Cradock Nowell shivered hard, partly from his cold, and partly at the
thought of the bitter life before him. He had Amyʼs five and sixpence
left, an immutable peculium. In currency his means were limited to
exactly four and ninepence. With the accuracy of an upright man (even
in the smallest matters), he had forced upon Mr. OʼToole his twopence,
the quaternary of that letter. Also he had insisted upon standing
stout, when thirst increased with oysters. Now he took the shillings
four, having lost all faith in his destiny, and put one in each of
his waistcoat pockets; for he had little horse–shoes upwards, as well
as the straight chinks below. This being done, he disposed of his
ninepence with as tight a view to security.
All that day he wandered about, and regretted Issachar Jupp. Towards
nightfall, he passed a railway terminus, miserably lighted, a disgrace
to any style of architecture, teeming with insolence, pretence, dirt,
discomfort, fuss, and confusion. Let us call it the “Grand Junction
Wasting and Screwing Line;” because among railway companies the name is
generally applicable.
In a window, never cleaned since the prorogation of Parliament, the
following “Notice” tried to appear; and, if you rubbed the glass, you
might read it.
“Wanted immediately, a smart active young man, of good education. His
duties will not be onerous. Wages one pound per week. Uniform allowed.
Apply to Mr. Killquick, next door to the booking–office.”
Cradock read this three times over, for his wits were dull now, and
then he turned round, and felt whether all his money was safe. Yes,
every blessed halfpenny, for he had eaten nothing since the oysters.
“Surely I am an active young man, of good education,” said Crad to
himself, “although not very smart, perhaps, especially as to my boots;
but a suit, all uniform, allowed, will cure my only deficiency. I could
live and keep Wena comfortably upon a pound a week. I hope, however,
that they cash up. Railway companies have no honour, I know; but I
suppose they pay when they canʼt help it.”
Having meditated with himself thus much, he went, growing excited on
the way—for now he was no philosopher—to the indicated whereabouts of
that lineʼs factotum, Mr. Killquick. Here he had to wait very nearly
an hour, Mr. Killquick being engaged, as usual, in the companyʼs most
active department, arranging very effectually for a collision down the
line. “Successfully,” I would have said; but, though the accident came
off quite according to the most sanguine, or sanguinary expectation,
the result was a slur on that companyʼs fame; only three people being
killed, and five–and–twenty wounded.
“Now, young man,” asked Mr. Killquick, when all his instructions were
on the wires, “what is your business with me?”
Cradock, having stated his purpose, name, and qualifications, the
traffic–manager looked at him with interest and reflection. Then he
said impressively, “You can jump well, I should think?”
“I have never yet been beaten,” Crad answered, “but of course there are
many who _can_ beat me.”
“And run, no doubt? And your sight is accurate, and your nerves very
good?”
“My nerves are not what they were, sir; but I can run fast and see
well.”
“Why do you shiver so? That will never do. And the muscles of his calf
are too prominent. We lost No. 6 through that.”
“It is only a little cold I have caught. It will go off in a moment
with regular work.”
“You have no relation, I suppose, in any way connected with the law? No
friends, I mean, of litigious tendencies?”
“Oh no. I have no friends whatever; none, I mean, in London, only one
family, far in the country, to care at all about me.”
“No father or mother to make a fuss, eh? No wife to prevent your
attending to business?”
“No, sir, nothing of the sort. I am quite alone in the world; and my
life is of no importance.”
“Wonderful luck,” muttered Mr. Killquick; “exactly the very thing for
us! And I have been so put out about that place, it has got such a
reputation. Poor Morshead cannot get through the work any longer by
himself. And the coroner made such nasty remarks. If we kill another
man there before Easter, the _Times_ will be sure to get hold of it.
Young man,” he continued in a louder tone, “you are in luck this time,
I believe. It is a very snug situation; only you must look sharp after
your legs, and be sure you never touch spirits. Not given to blue ruin,
I hope?”
“Oh no. I never touch it.”
“Thatʼs right. I was afraid you did, you look so down in the mouth. You
can give us a reference, I suppose?”
“Yes, to my landlady, Mrs. Ducksacre, a most respectable person, in
trade in Mortimer–street.”
“Good,” replied Mr. Killquick; “you mustnʼt be alarmed, by the way, by
any foolish rumours you may hear as to dangers purely imaginary. Your
predecessor lost his life through the very grossest carelessness. You
are as safe there as in your bed, unless your nerves happen to fail
you. And, when that is the case, I should like to know,” asked the
traffic–manager indignantly, “which of us is not in danger, even in
coming down–stairs?”
“What will my duties be, then?” asked Cradock, with some surprise.
“Why, you are not afraid, are you?” Mr. Killquick looked at him
contemptuously.
“No, I should rather hope not,” replied Cradock, meeting him eye to
eye, so that the wholesale smasher quailed at him; “there is no duty,
even in a powder–mill, which I would shrink from now.”
“Ah, terrible things, those powder–mills! A perfect disgrace to this
age and country, their wanton waste of human life. How the Legislature
lets them go on so, is more than I can conceive. Why, they think no
more of murdering and maiming a dozen people——”
“Please, sir,” cried one of the clerks, coming down from the telegraph
office, “no end of a collision on the Slayham and Bury Branch. Three
passengers killed, and twenty–five wounded, some of them exceedingly
fatally.”
“Bless my heart if I didnʼt expect it. Told Sykes it would be so. Howʼs
the engine, Jemmy?”
“Sheʼs all right, sir; jumped over three carriages, and went a header
into a sand–hill. Driver cased in glass, from vitrifaction of the sand.
Stoker took the hot water—a thing he ainʼt much accustomed to.”
“No! What a capital joke. Hell–fire–Jack (I can swear it was him),
preserved in a glass case, from the results of his own imprudence! I
shall be up with you in five minutes, James. Be quite ready to begin.”
“Now,” said Mr. Killquick, drawing out his cigar–case, “I have little
more to say to you, young man, except that you can begin at eight
oʼclock to–morrow morning. We will dispense with the references, for
I have the utmost confidence in you, and you will be searched very
carefully every time you come out of the gate—which you never will be
allowed to do, except when your spell is over, and your mate is in. You
will go at once to our outfitters, and, upon presenting this ticket,
they will fit you up, as tightly as possible, with your regimentals.
And see that you donʼt take boots, but the very best shoes for jumping
in. What they call ‘Oxford shoes’ are best, when tied tight over the
instep, and not too thick in the sole. No nails, mind, for fear of
slipping upon the flange. Good–bye, my boy; be very careful. By–the–by,
you say you donʼt value your life?”
“Very little indeed,” said Cradock, “except just for one reason.”
“Then now you must add another reason; you must value it for our sake.
The Company canʼt have another inquest for at least six months. I mean,
of course, _by the same coroner_. Confound that fellow; he will not
take a right view of things. At eight oʼclock to–morrow morning, you
will be at the gate of the Cramjam goods station. The clerk there will
have his orders about you. He will supply you with a book, and map out
for you your duties. Also Morshead, your mate, an invaluable man, will
show you the practical part of it. Now, good–bye, my lad. Remember, you
never wear any except your official dress. We allow you two suits in
the twelvemonth. Your duties will be of a refined character, and the
exercise exhilarating. I trust to receive a good report of you; and I
hope, my boy, that you are at peace, both with God and man.”
Even Mr. Killquick had been touched a little by Cradockʼs air of
uncomplaining sorrow, and the stamp of high mind and good breeding.
“Very foolish of me,” he muttered, as he lit his cigar, and went up to
telegraph to the Slayham station–master—ʼCommit yourself to nothing;
observe the strictest economy; and no bonfires of the splinter–wood, as
they had last weekʼ—“very foolish of me,” he said on the stairs, “but
it goes to my heart to kill that young fellow. How I should like to
know his history! That face does not mean nothing.”
Cradock, caring very little what his duties might be, and feeling the
night–wind go through his heart, hastened to the outfittersʼ, and
there he was received with a grin by an experienced shopman, on the
production of his note.
“Capital customers, sir,” he said; “famous customers of ours, that
Grand Junction Wasting and Screwing Line, and the best of all for the
gentlemen in your way of business, sir. Must have new clothes every
new hand, and they changes pretty often, sir. Pervides all the comforts
of a home for you, and a gentlemanly competence, before youʼve been
half a year with them.”
The man grinned still more at his own grim wit, while Cradock stared at
him in wonderment.
“Donʼt you see, sir, they canʼt pass the clothes on, after the man has
been killed, even if thereʼs a bit of them left; for they must fit you
like your skin, sir. The leastest little wrinkle, sir, or the ruffle
of a hinch, or so much as the fray of a hem, and there you are, sir;
and they have to look for another hactive young man, sir. And hactive
young men are getting shy, sir, uncommon shy of it now, except they
come from the country. Hope you insured your life, sir, before taking
the situation. Thereʼs no company will accept your life now, sir. What
a nice young man the last were,—what a nice young man, to be sure!
outrageous fond of filberts; till they cracked him, and found a shell
for him.”
“Well,” said Cradock, whom the busy tailor had been measuring all this
while, “from all that you tell me, there would be less imprudence in
ordering my coffin than to–morrowʼs dinner. What is there so very
dangerous in it?”
“Well, youʼll see, sir, youʼll see. I would not frighten you for the
world, because itʼs all up in a moment, if you lose your presence of
mind. Thank you, sir; all right now, except the legs of the tights, and
thatʼs the most particular part of it all. May I trouble you to turn
your trousers up? It will never do to measure over them. We shall put
six hands on at once at the job. The whole will be ready at eleven this
evening. You must kindly call and try everything. We are ordered to
insist upon that.”
The next morning, Crad, in a suit of peculiar, tough, and yet most
elastic cord, which fitted him as if he had been dipped in it, walked
in at the open gates of the front yard, leading to the Cramjam general
goods terminus. This was the only way in or out (except along “the
metals”), and, as it was got up with heaps of stucco, all the porters
were very proud of it, and called it a “slap–up harchway.”
“Stop, stop,” cried a sharp little fellow, gurgling up, like a
fountain, from among the sham pilasters; “whatʼs your business here,
my man, on the premises of the Grand Junction Wasting and Screwing
Company? Ah, I see by your togs. Just come this way, if you please,
then.”
Here let me call a little halt, for time enough to explain that the
more fashionable of the railway companies have lately agreed that a
station–yard is a sort of royal park, which cannot be kept too private,
which no doors may rashly open upon, a pleasant rural solitude and
weed–nursery for the neighbourhood, and wherein the senior porter
has his private mushroom–bed. They are wise in this seclusion, and
wholesome is their privacy, so long as they discard all principle—so
long as they are allowed to garotte us, while they jabber about
“public interests.” Perhaps, ere very long, we shall have a modern
Dædalus; and then the boards of directors, so ready to do collectively
things which, done individually, no gentleman would own to, may abate a
few jots of their arrogance, and have faint recollections of honour.
Cradock, not very deeply impressed by the “compo” arch (about half the
size of the stone one at Nowelhurst Hallʼs chief entrance), presented
himself to the sharp little fellow, and told him what he was come for.
“Glad to hear it,” said the gateman, “uncommonly glad to hear it.
Morshead is a wonderful fellow; there is not another man in England
could have stuck to that work as he has done. He ought to have five
pounds a week, that he ought, instead of a single sovereign. Screwing
Co.” (this was their common name) “will be sorry when they have lost
him. Now your duty is to enter, in this here book, the number of
every truck, jerry, trod, or blinkem, tarpaulin, or covering of any
sort; also the destination chalked on it, and the nature of the goods
in the truck, so far as you can ascertain them; coals, iron, chalk,
packing–cases, boxes, crates, what not, so fast as they comes into the
higher end, or so fast as they goes out of it. You return this book to
the check office every time you come off duty. You begin work at eight
in the morning, and you leave at eight in the evening. You donʼt pass
here meanwhile, and you canʼt pass up the line. Hope you have brought
some grub. Youʼll have five minutes in the afternoon, long enough
to get a snack in, after the up goods for Millstone is off. Oh, you
ought to have brought some grub; if you faint, you will never come to
again. But perhaps Morshead can spare you a bit. Heʼll be glad to see
you, thatʼs certain, for he ainʼt slept a wink for a week. And such a
considerate chap. I enter you in and out. ‘Number–taker 26.’ Thatʼs
all right from your cap, my lad. No room for it on your sleeve. Might
stick out, you know, and you must pack tighter than any of the goods
is. ‘Undertakers,’ we call you always. Good–bye, sir; Morshead will
tell you the rest, and I hope to see you all right at eight P.M. The
first day is always the worst. Go in at that door by the Pickford, and
ask the first porter you see for Morshead, and take care how you get at
him.”
Morshead was resting for a moment upon a narrow piece of planking, amid
a regular Seven Dials of sidings, points, and turn–tables. Cradock
could scarcely see him, for trucks and vans and boxes on wheels
were gliding past in every direction, thick as the carts on London
Bridge, creaking, groaning, ricketing, lurching; thumping up against
one another, and then recoiling with a heavy kick, straining upon
coupling–chains, butting against bulkheads, staggering and jerking into
grooves and out of them, crushing flints into a shower of sparks, doing
anything and everything except standing still for a moment. And among
them rushed about, like dragons—ramping, and routing, and swearing
fearfully, gargling their throats with a boiling riot, and then goring
the ground with tusks of steam, whisking and flicking their tails,
and themselves, in and out at the countless cross–webs, screaming,
and leaping, and rattling, and booming—the great ponderous giant
goods–engines. Every man was out–swearing his neighbour, every truck
browbeating its fellow, every engine out–yelling its rival. There is
nothing on earth to compare with this scene, unless it be the jostling
and churning of ice–packs in Davisʼs Straits, when the tide runs hard,
and a gale of wind is blowing, and the floes have broken up suddenly.
And even that comparison fails, because, though the monsters grind and
crash, and labour and leap with agony, they do not roar, and vomit
steam, and swear at one another.
At the risk of his life, for as yet he knew nothing of the laws that
governed their movements—a very imperfect code, by–the–by—Cradock
made his way to the narrow staging where Morshead was taking a
breathing–time. His fellow “number–taker” of course descried him
coming; for he had acquired the art of seeing all round, as a spider is
falsely supposed to do. He knew, in a moment, by Cradockʼs dress, what
business he was meant for; and he said to himself, “Thank God!” in one
breath, for the sake of his wife and family; and “Oh, poor fellow!” in
the next, as he saw how green our Cradock was. Then he held up his
hands for Cradock to stop and waved them for him to run; and so piloted
him to the narrow knife–board, “where a manʼs life was his own aʼmost.”
The highest and noblest of physical courage is that which, fully
perceiving the danger, looking into the black pit of death, and seeing
the night of horrors there (undivested of horror by true religion),
encounters them all, treads the narrow cord daily, not for the sake of
honour or fortune; not because of the dash in it, and the excitement
to a brave soul; not even to win the heartʼs maiden, that pearl of
romance and mystery: but simply to supply the home, to keep in flow the
springs of love—whence the geyser heat is gone—to sustain and comfort
(without being comforted by them) the wife, whose beauty is passed
away, and who may have taken to scold, and the children, whose chief
idea of daddy is that he has got a halfpenny.
This glorious inglorious courage, grander than any that ever won medal
or cross for destroying, had a little home—though he knew it not, and
never thought about it—in the broad, well–rounded bosom of simple
Stephen Morshead. None but himself knew his narrow escapes; an inch the
wrong way and he was a dead man, fifty times a day. And worst of all in
the night—oh, in the horrible night, and yet more in the first gleam
of morning, when the body was worn out, and dreams came over the eyes,
but were death if they passed to the brain, and the trucks went by like
nightmares—that very morning he had felt, after taking duty night
and day for more than a week, since they killed his partner, he had
felt that his Sally must be a widow, and his seven children orphans, if
another night went over him without some relief of sleep. That every
word of this is true, many a poor man would avouch (if he only had time
and the money to read it, and were not afraid); but few rich men will
care to swallow facts so indigestible.
Stephen Morshead was astonished at seeing that his mate was come. None
of the men in the goods station would have anything to do with it. It
was very well to be up in the trucks, or upon the engines, or even to
act as switchman, for you had a corner inviolable, and could only do
mischief to others. But to run in and out, and through and through,
in that perpetual motion, to be bound to jot down every truck, the
cover, and contents of it, entering or departing from that crammed
and crowded terminus, to have nobody to help you therein, and nobody
to cry “dead man” if you died, and the certainty that if you stood
a hairʼs–breadth out of the perpendicular, or a single wheel had a
bunion, you with the note–book in your hand must flood the narrow
‘tween–ways, and find your way out underneath to heaven; all this,
and the risk of the fearful jumps from one sliding train to another,
sliding oppositely, and jerking, perhaps, as you jumped; and yet if you
funked the jump you must be crushed, like a frog beneath a turf–beater:
these considerations, after many pipes were smoked over them, had
induced all the porters and stokers to dwell on the virtues of the many
men killed, and to yield to their wives’ entreaties, acquiesce in their
sixteen shillings, nor aspire to the four shillings Charon–fare.
“Now,” said Morshead, “shake hands with me,” as Cradock, breathless
with running wonder, leaped upon the nine–inch gangway. “I see you
belongs to a different horder of society; obliged to keep my eyes open,
mate; but, as long as you and I works together, I ask it as a favour of
you, to shake hands night and morning.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Cradock, “if you think thereʼs room
for our funny–bones.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Morshead, “you are the right sort for it. Not a bit
afeard, I see. Now I mustnʼt stop to talk; just follow me, and do as I
do. I can put you up to it in six hours; and then if you can spare me
for the other six, ‘twill be the saving of the little ones. But tell
the truth if youʼre tired. I should scorn myself if harm came to you.”
“You are the bravest man I ever met,” said Cradock, with his heart
rising; “you cannot expect me to be like you. But you shall not find me
a coward.”
“I can see it by your eyes, lad. No sparkle, but a glowing like. I can
always tell by the eyes of a man how long he will last at this work.
Now come along o’ me, and Iʼll show you the nine worst crushing places.”
Cradock followed him through the threads—threads of Clotho and
Atropos—feeling the way with his legs, like a gnat who “overs the
posts” of a spiderʼs web. In and out, with a jump here and there, when
two side–boards threatened to shear them, they got to the gorge at the
entrance, where the main turmoil of all was. The Symplegades were a
joke to it. And all because the Screwing Company would not buy land
enough to get elbow room. There are several lines of railway which do
a much larger business; there is no other which attempts to do so much
upon less than four times the acreage.
“Iʼve tottled all them as are going out,” Mr. Morshead informed
Cradock; “now youʼll see how we enters them as they enters.”
Laughing at his own very miserable joke, he leaped on the chains of the
passing waggons, and held up his hand for Cradock not to attempt to do
the same.
“Takes a deal of practice that,” he cried, after he had crossed the
train; “it ainʼt like a passenger–train, you know; and you must larn
when they are standing. I need not to have done it now, but sometimes
I be forced. Bide where you are; no danger unless they comes with the
flaps down.”
Then he jotted down, with surprising quickness, all the necessary
particulars of the train that was coming in. It happened to be an easy
one; for there were no tarpaulins at all, and it was not travelling
faster than about four miles an hour.
“Some drivers there is,” said Morshead, as he rejoined Cradock round
the tail of the train, “who really seem to want to kill a fellow, they
come by at such a pace, without having any call for it. I believe they
think, the low fools, that we are put as spies upon them, and they
would rather kill us than not.—Hold your tongue,” to a man in a truck,
who was interrupting his lecture; “donʼt you know better than to offer
_me_ that stuff? Never touch what they offers you, sir. They means no
harm, but you had safer take poison when you be on duty. There is not
much real danger _just here_, if a fellow is careful, because the rails
run parallo; there is nothing round the curve now, I see, and only two
coming out, and both of they be scored; itʼs a rare chance to show you
the figures of eight, and slide–points where the chief danger is. Show
you where poor Charley was killed last week, and how he did it.”
“Poor fellow! Did he leave any family?”
“Twelve in all. No man comes here, unless he be tired of his life, or
be druv to it by the little ones.”
“And what did the Company do for them?”
“Oh, behaved most ‘andsome _for them_. Allowed ‘em two bob a week for a
twelvemonth to come—twopence apiece all round. But they only did it to
encourage me, for fear I should funk off. I have seen out three mates
now. Please God, I shanʼt see you out too, my lad.”
“If you do, it shanʼt be from funk, Morshead. I rather like the
danger.”
“Thatʼs the worst thing of all,” replied Stephen; “I beg of you not to
say that, sir.”
A thoroughly brave man almost always has respect for order. The bold
man—which means a coward with jumps in him—generally has none. It was
strange to see how Stephen Morshead, in all that crush, and crash, and
rattle, that swinging and creaking as of the Hellespontic boat–bridge,
mixed deference with his pity for Cradock. He saw, from his face, and
air, and manner, that he was bred a gentleman. Shall we ever come—or
rather the twentieth generation come—to the time when every man of
England (but for his own fault) shall be bred and trained a gentleman
in the true and glorious sense of it?
Cradock saw the fatal places, where the sleepers still were purple,
where danger ran in converging lines, where a man must stand sideways,
like a duellist, and with his arms in like a drill–sergeantʼs, and not
shrink an inch from the driving–wheels; where his size was measured as
for his coffin, and if he stirred he would want nothing more. Then, if
a single truck–flap were down, if an engine rollicked upon the rail,
if a broad north–country truck, overreaching, happened to be in either
train, when you were caught between the two, your only chance was to
cry, “Good God!” and lie upon your side, and straighten all your toes
out.
And yet these were the very places where, most of all, the
“number–taker” was bound to have his stand—where alone he could
contrive to check two trains at once. “Could they help starting two
trains at once?” poor Crad asked himself—for he had found no time to
ask it before—when, weary to the last fibre with the work of the day,
he fell upon his little bed, and could hardly notice Wena. Perhaps they
could not; it was more than he knew; only he knew that, if they could,
they were but wanton man–slaughterers.
After a deep sleep, all in his clothes, he awoke the next morning quite
up for his work, and Morshead, who had been on duty all night, and
whose eyes seemed cut out of card–board, only stayed for an hour with
him, and then, feeling that Crad was quite up to the day–work, ran home
and snored for ten hours, as loud as Phlegethon or Enceladus.
The most fearful thing, for a new hand, was, of course, the night–work;
and Stephen Morshead, delighted to have such a mate at last, had
begged to leave Cradock the day–spell, at least for the first three
weeks; for to Stephen the moon was as good as the sun, and sweet sleep
fell like wool when plucked at, and hushed the tramping steeds of the
day–god. Only, for the sake of Stephenʼs eyes, on whose accuracy hung
the life–poise, it was absolutely necessary not to dilate the pupils
incessantly.
But Cradock never took night–work there; and the change came about
on this wise. Wena felt that she was wronged by his going away from
her every day so early in the morning, and not coming home to her
again till ever so late at night, and then too tired to say a word, or
perhaps he didnʼt care to do it. Like all females of any value—unless
they are really grand ones, and, if such there be, please to keep them
away—Wena grew jealous desperately. She might as well be anybody
elseʼs dog; and the bakerʼs dog was with his master all day; and the
butcherʼs lady dog, a nasty ill–bred thing—the idea of calling her
a lady!—why, even she was allowed, though the selfish thing didnʼt
care for it, unless there was suet on his apron, to jump up at him and
taste him, all the time he was going for orders. And then look even at
the Ducksacre dog, a despicable creature—his father might have been
a bull–terrier, or he might have been a Pomeranian, or a quarter–bred
Skye, or the Lord knows who, very likely a turnspit, and his mother,
oh! the less we say of her the better;—why, that wretched, lop–eared,
split–tailed thing, without an eye fit to look out of, had airs of his
own; and what did it mean, she would like to know, and she who had
formed some nice acquaintances, dogs that had been presented at Court,
and got Eau–de–Cologne every morning, and not a blessed [run away] upon
them? Why, it meant simply this: that Spot, filthy plague–spot, was
allowed to go out with the baskets, and made a deal of by his owners,
and might cock his tail with the best of them, while she, black Wena,
who had been brought up so differently——
Here her feelings were too much for her, and she put down her soft
flossy ear upon the drugget–scrap, and looked at the door despairingly,
and howled until Mrs. Ducksacre was obliged to come up and comfort her.
Even then she wouldnʼt eat the dripping.
From that day she made her mind up. She would watch her opportunity.
What was the good of being endowed with such a nose as she had, unless
she could smell her master out, even through the streets of London?
What did he wear such outlandish clothes for? Very likely, on purpose
to cheat her. Very likely he was even keeping some other dog. At any
rate, she would know that, if it cost her her life to do it. What good
was her life now to her, or anybody else? Heigho!
On the following Saturday, when Cradock was gone to his fifth dayʼs
work, what does Wena do, when Mrs. Ducksacre came up on purpose to coax
and make much of her, but most ungratefully give her the slip, with a
skill worthy of a better purpose, then scuttle down the stairs, all
four legs at once, in that sort of a bone–slide which domestic dogs
acquire. Miss Ducksacre ran out of the shop at the noise—for this
process is not a silent one; but she could only cry, “Oh, Lord!” as
Wena, with the full impact of her weight multiplied into her velocity;
or, if that is wrong, with the cube of her impetus multiplied into the
forty–two stairs—bang she came anyhow, back–foremost, against the
young ladyʼs—nay, you there, I said, “lower limbs”—and deposited her
in a bushel of carrots, just come from Covent Garden.
“Stop her, Joe, for Godʼs sake, stop her!” Miss Ducksacre cried to the
shop–boy, as well as she could, for the tail of a carrot which had
gotten between her teeth.
“Blowed if I can, miss,” the boy responded, as Wena nipped his fingers
for him; the next moment she was free as the wind, and round the corner
in no time.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” cried Polly Ducksacre, a buxom young lady, with
fine black eyes, “whatever will Mr. Newman think of us? It will seem so
unkind and careless; and he does love that dog so!”
Polly was beginning to entertain a tender regard for Cradock;
especially since he had shown his proportions in “them beautiful buff
pantaloons.” What a greengrocer he would make, to be sure, so hupright
and so lordly like; and sheʼd like to see the man in the “Garden” who
would tell her she had eaten sparrow–pie, with Mr. Newman to hold the
basket for her.
By this time, Mrs. Ducksacre was come down the stairs, screaming
“Wena!” at the top of her voice the whole way; and out they ran, boy
and all, to search for her, while three or four urchins came in,
without medium of exchange, and filled cap, mouth, and pocket. One brat
was caught upon their return, and tied up for the day in an empty
potato–sack, and exposed, behind the counter, to universal execration;
in which position he took such note of manner and custom, time and
place, that it was never safe for the Ducksacre firm to dine together
afterwards.
Meanwhile, that little black Wena, responsive and responsible to none
except her master, pursued the even tenor of her way, nosing the
ground, and asking many a question of the lamp–posts, as far as the
Cramjam Terminus, at least three miles from Mortimer–street. The sharp
little gate–clerk, animated with railway love of privacy, ran out, and
clapped his hands, and shouted “hoo” at Wena; but she only buttoned her
tail down, and cut across the compound. As for the stone he threw at
her, she caught it up in her mouth as it rolled, and carried it on to
her master.
There was Cradock, in the thick of it, standing on a narrow pile of
pig–iron, one of his chief fortalices; his book was in his hand, and
he was entering, as fast as he could, all the needful particulars of a
goods train sliding past him.
Creak, and squeak, and puff, and shriek,—Oh, what a scene, thought
Wena,—and the rattle of the ghostly chains, and the rushing about, and
the roaring. She lost her presence of mind in a moment,—she always
had been such a nervous dog—she tightened her tail convulsively, and
dropped her ears, while her eyes came forth; and, glancing at the
horrors on every side, she fled for dear life from the evil to come.
The faster she fled, the more they closed round her. She had not
espied her master yet; she could not find the way back again; she was
terrified out of all memory; and a host of frightful genii, more sooty
than Cocytus, and riding hideous monsters, were yelling at her on every
side, clapping black hands, and hooting. The dog on the Derby course,
when the race rushes round the corner, was in a position of glory and
safety compared to poor Wenaʼs now. Already the tip of her tail was
crushed, already one pretty paw was broken; for she had bolted in and
out through the trains, truck bottoms, wheels, and driving–wheels. Oh,
you cowards, to yell at her! with black death grating and grinding upon
her soft silky back!
At last, she gave in altogether. They had hunted her to her grave. Who
may contend with destiny? She lay down under a moving coal–train, and
resigned herself to die. But first she must ask for sympathy, although
so unlikely to get it. She looked once more at her wounded foot, and
shivered and sobbed with the agony; and then gave vent to one long low
cry, to ask if no one loved a poor dog there.
Cradock heard it, and started so that it was nearly all up with him
too. Thoroughly he knew the cry, wherein she had wailed for Clayton.
He flung down his book, and dashed to the place, and there he saw
Wena, and she saw him. She began to try to limp to him, but he held
up his hand to stop her; disabled as she was, she was sure to be
caught by the wheel. Could she stay there, and let the train pass her?
No. At its tail was an empty horse–box, almost scraping the ground,
perfectly certain to crush her. Crying, “Down, down, my poor darling!”
he ran down the train, which was travelling seven or eight miles an
hour, seized the side of a truck, and leaped, at the risk of his life,
upon the fender in front of the horse–box. Then he got astride of the
coupling–chain, and kept his right hand low to the ground, to snatch
her up ere the crusher came. Knowing where she was, he caught her by
the neck the instant the truck disclosed her, and, with a strong swing,
heaved her up into it. But he lost his balance in doing it, and fell
sideways, with his head on the other coupling–chain. Stunned by the
blow, he lay there, only clinging by his right calf to the chain he had
sat astride upon. The first jerk of either chain, the first swing of
either carriage, and he must be ground to powder.
Luckily for him and for Amy, Morshead was not gone home yet, seeing
more to do than usual. Missing his mate from the proper place, he had
run up in terror to look for him, when a man in a truck, who had vainly
been shouting to stop the coal–trainʼs engine, pointed and screamed
to him where and what was doing. Morshead jumped on the heap of
pig–iron, and sideways thence on the board of the truck just passing,
as dangerous a leap as well could be, but luckily that truck was empty.
He jumped into the truck, a shallow one, where poor Wena lay quite
paralysed, and, stooping over the back with both arms, he got hold of
Cradockʼs collar. Then, with a mighty effort, he jerked him upon the
tail–board, and lugged him in, and bent over him.
Wounded Wena crawled up, and begged to have her poor foot looked
at, then, obtaining no notice at all, she felt that Cradock must be
killed and dead, just as Clayton had been. Upon this conclusion, she
fetched such a howl, though it shook her sore tail to do it, that the
engine–driver actually looked round, and the train was stopped.
Hereupon, let me offer a suggestion—everybody now is allowed to do
so, though nobody ever takes it. My suggestion is, that no man should
be allowed to drive an engine without having served a twelvemonthʼs
apprenticeship as an omnibus conductor. I donʼt mean to say it would
improve his morals—probably rather otherwise; but it would teach him
the habit of looking round; it would let him know that there really is
more than one quarter of the heavens. At present, all engine–drivers
seem afraid of being turned into pillars of salt. So they fix
themselves, like pillars of stone, and stare, _ἀχηνίαις ὀμμάτων_,
through their square glass spectacles.
When one of the railway bajuli—who are, on the whole, very good sort
of fellows, and deserve their Christmas–boxes—came home in the cab
with Cradock and Wena at the expense of the Company (which was boasted
of next board–day)—when one of them came home with Crad—for Morshead
had double work again—Polly Ducksacre went into strong hysterics, and
it required two married men and a boy to get her out of the potato–bin.
It was all up with our Crad that night. The overwork of brain and
muscle, the presence of mind required all the time when his mind was
especially absent, the impossibility of thinking out any of his trains
of ideas when a train of trucks was upon him, the native indignation of
a man at knowing that his blood is meant to ebb down a railway sewer,
and a new broom will sweep him clean—all these worries and wraths
together, cogging into the mill–wheel of cares already grinding, had
made such a mill–clack in his head near the left temple, where the
thump was, that he could only roll on his narrow bed at imminent risk
of a floor–bump.
Then the cold, long harbouring, struck into his heart and reins; and he
knew not that Dr. Tink came, and was learned and diagnostic upon him;
nor even that Polly Ducksacre took his feet out of bed, and rubbed them
until her wrists gave way; and then, half ashamed of her womanhood,
sneaked away, and cried over Wena.
Wenaʼs foot was put into splinters, Wenaʼs tail was stypticised; but no
skill could save her master from a furious brain–fever.