MYLES MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
THE cruel dispatch to the _Phonograph_, written for the express purpose
of ruining Myles Manning, was the last one to go eastward that night.
When the operator—much against his will, for he had taken a fancy to
Myles, but compelled by the rules of his office to do so—had sent it
flashing over the wires and received an “O. K.” in answer, his hand lay
listlessly on the key for a full minute. He was thinking what a mean,
contemptible thing had just been done, and was wondering if in any way
he could undo it or avert its consequences. Yes, he believed something
could be done! At any rate, he would try. The frank, pleasant face
of the young reporter rose up before him. A fellow with such a face
as that must be all right. He would at least take the responsibility
of telling the _Phonograph_ people that he was, and that that last
dispatch was false. The key began to click beneath his nimble fingers,
but its sound was faint and lifeless. The New York wire would not work.
Quickly changing the connections on his switch-board the operator tried
again, but with the same result. None of the eastern wires would work.
Within that minute of hesitation they had all been cut.
Then a rush of business came in that had to be sent west to Chicago.
The Associated Press agent got off a few hundred hurriedly written
words announcing the beginning of the great strike. Two or three
important private messages were put through, and then the western wires
also ceased to work. Mountain Junction was cut off from telegraphic
communication with the world.
Outside the office crowds of railroad men filled the streets. Some of
them were noisy, others quiet and determined. Some of them uttered
loud boasts and threats, others worked with the silent energy of those
who have decided upon their plans and mean to carry them through. All
trains arriving after midnight were side-tracked. Their locomotives
were run into the round-house, where their fires were drawn. Heavy
barricades were placed across the main line, the signal-lights were
extinguished, and all traffic was effectually stopped.
When, late the next morning, Myles Manning awoke, it was with an aching
head and a confused idea of where he was and what had happened to him.
The town seemed strangely silent as compared with its noise and bustle
of the day before. Could it be Sunday? No, Myles was certain that the
preceding day had been Tuesday. What time was it? He pulled out his
watch, and as he did so made the discovery that the roll of bills with
which he was to have paid his expenses had disappeared. For a moment
he thought he had been robbed. Then a dim memory of playing cards and
losing money the evening before struggled into his mind, and the cruel
nature of his situation began to dawn upon him. What had he done? What
had he left undone? In his despair the poor boy sat down on the edge of
his bed, and, burying his face in his hands, groaned aloud.
He was aroused by a knock, but before he could reply to it the door
opened and Ben Watkins walked in.
“Hello, Manning!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Why aren’t you
out gathering in the items of interest that you reporters are always
hunting for? There are dead loads of them floating round this place at
present, I can tell you.”
“Oh, Ben,” groaned Myles, hoping for a bit of sympathy in his distress,
“my money is all gone except a dollar or two in change. I must have
lost it at cards in your room last night; but I can’t exactly remember.
What shall I do?”
“Do? Why, brace up! You’ll get it all back again next time. I got
pretty well cleaned out myself last night, but we’ll get even with that
fellow yet. He’s got to stay here until the strike is over, and we’ll
have no end of chances at him.”
“The strike!” echoed Myles, to whose thoughts the words gave a new
direction. “Has the strike begun?”
“Well, I should say it had, and is well under way by this time. Why, it
began at twelve o’clock last night. We had a big riot, but things are
quieting down now, and both sides are awaiting developments.”
“And I haven’t sent a word of it to the paper!” exclaimed Myles, aghast
at the thought of his neglected duty.
“Of course not. How could you, when all the telegraph wires were cut
the first thing?”
“Were they, really?” asked Myles, in a slightly relieved tone. “So that
I couldn’t have sent any thing, any way?”
“To be sure they were. Nobody was able to send off even a whisper. So
you may rest easy on that score.”
This news lightened poor Myles’ burden of anxiety somewhat, though it
did not lessen the force of his self-reproach. Perhaps this, his first
serious neglect of duty, would never be known in the office, after all.
At the same time Myles vowed that such a thing should never happen
again.
After bathing his face in cold water he started out with Ben to study
the situation. As they passed the hotel bar-room the latter suggested
that they step in and take a “bracer.”
“No, I thank you,” said Myles, resolutely. “No more ‘bracers’ for me.
After last night I am willing to pledge myself never to touch another
drop so long as I live.”
“Oh, pshaw!” replied Ben. “Last night was nothing.”
“Perhaps not, as you look at it, but if my last night’s condition and
its results were known in the _Phonograph_ office it would prove a very
important something to me. They have no use there for a fellow who lets
liquor get the best of him.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Ben. “Don’t try to make out that your own office
is any better than any other. All newspaper men get drunk every now and
then; everybody knows that.”
“Look here, Ben Watkins!” cried Myles, stopping short and turning upon
his companion, while an angry flush mounted to his face, “you may be
speaking from ignorance, and I hope you are. At any rate, I want you to
understand that what you have just said is not true. I know a good deal
more about newspaper men than you do. As a rule, they are gentlemen,
from editors-in-chief down to reporters, and no drunkard can ever lay
rightful claim to that title.”
“Oh, they can’t, can’t they?” remarked Ben, sneeringly. “Yet I suppose
you consider yourself a gentleman.”
“I try to be one,” answered Myles, hot with indignation at the other’s
significant tone and words.
“And hereafter I mean to associate only with those who are.”
So saying he turned and walked rapidly away, leaving Ben to stare after
him with such an expression of intense hatred on his face as startled
the passers-by who chanced to notice it.
Ben Watkins was a bad fellow. There was no doubt of that. Some people,
and Myles Manning among them, suspected it, but nobody knew how bad
he really was nor what evil he was capable of. As has already been
shown, he could cherish a spirit of petty revenge, and would descend
to any means to gratify it. In addition to this he was dishonest and
recklessly extravagant. Although he had occupied his present position
but a few months, he had managed to run into debt for one thing or
another to a good many people. Some of these debts he had been obliged
to pay, and, as his salary was not sufficient to meet them, he had
appropriated to his own use several small sums of railroad money with
which he had been intrusted, and altered the figures of his accounts to
conceal the thefts. He hoped to win enough at cards to make good these
sums before their loss should be discovered; but of late luck had been
against him, and he had only succeeded in plunging more deeply than
ever into debt. At the outbreak of the great strike his situation was
so desperate that he had almost made up his mind to disappear from that
part of the country and make a new start where he was unknown.
He dared not confide in or ask aid of his uncle, for the division
superintendent was a stern man, with no sympathy or pity for
evil-doers, especially those whose sin was that of dishonesty. He was
absent from Mountain Junction when the strike broke out, attending a
meeting of officers of the road, held in a distant city, and, as his
assistant, Ben Watkins was left in charge of the office.
On the day of his uncle’s departure, Ben had received, and receipted
for, an express package containing a thousand dollars of railroad
money, which he placed in the office safe to await the superintendent’s
return. As he put this package away he looked longingly at it and
wished it were for him. How nicely it would help him out of his
troubles! Still he dared not even open it, and with a reluctant sigh he
laid it down and closed the heavy safe door upon it.
He had thought of this package more than once since, then, and even
opened the safe several times to see if it were really there. Now,
as, after parting from Myles, he sat at his uncle’s desk in the inner
office, wondering if there was any way by which he could turn this
strike to his own advantage, something happened that suited him exactly.
As his uncle’s representative he was visited by a committee of four
from the strikers—a conductor, an engineer, a stoker, and a brakeman.
Of this committee conductor Jacob Allen was spokesman. He stated the
cause of the strike very clearly, and promised that the men should use
no violence so long as none was used against them. They were willing
to await quietly the action of the company, but there was one matter
that ought to be seen to at once lest it lead to trouble. Many of the
strikers in Mountain Junction occupied houses near the shops and works
belonging to the railroad. They were obliged to pass close by these
buildings in going to and from their houses. Several of them had been
ordered to keep at a greater distance by the soldiers guarding the
works. It would put them to great inconvenience to be obliged to take
other roads, and this committee hoped Mr. Watkins would issue orders
that they should pass unmolested, even close to the buildings, so long
as they did so quietly and peaceably.
The assistant division superintendent listened impatiently to all the
committee had to say, and then with an air intended to impress them
with the importance of his position, he answered,
“I have already issued orders that no striker is to be allowed within a
hundred feet of any works or shop belonging to this company and under
my charge. If you do not want to be inconvenienced come in and report
for duty. Until you do so the order will be enforced.”
“I am afraid it will make trouble, Mr. Watkins,” said Allen.
“That is your affair and not mine,” was the reply. “You must take the
consequences of your own acts.”
Disgusted with the manner and words of the self-important young man
the committee withdrew, and the bitterness of feeling on both sides
was from that moment greatly increased. As a result of Ben’s refusal
to grant this modest and reasonable request several slight encounters
took place between the soldiers and strikers during the day, and by
nightfall a sense of uneasiness and fears of more serious trouble
overspread the whole town.
[Illustration: AS HE WAS STOOPING TO SET FIRE TO THE READY FUEL, THE
SOUND OF HIS OWN NAME CAUSED HIM TO DROP THE MATCH. (_Page 151._)]
Ben Watkins watched all this with great satisfaction. It was exactly
what he had hoped for, and he neglected no opportunity of making
matters worse by word or action.
It was after ten o’clock that night when he stood before the safe in
his uncle’s private office, prepared to commit an act at once bold and
wicked. He had entered the building as stealthily as a burglar, taking
many precautions to avoid being seen. Now, with trembling hands, he
unlocked the great safe, and, securing the coveted express package,
thrust it into a breast-pocket of his coat. He next pulled the books
and papers from the safe and scattered them about the floor. Then,
pouring the contents of a can of kerosene over a pile of newspapers and
other inflammable matter in one corner of the room, he struck a match.
As he was stooping to set fire to the ready fuel the sound of his own
name, uttered in a loud voice from the door-way, caused him to drop the
match and spring to his feet, trembling with the terror of detected
guilt. He had been working by the dim light of a single lamp, and was
so intent upon what he was about that he had not heard a step on the
stair-way nor the door of the outer office open. Now, as he turned a
face bloodless with fear in the direction of the voice and saw Myles
Manning standing in the door-way, he uttered an inarticulate cry of
rage and sprang toward him.
Myles had been busily collecting news of the strike all that day and
writing a report of it, in the hope that he might find some chance
to get it through. He visited the telegraph office several times to
inquire if the wires were not yet repaired, but each time his friend,
the operator, who remained faithfully at his post, shook his head in
the negative. The operator was anxious to befriend one to whom he
had taken a liking, and who, as he knew, had suffered a great wrong,
regarding which his duty obliged him to remain silent; but during
the day he could discover no way of helping him. At last, late in
the evening, when Myles had given up all hopes of getting a dispatch
through and was about to retire, the operator called for him at the
hotel.
He said he had just learned, as a secret, from a friend among the
strikers, that the wires were cut between the town and the first
station on the railroad to the east. The strikers were in possession of
that office, and from it were sending dispatches to other points along
the line. He had told this friend, who possessed great influence over
his fellows, that there was a reporter in town who was most anxious
to communicate with his paper, and asked permission for him to do so
from this little station. At first it was refused. Then the striker
asked the reporter’s name. On being told that it was Manning, and that
he was from the _Phonograph_, he said that made all the difference in
the world. They would willingly allow a _Phonograph_ reporter the use
of the wire whenever he wanted it; for that paper had always given the
strikers a fair showing in its columns. He only made the conditions
that no other reporter should be allowed the use of the wire, and
that nothing should be forwarded over it except the message to the
_Phonograph_.
This the operator had promised, also agreeing to go with the reporter
and send the message through himself.
Myles was of course most eager to avail himself of this privilege,
and, heartily thanking the operator, was about to order a carriage in
which they might drive to the little station. His friend, however,
said that the wagon-roads of that mountainous region were so rough and
roundabout that to drive there would take several hours, while if they
only had a hand-car they might reach the place in less than an hour, as
the railroad was down grade nearly all the way. But all the hand-cars
were locked up in one of the shops, and nobody but the division
superintendent or the person acting in his place could authorize one to
be taken out.
Myles would rather have asked a favor from almost anybody else just
then; but, as one “under orders,” it was clearly his duty to use
every effort to carry them out, and he at once began his search for
Ben Watkins. They went to his room and looked through the hotel in
vain. Then the operator suggested that Mr. Watkins might be in his
office, and said that if Myles would go there and see he would look
in one or two other likely places, and they would meet at the railway
station. So they separated, and Myles hurried in the direction of the
superintendent’s office.
Just before reaching it he met a man whom the light from an open window
showed him to be his acquaintance of the evening before, conductor
Jacob Allen. He apologized, with the plea of having been very busy, for
not calling to see how little Bob was doing, and asked Allen if he had
seen any thing of the assistant superintendent that evening.
“Yes, I saw him go into that building and up stairs to his office a
while ago, though he had no idea I was watching him,” was the answer.
“You know these are curious times, Mr. Manning, and some have to watch
while others have to be watched. By the way, would you mind stepping in
here where there is a light? I’d like to give you a bit of writing that
may come handy to you some time.”
Myles said he was in a great hurry just at that moment, but if Allen
could wait until he had spoken with Mr. Watkins he would be right back.
The conductor expressed his willingness to wait, and Myles, hurrying to
the railway building, sprang lightly up the stair-way leading to the
superintendent’s office. He opened the outer door, and, seeing a light
in the inner room, stepped toward it. Ben was in the act of emptying
the can of kerosene upon the pile of inflammable material, and Myles
hesitated a moment in amazement at the sight.
Then a match was struck, and the full meaning of what was about to be
done flashed, with its sputtering glare, across the mind of the young
reporter. He gave a cry of “Ben Watkins! what are you doing?” and
rushed towards him determined to prevent the crime which seemed about
to be committed. At the sound of his voice Watkins turned upon Myles in
a frenzy of fear and hate.