry and the air was filled with the
crash of steam-hammers, the shriek of locomotive-whistles, and the
rattle of trains. At night the noise was hardly diminished, while the
sky was reddened by the glow from hundreds of furnaces, foundries, and
coke-ovens.
The place did not look attractive to Myles, as, late in the afternoon,
he surveyed what he could of it from the platform of the railway
station at which the New York train had just dropped him, and he hoped
he should not be kept there long.
He found a more comfortable hotel than he expected, and in it, after
thoroughly cleansing himself from the dust and cinders of his long
ride, he went down to supper. The seats at two long tables, extending
the whole length of the room, were filled with the bosses and heads of
departments of the many shops, mills, and foundries of the place. A
chair had been reserved for him at a small table placed by a window, at
which two persons were already busily eating. One of these uttered an
exclamation of surprise as Myles entered the room, and, looking at him,
the reporter saw his old rival, Ben Watkins.
“Well, of all things!” cried Ben. “What brings you here, Myles
Manning?”
“Business,” answered Myles. “But I suppose you are here for health and
pleasure.”
“Not much I ain’t,” growled Ben. “I am here to make my living. My uncle
is superintendent of the Western Division A. & B. Road, and I am his
valuable assistant.”
Although Myles had no love for Ben Watkins, especially as he recalled
the nature of their last interview, he did not wholly dislike him, and,
after all, it was pleasant to meet an acquaintance in a place where he
expected to find only strangers.
Ben introduced the other occupant of the table, a supercilious-looking,
pale-faced little man in uniform, as Lieutenant Easter. He belonged to
a company of country militia, sent to this point from a neighboring
town to be on hand in case of any serious emergency, and to his own
intense satisfaction found himself, owing to the enforced absence of
his captain, in command of the troops.
Ben Watkins ridiculed the precaution thus taken, and in answer to a
question from Myles declared that he did not believe there would be any
strike, in spite of all the talk. The lieutenant agreed with him, and,
caressing his silky little mustache, said, with an absurdly pompous
tone, that the mere presence of himself and his men was sufficient to
prevent any such thing.
After supper Ben, who had displayed an unusual friendliness toward
Myles ever since their meeting, asked him how he intended to spend the
evening.
“I must go out and find the telegraph office,” replied Myles, “and
make arrangements to have my dispatches sent through promptly. Then I
thought I would look about the town a little.”
“Oh, well,” said Ben, “that won’t take you long, and when you come back
you’d better drop into my room, No. 16. There isn’t any thing to do of
an evening in this beastly place, but a few of us generally manage to
put in the time somehow, and perhaps we can make it pleasant for you.
Come and see, at any rate.”
Myles promised he would, and after receiving directions how to reach
the telegraph office he went out.
A wickedly cruel expression swept over Ben Watkins’ face as he watched
his recent rival out of sight.
“I’ll fix you, my young man. See if I don’t! I haven’t forgotten ‘Lord
Steerem’ and the trick you played on me. If I don’t get even with you
this very night I will before long. Oh, yes, Ben Watkins doesn’t forget
in a hurry.”
Myles, on the other hand, as he walked down the street, was thinking.
“Ben doesn’t seem half a bad fellow, after all. He has decidedly
changed for the better since last June, and I shouldn’t wonder if he
proved a great help to me in this place.”
He found the telegraph operator to be a brisk, wide-awake young man,
who said he was ready to handle any amount of press matter, and who
also promised to send word to Myles if any thing important took place
during the night.
Leaving the office Myles started toward the railway station, which was
only a block farther on, to assure himself that every thing about it
was still quiet. As he reached its broad platform he noticed there a
child four or five years old, and wondered what such a little thing
could be doing all alone in such a place at that hour, for it was now
about eight o’clock. Stepping up to the child he asked:
“Well, little one, what is your name?”
“My name Bobby,” replied the child, gravely, lifting a roguish but
self-possessed little face to look at the tall young fellow bending
over him.
As the light from a reflector hung outside the station fell on it,
Myles thought he had never seen a sweeter or more winning face on a
child, and he at once became greatly interested in the little fellow.
“Well, Bobby, where do you live?” he asked.
“Over there.” And the child pointed vaguely into the darkness behind
them.
“But what are you doing out here so late, and all alone? Don’t you know
it is high time for all good little boys to be in bed?”
“I’s waiting for my papa.”
“Who is your papa?”
“Why, my papa is my papa,” answered the child, with an air of surprise
that any one should ask such a question.
“Well, where is your papa, then?” asked Myles, looking about with the
expectation of seeing a papa at no great distance.
“My papa is on the chu-chu cars.”
“The chu-chu cars?”
“Yes, over there.”
Here the child pointed to a freight train that had just hauled in on a
siding beyond the tracks of the main line. Then crying out, “I see my
papa,” the child jumped from the platform, and, before Myles could stop
him, was running across the tracks toward a twinkling lantern that was
approaching from the direction of the freight train.
All at once, with a cry of pain, the child fell directly across one of
the glistening lines of steel.
Myles sprang toward him. As he did so the eastbound night express
dashed, with a shriek and a roar, out from behind a round-house that
had, until that moment, concealed it, and rushed with fiery breath and
gleaming head-light toward where the child lay.
Myles’ heart ceased its beating, but he did not hesitate nor flinch,
though it seemed impossible that he could get there before the iron
monster. He did, though, with a second to spare, and snatched the child
as he ran. The little foot was caught in the angle of a switch and the
child uttered a sharp scream of pain as the strong young arms tore it
away, leaving a tiny shoe behind. Both rolled together in the cinders,
barely beyond reach of the cruel wheels that ground over the quivering
rails. With a long wild howl, as of baffled rage, the night express
swept on, leaving Myles and the child almost suffocated in its dust,
and breathless with the rush of wind that followed it.
As Myles staggered to his feet, and lifted the limp form of the child
whom he had saved at so imminent a risk of his own life, a man with a
lantern on his arm sprang forward, and snatching the child from him,
cried, in a tone of agony:
“It’s my boy! My only boy! My little Bob—and he’s killed! The last
one; and he had to be taken too! Oh, it’s too hard, too hard!”
While Myles was trying to soothe him, the child, who was more
frightened than hurt, put up a little hand, and, patting its father’s
face, said:
“Bobby was coming to you, papa, but he fell down and got hurted. His
foot hurts now.”
The father was Jacob Allen, one of the best-known men on the A. &
B. road. He had just come in, as he did every other night at the
same hour, in charge of a through freight train. At this point he
was relieved, and could spend every other night in his home near the
station. His wife and little Bob were in the habit of coming as far as
the platform to meet him. But this evening Mrs. Allen was detained at
home, and the child had slipped away alone unnoticed.
Great tears rolled down the man’s begrimed and weather-beaten cheeks
as he tried to thank Myles for what he had done, and to tell him how
dark and cheerless his home would be without its bit of golden-haired
sunlight.
Myles made light of his service and escaped from the other’s
overpowering gratitude as soon as possible, promising to call and see
the child, and find out how he was getting along, on the morrow. Before
he left the man had learned his name, and the last words he heard were:
“If ever the time comes when Jake Allen can lift a hand for you, or say
a word that will in any way serve you, Mr. Manning, you may count on
his doing it, so long as he has breath left in his body. And who knows
but the time may come sooner than you think!” he added significantly.
As Myles, hot, bruised, and covered with dust and cinders, re-entered
the hotel almost the first person he met was Ben Watkins, who exclaimed
in astonishment at his appearance. Myles told him in a few words what
had happened, and, pushing him into a chair, Ben said:
“Wait there a minute, old man, and I’ll fix you all right.”
He returned quickly, bringing a great tumbler of something that foamed
and sparkled and tinkled with cool bits of ice. Without asking or
caring what it was Myles thirstily drained the glass saying:
“That’s the very thing I wanted, and it was awfully good of you to
think of it, Ben.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” replied Watkins. “Come up to my room and have
another as soon as you get dusted off.”
Myles went to No. 16, where he found that Ben and Lieutenant Easter
were playing cards. There he drank another glass of the cool, pleasant
mixture that was “just the thing he wanted.” It made him feel so good
that he was easily persuaded to take a third. “It is as mild as milk,”
Ben said, “and wouldn’t upset a baby.”
Then he winked at his companion, who looked at Myles and winked back at
Ben.
Myles now began to talk loud and boastfully. Then he joined in a game
of cards and began to lose money and say that it was no matter, for
there was plenty more where that came from. All the while Ben Watkins,
with an evil smile on his face, kept urging him to take a sip of this
or a taste of that; and after a time, when his money was nearly gone
and he could no longer keep awake, they carried him to his own room and
put him to bed.
The breathless messenger who came at midnight from the telegraph office
to tell Myles that the great strike had begun failed to arouse him. The
young reporter knew nothing of the exciting scenes taking place in the
streets of the lawless town. Of all the important events, for news of
which his paper depended upon him, he sent no dispatch.
Somebody, however, did send a dispatch that night to the _Phonograph_,
and it was:
“Your reporter at Mountain Junction too drunk to send any news. Better
replace him with a sober man.”