WAR CANOES, CRUISERS, AND RACERS.
Never in their lives had the Sea Rangers enjoyed themselves more than
they did during the two days following that of their shipwreck. They
swam, and fished, and paddled, and watched the most exciting of match
races between rival canoes, and at night gathered about the roaring
camp-fires for songs, stories, and high jinks, until it seemed to them
that no other form of life was half so well worth living as this. They
looked back with disdain upon the quiet humdrum of Berks, with its
houses and beds and school and chores, and regular hours for meals, and
all such things. Even their fire-engine and their bicycles no longer
seemed to possess the attractions that had once caused them to appear so
desirable, and when Sam Ray hoped Captain Crotty would not be able to
come for them in less than a month, he voiced the sentiment of every
Ranger on the island.
Their sole present ambition was to become canoe-men, and all their
interest was centred in the fascinating craft of their New York friends.
At the same time they found it impossible to decide which of the several
types of canoe represented at the meet was the most admirable. There was
the big war canoe _Kosh-Kosh_, that required a dozen paddlers to urge it
over the water, and could carry as many more passengers as well. As they
dashed about the bay in this great craft, chanting what they believed to
be war-songs, and uttering blood-curdling yells, they could easily fancy
themselves South-Sea warriors bound on a foray, against the cannibals of
some adjacent island.
Besides this huge vessel there were other paddling canoes, light open
affairs in each of which two boys, transformed for the time being into
Indian hunters, could glide swiftly and silently in and out of sheltered
coves, or close under overhanging banks, in search of game or scalps,
they cared not which.
Then there were sailing canoes of two kinds--cruisers and racers--dainty
bits of cabinet-work built of cedar and mahogany, varnished and polished
until they glistened in the sunlight, fitted with spars not much heavier
than fishing-rods, silken or linen sails, delicate-looking but
unbreakable, cordage, and cunning little blocks of boxwood or aluminum
that would answer equally well for watch-charms. The cruisers had open
cockpits long enough to lie down in at full length. At night these,
covered by tents of striped awning cloth, and lighted by little swinging
lanterns, formed the coziest of cabins. Thus housed, the cruising
canoe-man could cook a meal over an alcohol lamp, eat it from a
hatch-cover table, lie at his ease, and read, or turn in and sleep
through rain and storm as snug and dry and thoroughly comfortable as
though in his own home. "Besides having a thousand times more fun," as
Tom Burgess said, while all the Rangers well agreed that he spoke the
truth.
Tom owned a cruiser, and to him, of course, she was the most perfect
craft in the world. "She can go anywhere that a yacht can, except, of
course, across the ocean, or on voyages like that," he explained, "and
into lots of places that a yacht can't, besides, such as up small
streams and down rapids. You can either sail or paddle in her, and if a
storm comes, all you have to do is to run your ship ashore, step out,
haul her beyond reach of the tide, and there you are, just as
comfortable and well fixed as if you owned the biggest hotel in New York
city."
Attractive as they found the cruisers, some of the Rangers thought the
racers even more so. They too were decked over, but their cockpits were
only little wells--just big enough for one's feet. All else was
water-tight compartment, so that, even if the canoe were rolled over and
over in the water, she could not fill or sink, but would float on the
surface like a bubble. The sails of a racer were twice as large as those
of a cruiser, and to keep her right side up under her great spread of
silk or linen the crew would "hike" himself out on the end of a long
sliding deck-seat, and there, poised in mid-air, would skim above the
crests of the waves with the speed and safety of a sea-bird. The racer's
sails cannot be lowered, and are never reefed; but if the squall blows
so heavy that the outboard weight of the crew can no longer hold the
canoe up to it, he allows her to gracefully capsize, and the outspread
sails lie flat on the water, while he clings to the air-tight hull, or
stands on the brass centre-plate until the blow moderates. Then, using
his sliding-seat as a lever, he pulls his craft once more into an
upright position, scrambles aboard, and speeds away as though nothing
had happened. This sort of work is like circus-riding, and only through
much practice may one attain perfection at it; but as the Sea Rangers
watched the movements of the swift-darting racers, it seemed to them not
only the most fascinating sport in the world, but also the perfection of
sailing.
They were even ready to admit that all their previous knowledge of
seamanship and sailing was but ignorance when compared with that they
were now acquiring.
As Cracker Bob Jones said: "What chumps we were to think we knew how to
handle a boat before we came here. Now, though, we have got the whole
thing down so fine that if ever we get a chance to sail all by
ourselves, I rather guess somebody'll be surprised."
In spite of this self-confidence, all that Cracker Bob or any others of
the Rangers really knew of canoe-sailing was what they learned by
looking on; for while the canoe-men were perfectly willing to take them
out paddling, not one of them cared to trust his fragile craft to
inexperienced hands when under sail.
If the Sea Rangers were pleased with the New York boys and their
belongings, the latter were no less so with the lads from Berks, and
when, on the last evening of the meet, the latter enlivened the
camp-fire gathering with several scenes from _Blue Billows_ they fairly
"brought down the house."
In one way it is sad that all such good times must come to an end,
though if they did not they would soon cease to be good times, and we
should long for anything in the way of a change. The Rangers had not
wearied of this good time, though, by Saturday morning, and when the
steamer appeared that was to take the canoe-boys back to the big city
they openly rejoiced that their own hour for departure had not yet
arrived. In vain did Tom Burgess and his comrades urge them to take
advantage of this opportunity for leaving the island, and so return to
Berks by way of New York. They declared that they were bound to await
Captain Crotty's return in the very place where he had left them, and
found a dozen other reasons for declining the invitation. So the
canoe-men reluctantly boarded their steamer, and with much cheering and
blowing of the steam-whistle, and dipping of flags, and waving of hats,
sailed away, leaving the island to the undisturbed possession of our
young Sea Rangers.
No sooner, however, was the steamer lost to view and the boys from Berks
realized that their sole means of communication with the world was thus
cut off, than they began to experience a complete change of feeling.
Will Rogers was struggling bravely against it as he shouted:
"Hurrah, fellows! Now we are really and truly cast away on a desolate
island, and thrown on our own resources. Isn't it fun, though! and
aren't we in great luck?"
"Yes, I suppose so," admitted one or two of the others, hesitatingly;
but Cal Moody spoke right out, and said he thought it was awful, and he
wished Captain Crotty would come, or that they were safe at home in
Berks, or anywhere except on that horrid island. The little chap was
about ready to cry: but was prevented by Will Rogers, who, realizing the
effect of such despondency on the others, sang out:
"Oh, cheer up, Cal! What's the matter with you? The skipper's sure to be
here in a day or two, and is probably on his way to us at this very
minute. And we've got lots to do before he comes, I can tell you. We
must hoist a signal of distress on the very highest place we can find,
and explore the island so as to discover its resources, and fortify our
camp against--well, against anything, you know, and all sorts of things.
Besides, we've got to cook dinner, and I think we'd better start in on
that the very first thing."
With their gloom a little brightened by the prospect of immediate
action, the Rangers set to work to prepare the first meal that they had
ever undertaken all by themselves. They were somewhat dismayed to
discover what serious inroads had been made in their stock of
provisions; for only a portion of what was originally placed on board
the sloop had been rescued from the inflowing water when she was
wrecked, and in anticipation of her speedy return this had been used
with the utmost freedom, not to say recklessness. But this was a
trifling cause for anxiety when compared with the startling announcement
that the contents of their largest water-barrel had leaked away until it
was empty. Only one small cask of water remained to them; and, upon
learning this, every Ranger immediately imagined that he was suffering
from a burning thirst.
About cooking they really knew very little, though each member thought
he knew enough to prepare a pretty fair meal for people who were not
particular. So they all tried their hands at getting up that dinner, and
a sadder culinary failure was never made. Everything was smoked, burned,
underdone, or in some other way made uneatable, and they finally partook
of a most unsatisfactory meal of dry crackers and smoked herring, which
made them so very thirsty that but for the firmness of their young
captain they would have drained the small cask then and there.
The cooking of succeeding meals was equally unsatisfactory, and by
nightfall of the second day after the departure of their friends our
Rangers had not only expended most of their provisions and drunk up all
their water, but were thoroughly alarmed at their situation. The whole
of that day had been spent on the highest point of the island, gazing
with strained eyes over the surrounding waters in the hope of sighting
some approaching sail. With the coming of darkness they sadly returned
to camp, and flinging themselves gloomily down on their blankets, sought
forgetfulness of their unhappy situation in troubled sleep.
Some hours later Will Rogers was awakened by little Cal Moody, who said,
in a terrified whisper: "Oh, Will, there are pirates on the island, and
they are swearing dreadfully, and I know we're all going to be murdered.
I've been listening and watching them for a long time. See their lights
down there?"
Sure enough, Will could see lights, like moving lanterns, down on the
beach and out on the water, where they seemed to be passing to and fro
between the land and a vessel that was dimly visible in the little
harbor. He could also hear loud rough voices, and, as Cal had said, some
of them were swearing.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE BUILDING OF MODERN WONDERS.
AN ELECTRIC TROLLEY-CAR.
BY HERBERT LAWS WEBB.
One day, not very long ago, when electric cars were something of a
novelty, a city official was talking about them to one of the electrical
engineers in charge of a certain electric railway.
"It seems to me," said he, "that those trolley-poles on top of the cars
ought to be very much stronger than they are."
"Why so?" asked the electrical man. "We very seldom have any accident
with them. They almost never break."
"Don't they!" queried the other, with some astonishment. "Well, they
don't look to me half strong enough to push those heavy cars along."
I suppose very few readers of the ROUND TABLE have such very foggy ideas
about electric cars as that man had. But still it is something of a
mystery to many people how the slender wire stretched along the street
takes the place of the hundreds of tugging horses or of the rattling,
whirring cable that glides ceaselessly through the long iron trough
under the pavement.
Many years ago one of those famous scientific men who were always making
experiments to discover new things about electricity, so as to enable
practical men in these days to invent machines to do useful work,
discovered that when he moved a wire about in front of a magnet an
electric current appeared in the wire. This was a great discovery,
because it brought to light the wonderful sympathy between magnetism and
electricity. It made no difference whether the wire or the magnet were
moved; as long as they were close enough together any movement of either
caused a current to appear in the wire.
Then another famous discoverer found that by winding a wire round a bar
of iron and sending a current of electricity through the wire he turned
the bar of iron into a magnet. As long as the current was passing
through the wire the iron bar acted just like a permanent steel magnet;
it would attract pieces of iron and hold up nails, but the moment the
current was stopped the bar lost its magnetism, the nails or pieces of
iron dropped off, and it became just an ordinary bar of iron again. This
invention is called the electro-magnet, and the electro-magnet is used
in some form or other in every electrical industry.
The electric dynamo owes its being to those two discoveries. It consists
of coils of copper wire wound on a shaft, and that shaft is revolved
close to a powerful magnet. The influence of the magnet causes electric
currents to be produced in the coils of copper wire, and these currents
are delivered by the coils into suitable conductors or wires by means of
which the currents are led to the place where they have to do their
work. One very interesting thing about the modern dynamo machine is that
it is what electrical men call "self-exciting." That does not mean that
it gets into a state of excitement about itself. It means that the
dynamo provides its own magnetism. At first dynamos were made with great
big steel magnets, but those were very expensive and unsatisfactory.
Then a clever inventor hit upon the plan of using electro-magnets, and
sending part of the current of the dynamo through their coils to give
them magnetism. This is the action of the self-exciting dynamo. When the
collection of coils wound on the revolving shaft first begins to turn,
very little current is produced, because there is very little magnetism
in the iron magnets. Part of this current goes through the magnet coils
and increases the magnetism; this strengthens the current in the coils,
and this process goes on until, after a few minutes, the magnets are
fully magnetized and the coils are giving their full strength of
current.
[Illustration: Diagram showing the electric circuit through each car,
and illustrating the method of sending more than one car along the same
wire.]
Some time after this was discovered, it became known that if the two
wires from a dynamo were joined to a second dynamo instead of to an
electric lamp, this second dynamo would revolve, and could be used to
drive a machine, such as a sewing-machine or a printing-press.
At first this electric motor, as it was called, was used only for
turning wheels that were stationary, but it was soon seen that there was
good work for it to do in turning wheels that should travel along over
the ground. Then began the electric railway.
Having got your electric motor it would seem a comparatively easy job to
mount it on a car, to fix up a moving connection with an electric wire,
and to make the motor turn the car-wheels. It looks easy enough to-day
in places where hundreds of horseless cars are running about in all
directions as if by magic. In the beginning it was not such an easy job,
and those who led the way in the building and running of electric cars
had many difficulties to contend with and many obstacles to overcome
before they made the electric street-car the practical everyday affair
that it is now.
Just look first at your electric motor. It is, like all electrical
instruments and machines, a pretty delicate affair, very likely to
suffer serious injury from hard usage or exposure to bad weather.
To place such a machine underneath a jolting car close to the surface of
the street, and make it work properly at all times and in all weathers,
is no small feat. One great difficulty was to keep the wire coils of the
motor properly insulated. If two neighboring coils get connected with
each other the motor goes wrong, and as water is a powerful conductor of
electricity such accidents often happened at first through parts of the
motor getting wet from splashings from the street. Now motors are made
water-proof, and the cars go along merrily, even though there may be an
inch or two of water in the streets, or several inches of snow or slush.
The motor is attached to the frame of the car-truck, and the power is
transmitted to the axle of the car by means of gearing. In some electric
locomotives that have been made the armature of the motor is wound on
the axle itself, but for ordinary street cars it is found best to keep
the motor separate from the axle, and to transmit the power by geared
wheels.
[Illustration: THE TROLLEY-CAR.]
The current reaches the motor under the car by means of the
trolley-wheel and pole. The trolley-wheel is a solid copper wheel,
deeply grooved, which is pressed upward against the bare copper wire
stretched over the middle of the track; the long flexible pole which
carries the trolley-wheel has a strong spring which tends to press it
forward, and so keeps the wheel always firmly pressed against the wire
however much the car may jump about in rough places. An insulated wire
connected with the trolley-wheel is led down the pole and through the
car to the switches and regulating boxes placed at either end of the
car, just against the dash-board. No current can reach the motor without
passing through the switch and regulating box under control of the
motorman. With the switch the motorman can turn the current on or off
completely, he can regulate the amount of current that reaches the motor
so as to start gradually or go slowly in crowded places, or fast in
quiet ones, and he can even reverse the motor and make the car go
backwards, a thing that neither the driver of the horse-car nor the
gripman of the cable-car can do.
Perhaps it is not quite clear how so many motors can work from a single
line. As a rule electric railways are provided with but a single wire
from which the motors obtain their supply of current, and this system
has come to be called the single trolley system in distinction to the
double trolley, or double wire system, which was tried in the early days
but has been abandoned in all but one or two places. The single wire
hung over the centre of the track carries the current out from the
station where the dynamos are placed, and the rails and the earth carry
it back to the dynamos after it has passed through the motors and has
done its work. The trolley wire is kept constantly charged with
electricity, which the dynamos at the power station pump into it, much
as if they were pumping-engines forcing water into a long pipe. If any
connection is made, by means of an electrical conductor, between the
trolley-wire and the ground, the current will flow down into the ground.
The only connections made with it are those made by the cars, and then
the current has to pass through the motors and turn the wheels.
The trolley-wire has to be carefully put up so as to be just the right
height, and exactly in the middle of the track. It must be properly
insulated so as to prevent the escape of the current down the poles or
along the suspension wires, so at every point where it is attached to a
pole or a suspension wire it is hung from an insulator of some material
that will not conduct electricity. Every here and there you will notice
that heavy electric wires or cables are connected with the
trolley-wires. These-wires are called "feeders"; they are run out from
the dynamos at the power-house, and connect on to the trolley-wire to
force fresh supplies of current into it. When an electric current
travels along a wire it loses a certain amount of power by reason of the
resistance or electrical friction of the wire itself, so in order to
keep the supply of current up to the proper pitch required for working
the motors at all points of the line, these "feeders" are run out from
the power-house, and they literally feed the trolley-wire with the
current that the cars are always demanding from it.
It is often said in the newspapers that the trolley-wire is very
dangerous to human life. This is not really so. Nobody has ever been
killed by a shock from a trolley-wire. The current used for electric
railways, although great power is conveyed by it, has not the property
of giving a fatal shock to the human system. There are just as great
differences between the electric currents used for different purposes as
there are between streams of water. Some streams have great volume, but
very slow flow, others fly out of a half-inch nozzle with sufficient
velocity to drill a hole through a man's body as cleanly as a rifle
bullet. It is the same with an electric current. You may have a current
capable of fusing bars of iron, yet you could not feel it pass through
your body, and another kind of current that can be carried by a fine
wire will give a shock strong enough to kill. Therefore, believe me,
there is a great deal of nonsense written in the newspapers about the
"deadly trolley."
Where the "deadliness" of the trolley certainly comes in is in the
extreme handiness of the cars. The horse-car driver has hard work to get
much speed out of his team; the gripman of the cable-car can go no
faster than the cable will drag him; but the motorman of the trolley-car
can with a twirl of his wrist send his heavy car bounding on like a
thing of life. The temptation to "speed up" when it is so easily done is
too much for human nature. This accounts for the many accidents that
occur, though it is only fair to say that the fault is partly with the
mothers who allow their little ones to play in streets where there are
car tracks, for the victims of the trolley-cars seem to be nearly always
young children.
A PARTNERSHIP ARRANGEMENT.
BY WALTER CLARKE NICHOLS.
A partnership once, as some historians state,
Was formed on the banks of the slow-flowing Nile
By a young Cheshire cat, an elephant straight
From the jungle, and, thirdly, an old crocodile.
"For surely," the elephant plausibly said,
"We can all of us turn in the forth-coming years,
When sad, to the crocodile, whom we've been led
To believe an exceptional expert in tears."
"Quite right," quoth the latter. "We cannot begin
Too early, and when we need mutual mirth
We can look to our pussie, whose broad Cheshire grin
Excels in duration all others on earth."
"And then, when we're travelling," chimed in the cat,
Who had been for some moments in solemn thought sunk,
"We can carry conveniently coat, shoes, and hat,
Since we'll always have with us the elephant's trunk."
* * * * *
Many boys and girls have seen the famous actor Joe Jefferson in his
great play _Rip Van Winkle_, that delightful story of the Catskill
fairies, and in it that weird scene where he partakes of the spirits
that the elves give him, making him sleep for twenty years. Well, there
is a good story told about Jefferson in that particular scene. Once
being near some good fishing-grounds, he spent the day drawing in the
gamy trout, and was thoroughly tired when the curtain rolled up for the
evening performance. Things moved smoothly enough until he is supposed
to fall asleep. Now that sleep in fiction lasts twenty years, but on the
stage about two minutes. This time, however, the two minutes were
lengthened out into ten, much to the amusement of the audience and
provocation of the stage-manager. Jefferson had really fallen asleep,
and his snores, it is said, were quite audible beyond the footlight.
Several remarks were fired at him by the audience, and, finally, the
stage-manager had to go beneath the stage and open a trap near where
Jefferson was lying to try and wake him up.
He called and called, but it was no use, and in desperation he succeeded
in jabbing a pin into him, which made Jefferson jump up with a sharp
cry, and quickly realize where he was.
"A PIECE OF WORK."
BY JAMES BARNES.
The train-despatcher's window at the Jimtown crossing commanded a good
view of the yards. It was a wet night, with a penetrating drizzle so
fine that it almost led one to believe that the earth was steaming from
the heat of the forenoon. The ray of light that shot over the
train-despatcher's shoulder as he looked out into the darkness showed,
however, that it was rain drifting downwards in the minutest drops.
It was almost time for the night despatcher, Rollins, to put in an
appearance, and Mr. Mingle looked at his watch and drummed with his
fingers on the pane of glass.
The light of the switchmen's lanterns occasionally gleamed from the
shining slippery rails. A noisy little engine that had been drilling
freight cars about the yard stopped on the siding just beneath the
window, and commenced to roar angrily with a burst of feathery vapor.
The despatcher watched the fireman open the door of the furnace and
stand for an instant silhouetted against the red glare that was
reflected by the dampness all around. Suddenly as he glanced up he saw a
man on the top of a freight car across the yards swing his lantern about
his head and make a jump clear to the ground into a pile of cinders.
"That was a foolish thing to do," said Mr. Mingle to himself. "He might
have broken his legs; then he'd have sued the company."
The man was not injured, however, for he skipped across the tracks and
approached the tower-house on a run. He stopped and shouted to the
fireman of the engine that was raising such a row beneath the window.
The glow from the rosy coals made everything quite plain.
Never in his life had Mr. Mingle seen a face wear such a look as that.
The fireman closed the furnace door with a slam, and the engineer, who
had been out on the foot-board, hurried back at a gesture. Two words,
and he dropped the bundle of waste in his hand and pulled wide the
throttle. At the same time the engine shrieked for open switches. What
could it mean? As the despatcher turned to the door of the staircase, he
ran into the man whose face he had seen in the glare from the fire-box.
It was the assistant yard-master.
"Lord, Mr. Mingle!" he exclaimed, "is No. 44 on time? Hurry and find
out! Has she passed the junction yet?"
The despatcher in one stride stepped to the instrument on the desk. With
his fingers on the key-board, he paused. "Tell me, quickly," he said,
"what has happened. Talk, man!"
"The ore train!" exclaimed the yard-master, sinking back into the worn
arm-chair and dropping his hands helplessly to either side of him. "Some
one left the switch open, and the brakes slipped or something. She
pulled out by herself down the grade on the main track. I saw her going
from the top of the freight. How she started, Lord knows. She slipped
out like a ghost, sir."
Mr. Mingle had caught only the first few words. His nervous hand was
jumping as he sounded the call for the operator at Selina Junction,
twenty-five miles down the road. At last he stopped, and suddenly
switched off for the return.
"Tick! Tick! Tick-a-tick!" the answer came; the yard-master watched the
despatcher's face as a condemned man might look at the face of a
judge--and Mr. Mingle had grown paler.
"Forty-four has just passed the junction," he said, in a high strained
voice. Then his teeth chattered as if he had felt a blast of icy wind.
There was nothing to do.
Fifteen of that twenty-five miles was all down grade on a single
track--a bad grade that necessitated an extra engine to help its brother
puff and tug the heavy trains up out of the valley. Between Jimtown and
the junction there was no station, and only one siding that ran out to
the Fetterolf quarries, ten miles below.
"The switch engine has gone after her," said the yard-master. "If she
can catch up before they reach the steep grade near the pine woods they
may be able to make a flying couple."
"She will never catch them now," said Mr. Mingle. "Heaven help all in
44!" A great sob like a shiver shook him. "Quick, hurry, Tomes!" he
said, shaking the yard-master violently. "Make up a wrecking train, and
send one of the boys to gather all the doctors. There are three of them
up near the hotel. I'll telegraph headquarters. They will be safe for
twenty minutes yet. Hurry, man. Don't sit there like a fool!"
The yard-master slipped his hat on his head and plunged down the steep
stairway.
The despatcher rubbed his forehead.
It was a hard thing to do! Sixty miles away they would know of the
accident before it occurred, simply by his touching the little
instrument that his trembling hand reached forward for. How could he
begin the message? The idea of that load of ore gathering frightful
headway every minute, whirling along through the darkness toward that
slowly approaching train, made him sick and faint. There was going to be
a wreck, and nothing in the whole world could stop it. In his mind's eye
he could see the crash. He could see what that fireman and engineer of
44 would see through the rain-drops in the glare from the head-light.
Old Jack Lane, he knew him well. It would be Jack's last trip. There
would not be time to think; no time to press the throttle. It would be
on them all at once.
The despatcher called up headquarters. Would they never answer? It
seemed already half an hour since the yard-master had left him.
Somebody thumped up the stairway.
"Hello, Mixer!" said a cheerful voice. "Fine night for ducks, eh?" The
speaker, a young man with a slight athletic frame, dashed his hat on the
table. "What's up, cully?" he asked; as Mr. Mingle turned from the
instrument, and the other caught a glimpse of his scared white face.
Mr. Mingle's voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting, but he spoke
slowly and distinctly. The young man he had been addressing had thrown
off his rubber coat. The tails had been pinned up, and his back was
covered with a streak of mud. When the despatcher had finished, his
companion reached the head of the stairs in a jump.
"I'll try for it!" he said. "There's just one chance. I'll try to make
the quarries!"
Despite the fact that headquarters was now calling back, Mingle ran to
the door. He was just in time to see the night despatcher lifting
something down the steps outside.
"Try for it, Rollie!" he shouted, and ran out into the rain. As he stood
there he caught a glimpse of a figure fast leaving the yards. It was a
man bent low over the handle-bars of a bicycle, his feet rising and
falling with the quickness and ease of the trained racer. Mingle caught
a flash of the steel spokes as the night despatcher turned the corner
under the lamp-post into the road. Then he pulled himself up the stairs
as if his feet were made of lead, and telegraphed the message to
headquarters as slowly as if he had been a beginner, and not one of the
best operators on the line.
* * * * *
The road that led outside of Jimtown stretched along through a bit of
woods, and then plunged down the side of the mountain so steeply that
loaded teams would halt every hundred feet or so to rest in the ascent.
A year before Rollins had coasted down Coon Hill, on a wager, but that
was in broad daylight, with his club-mates stationed at every curve, and
the roadway was cleared for him as far as the sandy stretch before the
railroad crossing. Every stone had been picked out, and the water-bars
evened up at the left-hand side. At one place, he remembered, his speed
had been reckoned, in a measured one hundred yards, at forty miles an
hour.
The railroad, to avoid the grade, followed the course of the Coponie,
and circled about to the northward. Rollins had only to ride four miles
to the ore-cars eleven--but such a night for coasting!
The rain made it hard for him to follow the little circle of light that
his lantern threw before him as he scorched along the level stretch.
Before he reached the hill-top it seemed to him that he was standing
still, and the road coming up at him like the surface of a great wheel.
At last, he felt that he had reached down-grade. How he longed now for
the brake that he had so disdained! He determined to keep his feet going
as long as he safely could, and he back-pedalled gently to keep them in
place.
Thud! he struck the first water-bar, and his cap came forward over his
eyes. He threw it off with a backward toss of his head.
Another jolt! He was too much in the middle of the road. He must keep
more to the left. He was flying now. The rain poured down his face and
stung him in a thousand prickling points.
The wind roared frightfully in his ears, and he straightened up as far
as his crooked racing-handles would allow. He was at the first turn. He
swirled about it, and his feet came off the ratchets. He lifted up his
knees, and placed his legs on the rests. He was riding a runaway.
"Hard to the left!" he kept saying to himself, with his arms braced
straight like iron rods. The front wheel wriggled, and he knew he had
struck the bit of sandy road above the second angle, and the worst. It
warned him just in time. He remembered the huge rock with the
advertisements on it, and a ray from the lantern caught it as he flashed
by and then swooped off to the right. A sharp jingle as a stone flew up
against the spokes; he was once more in the straight shoot for the last
turn of all.
With wide-staring eyes he prayed; his tongue formed the words behind his
closely shut teeth. "Bear to the left now!" He knew the path was better
on that side.
Again the front wheel wriggled fiercely. It was by nothing but luck this
time that he had chosen the right moment. There was a hollow thump as he
crossed a wooden culvert and bounded for a moment clear into the air.
The greatest danger was passed. Below him stretched a straight decline,
and then the sandy patch before he reached the crossing.
How could he stop? He could never catch those flying pedals. But stop he
must or he would overshoot his mark a half-mile before he found the
level.
It was no easy thing to do to hold that struggling front wheel steady.
He straightened up, and bending his right knee, placed the sole of his
foot against the tire of the front wheel. He could feel it warming
through the leather, but he had partly checked the speed. Then there was
a ringing sound, a twist of both his arms, and over he went with a
sickening momentary cry of fear.
He rolled up on his hands and knees. To save his life he could not help
that choking, whimpering sound. His mouth was full of sand, and he felt
as though his breast had been crushed in against his lungs. A sharp pain
ran through his left leg; but at last he caught his breath.
There was the track within thirty feet of where he had fallen. He could
only tell this by seeing the ghostlike danger-post that stretched above
the roadway like a white warning gallows. There, a few rods down the
track, was the switch that turned through the sharp cut to the quarries.
Rollins gave a cry. "The key!" The switch was locked. Would he have to
stand there and see the ore-cars rush by him? He twisted with both
hands at the guard chain to the lock. It wouldn't move. But what was
that standing close on the siding?
A hand-car is a good lift for two men at any time, but it seemed as if
made of pine wood instead of heavy iron wheels and bars. He rolled it to
the track, and up-ended it as easily as a laborer would throw over a
wheel-barrow.
Then he heard a roaring sound above him along the grade. The sharp
staccato tooting of the drilling engine he heard also. Then far below
him, four miles away, the long confident whistle of No. 44 at a grade
crossing. The rails were slippery, and he knew that the train was coming
slowly up the grade. As the hand-car toppled across the track he threw
upon the heap two heavy ties, and scrambled up the opposite bank. Now
the roaring was upon him! Crash! A snap and a whirl, and the wheels of
the foremost ore-car caught the obstruction. The load piled forward, and
the flats behind reared up and threw their heavy freight in all
directions. He had wrecked her just in time.
He hurried back to the crossing. A tangle of wire and frame-work, the
bicycle lay at the road-side. He must have missed striking that huge
rock by nothing short of a miracle. The lamp, twisted and broken, was
attached to the front fork. He could smell the oil, and he sopped it
with his handkerchief. His hands were sticky, and the match refused to
light. At last he struck a handful of them; they flashed feebly, then
sputtered and went out. In the brief space Rollins had seen that his
hands were dripping red.
A great white eye and the tinkling of the rails told that the little
switch engine would strike the obstruction first.
It was alongside now! The young man saw that the wheels were reversing
furiously. Then he heard a second crash and a screeching, long
continued, that went through and through his dizzy brain.
"Safe! safe!" he said, and fell limp in the sand.
* * * * *
"Are you hurted, Bill, lad?" said the engineer of the switch engine,
rubbing his bruised sides and letting up for a minute his pull on the
whistle rope. "Them ore-cars jumped the track."
"No; all O K," came the answer from the opposite side of the cab. "Jest
bumped a bit. Listen! There's old Jack whistling for brakes."
The shrieking of the switch engine was warning No. 44 in time. They
could make-out her head-light through the leaves of the trees just at
the tangent of the curve a quarter of a mile below. Some figures were
running up the track, for they could see a lantern bobbing up and down,
and soon the voices were quite close.
"What has happened here?" inquired a man with brass buttons, as he
caught a glimpse of the engineer swinging himself painfully off the step
to the ground behind the wreckage.
"The Lord's finger, I reckon," said the engineer. "I swear I saw a
light!" and in a few words he told the story.
A group of passengers had surrounded the heap of boards, ore, iron
wheels, and axles. The head-light of the switch engine had gone out in
the jar, and there was not a face shown in the dim rays from the lantern
that did not pale.
A drummer in a silk travelling-cap struck a match to light a paper
cigarette, but his hand trembled so that he gave up, and sat down on
the ties, and mechanically brushed off his shoes with his
pocket-handkerchief as if it were dusty and broad daylight.
Another whistle sounded up the grade.
"There's no train due," said the curly-headed young brakeman who had
come up with another lantern on his arm. A large crowd of the passengers
of No. 44 accompanied him.
"I presume likely that's the wrecking-train," said the engineer, "come
down to pick you fellows up."
"Get up the track and flag her, Billy! Jump quick!" ordered the
conductor.
[Illustration: "I SAY, YOU PEOPLE, THERE'S A DEAD MAN OR SOMETHING HERE
IN THE ROAD."]
The brakeman started on a run. As he passed the grade crossing he
shouted back,
"I say, you people, there's a dead man or something here in the road,"
and, without a pause, he hurried on.
* * * * *
Rollins opened his eyes and felt the familiar motion of a moving train,
but for an instant he could not call back his wits to think. He was
lying on a mattress on the floor and his head and shoulders were propped
up comfortably. There was a crowd standing about him.
"You're all right, my lad," said a voice. "There are four of us here to
look out for you." The doctor arose from his knees and laughed.
Rollins faintly smiled. "Oh, I'm kind of comfortable," he said.
"The company ought to give him a gold bicycle set with diamonds," said
the conductor.
"I'd rather have a trip to Europe," said Rollins.
A quiet-looking man standing in a corner of the car heard this remark
and made a note of it.
The whistle hallooed exultantly at the entrance of the Jimtown yards.
The sound reached the ears of Mr. Mingle as he sat with his forehead
resting on the edge of his desk. The three sharp toots that were being
given so often in succession could be nothing else than cheers.
"Headquarters there! O. K. My side partner saved the train. Hurrah!
Forty-four is safe!"
He twitched the dots and dashes out with his nervous fingers. Then he
drew his sleeve across his eyes and dashed down the steps to meet the
train.
"Rollie's a piece of work," he said to himself.
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.