THE STOLEN LOCOMOTIVE.
“Well, Mr. Sumner, your assignment last night turned out larger than we
expected,” the city editor said when Dick reported in the office next
morning.
Dick had spent a miserable night, and he anticipated at least a severe
lecture. But the editor’s manner was kind and reassuring.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, “the stonecutters had a very lively meeting,
and I ought to have known that it was an important piece of news. I’ll
try to use better judgment next time, sir.”
“Oh, I think you’ll soon learn,” the editor said. “We don’t expect you
to have much experience on your first day. You see when I tell you to
write four or five lines, that is with the expectation that the matter
will be of no importance. Something unexpected may happen and make it
worth two or three columns. You will find it a good plan always to tell
your facts briefly to the night city editor when you come in, and he
will tell you about how much to write.”
Several of the older reporters were ready to talk to Dick when he took
his seat. It was easy for them to see that he was worried over his
mistake, and they felt sorry for him.
“If you had told some of us what you had when you came in,” said Mr.
Herrick, the reporter who had rewritten Dick’s article so skilfully,
“we’d have put you on the right track. But don’t worry over it; you
look as if you’d cried yourself to sleep.”
“Not quite as bad as that,” Dick answered with something of a smile.
“But I did have a very bad night of it. You see I was kept so late that
I missed my train for home, so I went to the Astor House and took a
room. It’s a terrible noisy place over there.”
“It’s worse than noisy,” Mr. Herrick laughed, “it’s too expensive for a
young reporter. You’re not living out of town, are you?”
Dick explained that he lived in Russellville with his mother and sister.
“Oh, that will never do!” Mr. Herrick exclaimed. “No reporter can hope
to live out of town. Our hours are so irregular that you’ll miss your
train about five nights a week. The best way is to rent a furnished
room and live in the city. That’s the way most of us do. It leaves a
man free to work at all hours.”
“Yes, that’s a reporter’s life,” said young Tom Brownell, who was only
two or three years older than Dick. “A furnished room, meals in a Park
Row beanery, and empty pockets on Saturday night. That’s all we can
look forward to.”
“Don’t stuff the boy, Brownell,” said Mr. Banks, whose seat was near.
“Brownell is a space man, Mr. Sumner, who makes about sixty dollars a
week and boards in a hotel. But it is a fact that you’ll not be able
to live out of town. You cannot do better than rent a little room for
the present and take your meals in whatever restaurant you happen to be
near.”
This was a new idea to Dick, and he had plenty of time to think it over
while waiting for an assignment. Russellville was so near, it had not
occurred to him that he would not be able to go home every night; but
if he should be kept late often, and miss his train four or five nights
a week, the hotel bills would soon use up his salary. Still, there was
an objection to his living in a furnished room and restaurants.
“If I am to pay my way separately in the city,” he considered, “what am
I going to have left for mother and Florrie? Fifteen dollars a week is
a great deal of money, but money seems to disappear very fast here in
the city.”
He had plenty to do on that second day, but it seemed to him that it
was all work that an errand boy might have done. First he was sent
to a steamship office to inquire about an overdue vessel, then down
to Wall Street to carry a message to the financial reporter; and in
the evening he had two little meetings to attend, but they were of no
importance, and he had not a single line to write.
“It’s tough, isn’t it?” he said to Randall, when his last job was done
and he was free to go home. “I’ve not had a line to write to-day.”
“Tough!” Randall exclaimed; “why, my boy, I’ve often worked for two
weeks on a job and then had nothing to write. You can’t expect to write
much at the start, and some men never do. You will soon see that all
the reporting of any importance is done by about half a dozen men. They
get all the long articles to write, because they know how to do it. The
rest have to take what is left.
“Besides that,” Randall went on, “a new man has to wait for his
opportunity. They’ll keep giving you this little work to do till some
day a little thing turns out big, and then you’ll have a chance to show
what stuff there is in you. That’s the way a new reporter gets a start.”
“Oh!” Dick gasped; “and I had just such a chance as that last night,
and lost it!”
“Yes, you did,” Randall admitted; “but you can’t expect to do
everything in a day. Another chance will come some day; watch for it.”
Watch for it! Dick did nothing but watch for it. No matter how small
his assignment was, and for days and weeks they were all small, he went
about it full of the hope that it might turn out to be of importance.
Sometimes he was almost discouraged, particularly when he looked
about him and saw how many older men in the office, men who had been
reporters for years, got no better work to do than he. Some of these
men, too, were much better men than he; he could not help seeing that.
They had traveled everywhere, and were thoroughly educated, and spoke
many languages, but still their opportunity had not come. Perhaps his
chance might never come again either.
There were other things to make Dick feel uncomfortable. His mother had
given him the best advice when he found that he must live in the city,
and of course Dick had followed it, but he found himself very unsettled.
“If you must miss the train so often,” she said to him, “you will have
to live in the city; but do nothing rash till you are sure of keeping
your place in the office. Rent a little room somewhere for the present,
and after a while Florrie and I will move in, if everything goes well,
and we can take a tiny little flat, and all live together again.”
So Dick was cut off from his family, a young lone bachelor in New York;
and the little hall bedroom was doleful, and the restaurant meals
were growing monotonous, for he could not afford to go to the good
restaurants; even the cheap ones swallowed up a large share of his
salary.
“Here is a meeting of the Harbor Commissioners that you can attend
this morning, Mr. Sumner,” the city editor said to him one day. “They
never do anything worth printing. Last time we merely said of them ‘The
Harbor Commissioners met yesterday and did nothing.’ There probably
will not be more than a line or two to write about them.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dick, and he could not help adding mentally, “that’s
the reason I get the job, I’m afraid, because it is of no account. But
never mind; my chance will come some day, and then I’ll get better
work.”
It was as small and unimportant an assignment as was given out that day
in the office; but small as it looked it was destined to help Dick to a
better standing on the Transport. The subject of tugboats running about
the harbor without proper lights came up at the meeting, and one of the
Commissioners told of a thrilling experience he had had a few nights
before, while taking the Vice-President of the United States down the
harbor in a Revenue Cutter. A tug carrying no lights lay directly in
the cutter’s way in the Swash Channel, and the cutter almost ran her
down in the darkness. The Vice-President’s life, the speaker said, and
the lives of all on board the cutter were put in great danger.
This caught Dick’s attention at once.
“The Vice-President in danger because a New York tug carried no
lights!” he said to himself. “It seems to me that ought to make a story
that people would like to read. I wonder whether my chance has come at
last. I’ll not miss it this time at any rate.”
He took full notes of the story, and as soon as the meeting was over
he returned to the office and reported to the city editor, telling him
briefly what he had heard.
“That’s good, Mr. Sumner, that’s good,” the editor replied. “We want
that by all means. Write it up as fully as you think the facts will
stand.”
Dick felt his hand shaking when he began to write. It was his first
real chance since the night when he wrote an account of the governor’s
accident--except, of course, the chance that he let slip. Besides, he
had not written enough yet to forget that he was writing for more than
a hundred thousand readers. But the excitement wore off as he grew more
interested in the subject, and when he finished he had written a plain
but exciting account of the Vice-President’s adventure, enough to fill
about two thirds of a column in the paper.
It was almost exasperating to him to see the matter-of-fact way in
which his copy was received; how it was laid under a paper-weight with
a dozen other articles, to remain there unnoticed until the night city
editor came and in its turn passed judgment upon it. He was sent out
immediately on another mission, and it was not till late that night
that he heard anything about it. Then it was the ever kindly Dr.
Goode, the night editor, who mentioned it.
“O Sumner, see here a moment,” the doctor called, adjusting his two
pairs of glasses.
As Dick approached his desk he saw that the proof the doctor held in
his hand was headed in big letters, “The Vice-President’s Peril,” and
that it was his own article.
“This is a good thing you have done here, Sumner,” the doctor said. “We
like stories of this sort, and I’m going to put you on the first page.”
A few weeks earlier Dick would have stayed in the office till the paper
went to press, for the sake of seeing his article in print, but being
more experienced now, he wisely went home and to bed.
In the morning Dick found the city editor making remarks to the
reporters, as usual, about their articles. “Well done, well done, Mr.
Banks;” or perhaps, “You made too much of that burglary story, Mr.
Black.” His turn came almost as soon as he entered the room.
“You did a good thing yesterday, Mr. Sumner,” was the greeting. “I see
none of the other papers have your story about the Vice-President’s
peril. I suppose there were other reporters at the meeting?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Dick answered; “five or six others. We all heard the
story at the same time, but perhaps none of the others used it.”
“Then you showed a better news sense than any of them,” Mr. Brown
retorted, “for such a story as that is news.”
Dick was pleased with himself and all the world that morning, but it
surprised him a little to find that he still got the same unimportant
assignments--trivial meetings, things that an errand boy could have
done equally well. This went on for so many days that he began almost
to think there was not much use in taking advantage of an opportunity
after all. But when he found such thoughts in his mind he held a little
conversation with himself, for he did not like it.
“Now hold on to the ropes and keep pulling, Dick Sumner!” he said to
himself. “Don’t be a baby. Better work is coming by-and-by. If one or
two good pieces of work don’t bring it, then three or four will, or
five or six. Do the best you can; and if you begin to grumble, I’ll be
ashamed of you.”
He was always among the first to arrive at the office, perhaps because
he had no great fancy for staying alone in his dismal little furnished
room; and one morning when he entered he was the very first reporter,
and only the city editor was at his desk.
“I thought you would be the first man here,” Mr. Brown said. “You
are generally early, Mr. Sumner, and I am glad that this time your
promptness is to be rewarded. I am going to give you an assignment
of great importance this morning, because I know you will do it
faithfully, and I think you will do it well. It is a job that would
naturally go to Mr. Randall, because he does all our Sing Sing work;
but he is out of town to-day, and I am going to entrust it to you.”
Dick merely answered “Yes, sir;” but the announcement filled him with
wonder. An assignment of great importance! A job that would naturally
go to Mr. Randall--to Jack Randall, the best reporter and best writer
in the office! He could hardly believe that he was to have a chance at
such work.
“Here is a dispatch just received from Sing Sing prison,” the city
editor went on, “saying that four prisoners escaped this morning
by stealing a locomotive. You understand that the New York Central
Railroad runs through the prison grounds through a deep open cut in the
rock. There are bridges across the cut, and every morning some of the
prisoners are taken over the bridges to work in the quarry.”
“Yes, sir,” Dick repeated. He had read of this, though he had never
visited Sing Sing.
“This morning, according to this dispatch,” Mr. Brown continued, “four
of the prisoners broke away from their guards while a slow freight
train was passing under the bridges, dropped from one of the bridges
to the tender, drove the engineer and fireman off with revolvers,
uncoupled the engine, and escaped. It is an exceedingly dramatic story
and must be told fully. You must take the first train for Sing Sing and
get all the facts. See the warden, go over to the quarries, look at
the bridge and the position of the train, get the names and histories
of the escaped convicts, and of course be on the lookout for their
capture. Tell the story vividly, but do not exaggerate the facts. Now
the sooner you reach Sing Sing the better.”
To go into the great Sing Sing prison, to talk with the warden, to go
over the prison grounds, and to come back and describe one of the most
remarkable prison escapes ever made! Dick could hardly believe that
such a job had been put into his hands.
He knew that that day’s work would give him a standing in the office if
he did it well, and he hurried down the stairs determined to put his
whole heart and brain into it.
As he reached the head of the long flight leading into the publication
office he saw that a man below was about to come up. The man had
stopped for a moment to talk with one of the clerks, and his hand
rested on the top of the newel post.
It was Jack Randall, the man who should have had this great Sing Sing
story to write! He had returned unexpectedly, and in a minute more the
city editor would see him.
Dick’s thoughts flew fast for a moment. If he went on down the stairs,
he would immediately be swallowed up in the crowded streets and it
would be too late to recall him. But would that be fair? The work must
certainly have been given to Randall, if he had been in the office; it
had gone to Dick only through a misunderstanding. His mind was made up
in an instant, and he turned and ran quickly up the stairs.
“Mr. Randall is downstairs, sir,” he said to the city editor; “he will
be up here in a moment.” It was like giving away half his chances in
life, but he was sure it was the right thing to do.
Mr. Brown looked up squarely into Dick’s eyes as he answered.
“It was very thoughtful in you to come and tell me, Mr. Sumner,” he
said, “but I shall not change the assignment. You go ahead and do the
work.”
Dick was off like a flash for the Grand Central Station, exchanging
salutations with Randall when he encountered him on the stairs. “How
much better I can do the work now,” he thought, “than if I had gone
ahead with a guilty conscience!”
In the train he met four other reporters, one of whom he knew. They
were from the other morning newspapers, and before they reached Sing
Sing he found that one of the party was the great Bailey of the Herald,
one of the best-known reporters in New York, and another Henderson of
the Tribune, whom he had heard spoken of as one of the finest writers
on the press. It was a fresh feather in his cap to be sent to do the
work that such men were doing. But could he compete with them, he
wondered?
In Sing Sing the five reporters walked down to the prison together and
were shown into the warden’s office, and Dick’s idea of the power of
the press was vastly expanded when he saw how they were treated. The
warden, the man in charge of all that great prison with its thousands
of prisoners, whose word was law to scores of keepers, could not do
enough for them. Did they smoke? A box of Havana cigars was passed
about. Would they eat a bite of lunch? Just a taste of chicken salad
and a little cold fruit? No? Then let him ring for a glass of wine,
for they would have a hard day’s work. But that was precisely why they
would not take the wine, for such reporters as the four Dick met,
capable of doing the best work, do not drink wine because they have
work before them.
The warden took them into the cell corridors, which made Dick shudder,
and showed them the cells of the men who had escaped. Everything was
open to them; the prison books, showing the records of these men;
even the dark cell where one of them had been kept in manacles for
misconduct a few weeks before. Then he told them the story of the
escape, and an intensely interesting story it was.
“Three of the men are burglars under long sentences,” he said; “and the
fourth is a five-year man for murder in the third degree. They are all
old offenders and desperate characters. This morning they were taken as
usual to their work in the quarries, guarded by two keepers armed with
rifles. When the freight train came along, moving slowly through the
cut under the bridges, these four men threw down their tools and ran
for one of the bridges. The guards fired, but missed them; and the men
dropped from the bridge to the tender behind the engine. In an instant
they were in the cab, and with cocked revolvers in their hands they
ordered the engineer and fireman to jump off. We do not know how they
got the revolvers. The railroad men were compelled to obey, and as soon
as the convicts were alone on the engine they uncoupled it from the
train and pulled open the throttle.
“Now comes the strangest part of the story,” the warden continued. “Not
one of those men knew anything about running an engine, and they pulled
the throttle wide open. To do that suddenly is very dangerous, and
almost on the instant the engine blew off one of her cylinder heads.
That was all that saved the men’s lives, for guards in the sentry boxes
were firing at them with rifles. But so much steam escaped from the
disabled cylinder that they were completely enveloped, and the guards
could not aim. The rascals literally rolled out of range in a cloud of
steam, and were away before we could reach them.
“However,” the warden went on, “they had not gone more than four or
five miles before the other cylinder head blew out, and the engine of
course came to a stop. Then the men jumped off and took to the woods.
They are still in convict clothes, and I have twenty men hunting them.
We shall soon have them back.”
“What a story to write!” Dick exclaimed when the warden concluded.
“It’s better than fiction.”
“Fiction!” sneered Henderson of the Tribune; “our facts beat fiction
every day. There would be no fiction if there were no facts, Mr.
Sumner.”
Dick did not stop to ponder over this remarkable proposition; he was
too anxious to go out over the bridge to the quarry and see the scene
of the escape, so that he could describe it accurately. The warden took
the reporters all over the ground, and after that they separated, each
one to pick up whatever additional information he could.
It occurred to Dick that the railroad people would have something to
say about this summary mode of taking one of their engines, and he
knew that the more people he saw who were in any way connected with
the escape, the better story he could make. He went first to see the
telegraph operator at Sing Sing, for something must have been done by
wire. He soon made friends with the operator and had a long talk with
him.
[Illustration: “YOU’RE JUST IN TIME, RANDALL!”]
“There’s a telegraph office at the prison, you know,” said the
operator, “and while the thing was happening they wired me, ‘Four
convicts stolen engine of 89, and running down the track with it.’
Eighty-nine is the number of the freight train, and they knew it. Well,
sir, you can just believe that gave me a start. An engine running wild
down the track! There was no telling what they might run into, nor what
lives or property they might destroy. My business was to send the news
to the superintendent in the Grand Central Station and I did that just
as quick as these jars of lightning would let me.”
That was as much as the operator knew about it, but a word that he
dropped gave Dick a hint of something better to come. To work out this
new clew, however, it was necessary for him to go to Tarrytown, and he
took the next train for that place, which is the next station below
Sing Sing. In a few minutes he was talking with the Tarrytown station
agent.
“I am a reporter for The Daily Transport, sir,” he said to the agent.
“Will you please tell me what orders you received about 89 this
morning?”
“My boy,” said the agent with great emotion, “I will tell you, but
it makes my breath stop to think of it. You must understand that we
have a siding here which ends on the wharf, and a fast train run on to
that siding would inevitably be thrown into the river. The switch that
controls it we call the north switch. Eighty-nine was due here in less
than a minute when the telegraph operator handed me an order from the
train dispatcher in New York. The order read:--
“‘Open the north switch and throw 89 into the river.’”
“Well, sir,” the agent went on, “my heart stopped beating and my knees
trembled. How many lives would I destroy if I obeyed that order? But it
was only for a second. Only one man runs these trains, and that is the
train dispatcher.”
“And you opened the switch?” Dick asked, almost breathless with
interest.
“I opened the north switch,” the agent replied. “It was my duty to do
it; there was the order. I hope I may never have to endure such agony
again, my boy, for I expected the next minute to see the train plunged
into the river and everybody in it killed. Thank God, the engine blew
out both her cylinder heads before she got here, and of course stopped.
The train dispatcher, you see, knew that the convicts were running wild
down the road, and he ordered the switch opened to prevent the much
greater damage they might do further on.”
When Dick mentally laid out his story in the train returning to the
city, this incident seemed to him the most dramatic thing in it.
“It’s worth a year’s salary to talk to such a man,” he said to himself.
“I thought I knew something about obeying orders, but I understand it
better now. And I don’t believe that any of the other fellows have got
hold of this part of the story. Oh, if only they haven’t!”
Jack Randall was in the office when Dick returned and sat down to write.
“Do you mind my looking over your copy?” he asked, after a few pages
were written. “I know everybody up there, so I’m interested.”
“I should be delighted,” Dick answered; “and I hope you’ll tell me if
you see anything wrong.”
It was a long evening’s work writing the article, for the pages made a
thick pile--enough to fill two and a half columns of the paper. Dick
had done a tremendous day’s work, but the excitement prevented his
feeling yet the exhaustion that was sure to follow.
“Do you find any bad breaks?” he asked, after Randall had read the last
page.
“Bad breaks!” Randall repeated; “why, Sumner, it’s a classic. I thought
you had some stuff in you, but I didn’t believe you could write like
this. That ‘open the north switch and throw 89 into the river’ is
worthy of Dickens; there’s a touch of the Sidney Carton in it. You’ll
not be doing any more half-stick meetings and five-line fires after
this, Sumner.”
“I’m in hopes that I have that exclusive,” Dick said. “I didn’t meet
any of the other fellows while I was getting it.”
“It’s the best part of the story,” Randall replied, “though the whole
thing is remarkable. You don’t want to go home yet, do you? I mean to
that hall-room cell of yours. A fellow always feels a little excited
over a good subject like that, and wants somebody to talk to when it’s
done. I know how it is. Come around to the Scribble Club with me for an
hour or two and meet some good fellows.”
“The Scribble Club?” Dick repeated. “I haven’t heard of that.”
“No,” said Randall, “it’s not a big affair, like the Press Club; just a
quiet little club, very sociable and homelike. All newspaper boys, of
course.”
Randall had described Dick’s condition exactly. He was excited, wrought
up to the highest pitch by his work, and the idea of going alone to
his little room and trying to sleep was very repugnant. He was glad to
accept the invitation and make the acquaintance of the Scribble Club.
The club room was an apartment of good size, up one flight, over a
restaurant in Duane Street. Its founders had doubtless had in mind the
convenience of the situation, for it was connected by an electric bell
with the restaurant below, and a push of the button summoned a waiter
to take orders for anything desired. The room was comfortably furnished
with armchairs and one large and several small tables; the floor was
carpeted, and files of the daily newspapers hung upon the walls.
There were four young men in the room when Dick and Randall entered,
all reporters engaged on various newspapers, and the entrance of
Randall was the signal for a shout.
“You’re just in time, Randall; we want to start a game of poker, and
you’re the fifth man. The fellows don’t care to play four-handed.”
“I don’t mind, if it’s a small limit,” Randall answered. “You can draw
up a chair and watch us, Sumner. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Sumner, of the
Transport.”
“Oh, just the usual,” was the reply as all the men spoke to Dick.
Several of them he had met before in reporting. “Five cents ante;
quarter limit.”
The five seated themselves around one of the small tables and began the
game. Dick had never seen cards played for money before, and it shocked
him; but he reflected that he had nothing to do with it, and could not
prevent it if he would. He drew up his chair behind Randall and watched
the play, and it was not long before he understood the principles of
the game.
After watching for some time he took from his pocket a letter from his
mother that he had found in the office and opened it. It contained the
first request for money that she had made. “I do not like to ask for
your little savings, my dear boy,” she wrote, “and I know how expensive
you find everything in the city. But I am down almost to the last cent
of my quarterly income and have several bills to pay. I do not know how
we will manage unless you can send me twenty dollars.”
“How lucky that I have been very careful!” Dick said to himself. “I
have twenty-five dollars, and five dollars will easily take me through
till next payday. I will go out early in the morning and take mother
the money. I can show her my Sing Sing story, too, and I know she’ll be
proud of that.”
“The game’s getting rather dry,” Dick heard one of the players say as
he returned the letter to his pocket. “Let’s moisten it a little;” and
the speaker arose and pushed the button.
“A Santa Cruz sour will about fit me,” Randall said when the waiter
came and the others had ordered various drinks. “What will you take,
Sumner?”
“I never drink anything, thank you,” Dick answered. He might have added
that he had been invited many times to drink since his arrival in New
York.
“But you need a drop of something to-night, Sumner; you really do.
You’re as pale as a ghost. You’re all used up, man, and a sour will be
just the thing for you. It’s only a dash of rum in a glass of lemonade,
you know.”
“I certainly feel pretty tired,” Dick admitted. “If I thought it would
give me a little strength, I would take it--as a medicine.”
“Of course it will,” Randall laughed; “it would give grace and vivacity
to a bronze statue. Make it two sours, waiter.”
Dick took his first drink of liquor, not without some misgivings, and
in a few minutes he felt much refreshed. He was thinking of starting
for his room when one of the players announced that he had a midnight
assignment and must go.
“Then you take his place, Mr. Sumner,” one of the others said. “It’s
only a five-cent game, you know; you can’t lose anything at it, and we
can’t well play without five.”
Dick was on the point of saying that he did not understand the game,
when Randall began to urge him.
“Take a hand for a few minutes, to oblige us, Sumner,” he said. “We’ll
not play more than half an hour longer.”
If it had not been for the liquor, Dick certainly would have refused to
gamble. But that one glass of rum not only made him feel stronger, but
somehow made him careless of what he did; and he took the vacant place.
Gambling games rarely stop at the time appointed, and at the end of an
hour Dick was still playing. He had lost several dollars by that time,
which was inconvenient, and had taken another Santa Cruz sour, which
was worse. He felt strong enough now, and determined to recover his
money. Two of the other players had lost far more than he; and they
had, as they expressed it, “a mission to get even.”
“Well, suppose we raise the limit to a dollar to give the losers a
chance,” some one suggested.
“I’m willing,” Randall said; “they re entitled to a chance.”
All the others were willing, even Dick, who was reckless enough now for
most anything, and anxious to win back what he had lost.
At the end of another hour Dick was in the position that many a young
reporter has found himself in to his sorrow. He had lost all his
money except a little small change that jingled in his vest pocket,
and he felt confused and wretched. There was no money left to take to
his mother, not even money to pay his expenses through the week; and
over all was the terrible consciousness that he had been drinking and
gambling and had disgraced himself.
“Never mind, old fellow,” Randall said, slapping him on the shoulder
when the game was over. He saw the anguish in Dick’s face and felt
sorry for him. “Never mind; you’ve done a beautiful piece of work
to-day.”
“Yes, I have!” Dick answered with deep sarcasm in his voice; “a
beautiful piece of work!”