A FIGHT AND A MISTAKE.
MYLES MANNING hated to fight. He considered it a low and ungentlemanly
thing to do. Rather than maintain his rights by brute force he would
submit to a very considerable degree of wrong; and he did not believe
that either fighting or submission was necessary in the majority of
cases. It seemed to him that any man or boy having control of his own
temper could, by keeping cool and talking the matter over quietly,
control that of his enemy. Still there are cases in which it becomes
absolutely necessary to exert one’s strength, and one of them is when a
person is attacked by a madman. This was Myles’ position as Ben Watkins
sprang at him when detected in the act of setting fire to the railroad
building—an act that he thought would be laid to the strikers.
He had been in such a state of guilty terror for the preceding half
hour that his nerves were wholly unstrung. Thus, when his guilt was
discovered, and that by a person whom he had deeply wronged, and
therefore hated, he lost all control of himself, and, springing at
Myles like a madman, attacked him with all the fury of one.
For a moment the young reporter was staggered by the suddenness and
force of this unexpected attack, and only partially warded a stunning
blow aimed full at his face. Then he rallied, and, with the skill for
which he had been famous among the athletes in the X—— gymnasium,
coolly defended himself. Ben was the stronger of the two, but Myles was
much the more skilful and well trained in all manly exercises. He was
thus perfectly well able to protect himself from the other’s furious
blows. At length, seeming to realize this, Ben changed his tactics,
and, breaking through the reporter’s guard by a fierce rush, clinched
with and tried to throw him. Now Myles was indeed in danger, and every
muscle of his athletic young frame was strained to the utmost. As the
two swayed and tugged in their desperate struggle they staggered from
side to side of the office, overturning chairs and tables in their
course. The one lighted lamp went to the floor with a crash, and they
struggled in utter darkness.
Myles felt that he was becoming exhausted. The fierce hot breath of
his adversary seemed to poison him and take away his own. He began to
fear that his very life was in danger from the madman with whom he
wrestled. He must not yield. He could not. He had too much at stake. He
braced himself for one last tremendous effort. For a moment he did not
breathe. His teeth were set. The veins of his forehead swelled almost
to bursting. His muscles became rigid as whip-cords. His opponent gave
way slightly, and the next instant they both fell heavily to the floor,
but Myles was on top. He knelt on the form of his prostrate rival
and held his arms down with a fierce grasp, beneath which the other
lay utterly powerless and helpless. For a full minute no word passed
between them. Each was regaining his breath with panting gasps.
At length Myles said:
“Ben Watkins, we have been rivals for a long time; but this is our
first fight, and, I hope, our last. Although I would willingly have
avoided it I am glad it has come off. I hope you realize that you are
whipped. I hope you also realize that the chance which sent me here has
saved you from committing a State prison offence. I cannot imagine your
object in attempting to set fire to this building, for that is what you
most certainly were doing as I entered that door. It looks as though
you had some good reason for wishing to destroy the contents of that
safe, and thought you could do it in such a way that the blame would
be laid upon the strikers. I don’t know what those books and papers
are, but they must be of value to the company. It is evident that you
are not fit to be trusted with them. Now, if you choose to put them
all back where they belong, lock the safe, and give me the key to keep
until your uncle or some other officer of the road arrives, I will then
return it to you, and no one need ever know that it has been out of
your possession. As I have no wish to see an old classmate disgraced
I will also agree to say nothing of this night’s work so long as you
behave yourself. I want you to remember, though, that I can do so at
any time, and that you are thus to a certain extent in my power. Still
we are alone, there are no witnesses of what has happened, and I give
you my word that I will never open my lips upon the subject unless you
force me to. There is one thing more,” he added, suddenly remembering
the errand on which he had come: “I want you to order out a hand-car
for my immediate use, and let it be at the station inside of fifteen
minutes.”
Ben sullenly agreed to these terms and was released from his
humiliating position. Another lamp was lighted, the books and papers
were returned to the safe, it was locked, and the key was handed to
Myles. Then, leaving Ben to restore the office to order and to remove
as far as possible all traces of their recent struggle, Myles started
to keep his appointment with Jacob Allen, and to return to the hotel,
where he had left his report for the _Phonograph_.
Allen was waiting just where he left him, and apparently had not moved
from the spot or even changed his position during the reporter’s
absence. He held out a bit of folded letter-paper as Myles drew near,
saying:
“Here is a little note that I have just written for you, Mr. Manning.
It may be of use to you in case you should ever get into any
difficulty with the boys. Even if you never have to use it, it will
serve to remind you that Jacob Allen will never forget what you did for
him last evening, and will count it a piece of good luck if he ever
gets a chance to do you a good turn in part payment of what he owes
you.”
Myles thanked him for his thoughtfulness, thrust the note into a
pocket, bade Allen good-night, and hurried on.
At the hotel he spent a few minutes in his room, got his report and
writing materials, and then going to the office told the proprietor
that he should probably be out all night and perhaps part of the next
day.
“Very well, Mr. Manning,” replied the landlord, “but as these are
troubled times, and you don’t leave any baggage to amount to any thing
behind you, I shall have to ask for the amount of your bill to date
before you go. It is—let me see—yes, five dollars will square us up
to breakfast-time to-morrow morning.”
What was to be done? Myles had not two dollars in his possession, nor
had he a friend within reach from whom to borrow. He hesitated, grew
red in the face, stammered and finally said:
“Your demand is rather unexpected, sir, and finds me without funds
to meet it just at this moment. I was going to telegraph to my paper
for money as soon as the wires were in order. I am certainly coming
back here again. You don’t suppose I would run away for a five-dollar
hotel-bill, do you?”
“Oh, no, of course not,” replied the landlord. “I don’t suppose any
thing of the kind, and I don’t doubt but that you mean to come back.
Still, folks have cleared out forgetting to pay smaller bills than
that, and when a man once leaves town there’s no telling what may
happen to prevent his return. Your being broke, as you say you are,
is unfortunate; but it won’t make any difference if you can leave
something as security until your return—your watch, for instance.”
Without another word Myles pulled his gold watch, a birthday gift from
his father the year he entered college, from his pocket, handed it to
the landlord, received a receipt for it, and hurried into the street,
hot with indignation and mortification.
He found the hand-car standing on the track in front of the railway
station, and beside it the operator awaiting his coming with the
greatest impatience, for it was an hour since they had separated.
“Where have you been and what have you been doing all this time?” he
asked. “I had nearly given you up, and was going home, when a fellow
brought this car along with word from Mr. Watkins that it was for your
use. Then I knew things were moving all right. But what has kept you so
long?”
“Some unexpected business,” answered Myles, evasively, as they jumped
on the car, and, hanging a lantern in the forward end, began to turn
the cranks that set it in motion. Myles’ thoughts were still too
unpleasant and too full of his recent mortification for him to care to
talk, and he found relief in the active exertion necessary to propel
the car. It furnished an ample excuse for silence, but his companion
wondered at the tremendous energy with which he toiled.
They rolled quickly out of the railroad yard, and in a few minutes
were beyond the limits of the town. Faster and faster they flew over
the ringing lines of steel. Now they roared like a train of cars
through a stretch of dark forest, then they skirted the base of a tall
mountain, and again skimmed the edge of some deep valley lying black
and mysterious far beneath them. They sped round sharp curves, rattled
noisily over bridges that spanned swift rushing streams, rumbled over
the hollow arches of culverts, and every now and then plunged through
the breathless blackness of echoing tunnels. As they were on a down
grade their speed increased with each turn of the cranks, until they
seemed fairly to fly, and the wind of the their own progress nearly
took away their breath as it whistled keenly past them.
Occasionally they caught the gleam of a charcoal-burner’s fire,
sometimes close beside the track and again far up on a mountain-side or
glowing like an angry eye from the depths of a ragged ravine; but these
vanished almost as soon as seen. Once they were stopped by a red light
swung furiously across the track but a short distance ahead of them.
Somebody was waving the danger signal, and their iron-shod brake was
applied so vigorously that a train of sparks flew hissing from it. As
they came to a stand-still two rough-looking fellows stepped within the
circle of light thrown by their lantern and demanded to know who they
were and what was their business. They were members of a guard posted
by the strikers to see that no one left or entered Mountain Junction
during the night.
“Hello, Ned! is that you?” said the operator, recognizing one of them.
“We are all right. You know me, don’t you? I’m only going to Station
No. 1 to send a dispatch for this _Phonograph_ reporter. We’ve got a
permit from——” Here the operator lowered his voice so that Myles did
not catch the name he mentioned. It was evidently satisfactory, for the
man stepped aside, saying:
“Go on, then. If he says so it must be all right.”
So on they went, speeding through the darkness and waking the sleepy
echoes of the night until the ten miles had been left behind, and the
light of Station No. 1 shone out clear and bright, only a hundred yards
away.
Here another swinging red lantern warned them to stop. As they pulled
up in front of the little station and sprang from their car breathless,
and wringing wet with perspiration, they were surrounded by a curious
crowd of railroad men who seemed to be making this their head-quarters.
The operator answered all their questions satisfactorily, and, at the
mention of the magical name which Myles still failed to catch, they
readily fell back, making way for the new-comers to enter the station.
Here an operator of but limited experience was slowly sending and
receiving short dispatches concerning the progress of the great strike.
The change in the sound of the electric notes as the skilled operator
who accompanied Myles sat down to the instrument was wonderful. The
sluggish wire seemed to spring into wide-awake activity, and the sharp
clicking of the key as the nimble fingers rattled off thirty-five words
to the minute was like the continuous buzz of some great insect. At
the end of an hour the column-long message had been sent and received
without a break.
As the operator leaned back in his chair after this feat he remarked:
“That fellow at the other end is a lightning taker. I don’t know him,
and he must be a new hand; but he’s a daisy, and I guess I’ll send him
a 73 any how.”[1]
“I wish you would also send this to the _Phonograph_ for me,” said
Myles, handing the operator a slip of paper on which was written:
“Am out of money. Please send fifty dollars. Will explain upon return.
MYLES MANNING.”
After this had been flashed over the wires the operator said:
“My dear fellow, why didn’t you tell me you were broke? I would gladly
have loaned you whatever you needed for a day or two. I can now if you
will take it.”
“Oh, no, indeed, thank you!” answered Myles. “They will get money to
me somehow, and I shouldn’t be in a fix any way if it wasn’t for the
stupidity of that hotel proprietor.” Then he told the story of his
recent mortification, with which the operator sympathized warmly. He
again tried to persuade the young reporter to accept a loan, but Myles
steadily refused, and finally the matter was dropped.
After finishing their business they spent some time at Station No. 1
listening to bits of news regarding the strike. Myles now learned for
the first time how very general it was, and how it was paralyzing the
business of the whole country. He was told that the militia of many
States had been ordered out, and that even detachments of troops from
the regular army were hurrying to points where riots were expected.
The men gathered about the station spoke very bitterly of this sending
of soldiers to aid in “cheating them of their rights,” as they
expressed it, and declared that they would make things lively for any
troops that came in their way.
While they were thus talking word was received over the wire that the
50th New York Regiment was ordered to Mountain Junction and would start
the next morning.
This dispatch was greeted with an angry yell by those who crowded up
to the operator’s window to hear it read, and Myles heard more than
one muttered declaration that the 50th would have a sweet time getting
there, and a red-hot time when they arrived. He wanted very much to
send a few hundred words more to the _Phonograph_ describing the scenes
about the station and the strikers’ reception of the news regarding the
50th, but he was sternly forbidden to do so.
“No, not Jake Allen himself shouldn’t send another word to any paper,
now that they are going to put the soldiers on to us,” shouted one man.
“What has Allen got to do with it, that they mention his name in that
way?” asked Myles of his friend.
“Why,” answered the operator, “didn’t you know that he was the grand
mogul and recognized leader of all the strikers in these parts?”
“No, I had no idea of such a thing.”
“Well, he is; and if it hadn’t been for him we wouldn’t have got here
to-night. He seems to know all about you, and he gave us permission to
come out. It was only by using his name that we got through.”
At length Myles and the operator boarded their car to go back to town,
to which they promised, in return for the favors shown them, to carry
the news of the expected coming of the New York regiment. The return
journey was a hard one. Both of them were sleepy and tired out. They
were no longer borne up by the excitement that attended their outward
trip, and their hands were blistered by the crank-handles. The car grew
heavier and heavier as they forced it slowly up the long grades, while
the miles seemed to stretch to infinity.
When they were half-way back they would have stopped for a while and
taken an hour or two of sleep where they were, but, all at once, they
caught sight of a dull glow overhanging the distant town that they knew
must be caused by some great fire. They also thought they heard shots
every now and then. Their anxiety to find out what was going on lent
them new strength, and again their car hummed merrily over the rails.
As they approached the town they met several small parties of men,
who shouted to them to stop, and once a pistol-bullet whizzed by
unpleasantly close to them, but they dashed forward without paying any
attention to these orders.
At last they rolled into the railroad yard and stepped wearily from
their car, only to be arrested by two soldiers, who said they must
appear before Lieutenant Easter and give an account of themselves.