“But what an odd code! What a poetic code, for a railroad!”
“Well, I’ve learned to expect a good deal of life in Virginia. It seems
to be different here.”
“Yes, it’s a code.... Of course it’s a code!” Gordon amended himself.
“But—I wonder if it’s a railroad code?”
“I see. A lover and his lass, eh? You’re crediting your railroad
engineer with your own romantic soul, Gordon.” I patted his arm, as
Jemima, our cook, rang her bell for supper. “Now there’s a code that I
can understand!” And we hurried in to the table.
By next evening the whole gang had heard of the curious signal from the
freight locomotive and assembled at the opening of the trees to hear it.
Precisely at the moment due the obedient freight train crossed the notch
in the distant hills, and as precisely as before the engine let off its
string of puffs that in a moment became in our ears those last two bars
of the song.
There were as many theories to account for it as there were men to hear
it. In the end the congress bore down Gordon and pronounced it a simple
railroad code, with the longs and shorts accidentally resembling the
tune, or made so by a whimsical engineer.
Nevertheless the phenomenon was interesting enough to compel a bit of
discussion about the fire in the great hall after we had despatched our
supper. The talk drifted away into the curious tricks that artisans come
to play with their implements—carpenters able to toss up edged tools and
catch them deftly, and the like. But Gordon was not to be weaned from
the subject of that whistle.
“There’s nothing to prevent that engineer from playing ‘Yankee Doodle’
on his whistle if he wants to. Haven’t you often lain awake at night
listening to the blasts of the locomotives? You can tell when an
engineer is ruffled, when he starts behind time out of the yard, and
knows he must be extra alert that night. His toot is sharp and
impatient. Or you can tell an engineer coming home from his run. His
whistle fairly sighs his own contentment.”
“La, Gordon,” some one yawned, “you’re a poetic soul!”
“Well, I believe in that engineer,” he defended. “Next time I go down to
the village I’m going to find out who blows that thing and why he does
it.”
He did go down to the village and he did learn the secret of the
whistle. It made a neat little story. The whistle was a code signal, of
a surety, and of precisely the sort that Gordon figured it was. He knew
his Virginia.
A fellow named George Roberts was the engineer of that freight, and his
imitation of “Annie Laurie” was truly a signal—to a sweetheart of his.
Rough devil at one time, this man Roberts, a tearing drinker and
fighter, he was fast on the way to ruin and discharge, when he fell in
love with this girl and braced up. Now every time he passed the little
house where she lived he tooted his whistle like that in salutation.
“To let her know he’s safe,” Gordon finished.
Of course we charged him with making it up, but in the end we came to
believe him. Every day for four weeks that whistle blew, always in the
same way, always in the same place, and always on the dot. And somehow
it had a sobering and softening effect upon the crowd of woodsmen that
we were. The men quarreled less frequently, I noticed, were more
considerate and helpful to each other. I swear we all felt the influence
of that engineer. I’ll wager every man jack of us meant on going home to
be a bit the more thoughtful to the wife. It cheered us all, that little
touch of honest romance. The world seemed a bit the better for it. We
even took to timing our supper not by Jemima’s bell but by George
Roberts’ whistle.
Then another strange thing happened. The signal ceased.
The first time we missed it we could scarcely believe our ears. But on
the second day it was silent, and the next. At the right time the train
crossed the notch, but no puffs came from the engine, no sound from the
whistle.
It gave us a drop. The world was as drab as ever. The cynics, of course,
spoke up at once.
“Guess your friend the engineer is no better than the rest of us,” one
of them jeered at Gordon. “He couldn’t keep it up.”
“Drunk again, probably,” jeered another.
“Maybe it’s only a little lovers’ tiff,” I argued in Gordon’s support.
“I’m going to find out,” Gordon finished the discussion.
And he did. Made a special errand to the village to find out. And
returned with a smile.
“They’re married,” he reported. “Off on their honeymoon. They’ll be back
in a week. Watch for the signal then.”
He was right. In a week the signal was resumed, but in another place.
“How’s that?” one of the men still girded at Gordon. “Guess he’s learned
to respect his wife’s throwing arm. He pipes up now from a more
respectful distance.”
“That’s easy,” Gordon let the caviller down gently. “He’s set her up in
a little house farther along the line. Naturally that’s where he would
whistle now.”
For three weeks more we heard the faithful signal, at its new place. A
little more faintly, but always punctual, always the same. And again the
men began to whistle at their work.
By then the job was nearly finished. In two or three weeks more we
should be leaving, and the whole crowd began to allege a touch of
regret. They protested it was because the old place was so beautiful,
but privately I think George Roberts and his tooting had something to do
with the homesickness. To whatever new place we might go, however
pleasant it might be, there was going to be a trifle that was lacking.
Then again a strange thing happened. Again the whistle stopped. For four
days it was silent.
“Family jar already!” came the usual good-natured jeer.
“She’s flung a plate and crippled his whistle arm.”
“Guess you’d better find out what’s the matter, Gordon,” a third man
recommended.
“I will,” said Gordon.
That evening he returned from the village without the smile.
Nevertheless, as he was still plodding up the long driveway, his head
down, his step slow, we actually heard the whistle as we sat waiting for
Gordon under the portico. There was no mistaking it. And yet its note
seemed different; there was a new tone to it, something like Gordon’s
air. And it seemed to come from still farther away.
Gordon paused as he heard it, and stood still, with his hat in his hand,
till it died away. Then he came up the steps and sat down. We all leaned
toward him.
“She fell ill,” he said. “They left her in the little cemetery down the
line. She’d always been delicate. And I suppose that’s where he’s
whistling now. To—to let her know he’s safe.”