THE HOMEWARD TRIP.
“WELL, Clinty, have you caught your wild-cat?” inquired Mr. Preston, the
morning after the boys set the trap.
“No, sir; it’s so stormy, I suppose he thought he would not go out,”
replied Clinton.
“Postponed his supper on account of the weather, eh? He must be a very
fastidious fellow,” added Mr. Davenport.
“Or, perhaps he was afraid he should wear his welcome out, if he went to
the same place two nights in succession,” suggested Whistler.
“I shan’t give him up yet; I mean to keep the trap set till I go to
Boston,” said Clinton.
The storm, which set in soon after the boys had fixed the trap,
continued, with but slight intervals, for nearly two days. It was quite
severe, obliging all the family to keep indoors during its continuance.
Clinton and Whistler found a very pleasant, and not altogether
unprofitable amusement, during this protracted storm, in constructing a
“dissected map” of the United States, which they designed as a present
to Whistler’s little sister, Ettie. Whistler, who had been taught to
draw maps at school, made a handsome copy of the map of the United
States, on a single sheet of paper. The first draft included only the
boundaries of the states and territories, the principal rivers, chains
of mountains, lakes, &c. He then cut apart, with the scissors, the
several states and territories. Clinton, who had been preparing a number
of thin blocks of wood, of a uniform height, now cut them out into the
exact shape of these various sections of the map; and, meanwhile,
Whistler was engaged in finishing up each state by itself, inserting the
principal towns, coloring the surface, and, finally, pasting the several
sections upon the blocks which Clinton had made ready. Clinton also made
a neat little box in which to keep it. The whole affair was very well
done; and the boys found that the putting of the little blocks properly
together, afforded an interesting and instructive amusement, even to
them, familiar as they were with the geography of the country. To Annie,
who knew little of this study, the game was even more curious and
puzzling.
The storm at length passed away, but only two or three more days
remained for Whistler to spend in Brookdale; and, as Clinton was to
accompany him home, a good share of their time was occupied in preparing
for the journey, and in talking over their plans. The trap was inspected
early each morning, but it remained undisturbed; and, although several
times freshly baited, not so much as the track of a creature was to be
seen around it. Clinton at length lost his faith in its virtues, and
returned it to Mr. Preston, the afternoon before he left for Boston.
Whistler was hardly aware how much he had become attached to his uncle’s
family, until the hour of separation came. Then the old farm-house
seemed suddenly invested with a new beauty, and he felt himself drawn
towards its inmates by a stronger cord than ever before. There was but
little time, however, for farewells or last words of counsel. The
travellers were obliged to be on their way soon after sunrise, and Mr.
Davenport had the horse punctually at the door, to take them over to the
Cross Roads. A few hasty good-bys, a lingering look behind, and their
long journey was commenced. They stopped at Mr. Preston’s, and took Ella
into their wagon, as she also was going home.
The stage coach came along soon after they reached the Cross Roads, and
the three young passengers took their seats within it. For about five
hours they were jolted along over rough roads, and steep hills, and log
bridges, occasionally passing through pretty villages, or among thrifty
farms; but much of the time hemmed in by forests on either side, or
surrounded by miles of wild land, from which the timber had been
removed. They all were wise enough to take some luncheon with them, and
they found a good use for it by the time they reached the end of the
stage route.
After purchasing their tickets for Boston, the young travellers found
that they had nearly half an hour to spare before the cars would start.
Clinton, who had never traveled on a railroad but once before, and had
never seen a locomotive except on that occasion, proposed to go and see
the machine, which was then receiving its wood and water just outside of
the station house. Before going, however, they picked out their seats in
the train, and left them and their valises in charge of Ella. The boys
then spent some time in looking at the engine, and watching the
movements of those who had it in charge. After the wood-box and
water-tank of the tender were filled, the machine was backed to its
place at the head of the train. One of the men now jumped off, and the
other began to oil some of the joints and bearings of the engine.
Although a locomotive was something of a curiosity to Clinton, it was
soon evident that he knew more about it than many boys of his age, to
whom a railroad train is an every-day sight. His mechanical taste had
led him to read whatever he could find about steam engines, and, by the
help of his father, he had acquired a pretty accurate idea of the
principles involved in their construction. He was thus able to name and
explain the action of parts of the locomotive of which even Willie had
no definite notion.
The train was fast filling up, and the boys now took their seats. The
signal to start was soon given, the engine gave a jerk and a rapid
succession of puffs, and the cars began to glide over their iron course.
The views from the car windows now took up the attention of Ella and the
boys. The solemn forest and the bustling village,—the thrifty farm and
the wild and rocky pasture,—the rough old hills and the narrow, winding
valley,—the quiet river and the noisy mills upon its banks,—these were
the scenes that passed before them in a rapid panorama.
They had proceeded fifteen or twenty miles, and their interest in the
outside world was beginning to flag a little, when the conductor of the
train came along, and, taking a vacant seat by the side of Whistler,
commenced a conversation with a man seated behind them.
“Reed has got one of his odd fits to-day,” said the conductor, in a tone
which Whistler could not help overhearing.
“Has he?” inquired the other man.
“Yes; he’s as short as pie-crust,” replied the conductor.
“Well, Reed always was subject to these cross spells from a boy,” said
the other. “We were as intimate as two mice in a stocking when we went
to school; but he used to have the sulks terribly then, once in a while,
and wouldn’t speak to any body all day long. I reckon it has grown upon
him ever since.”
“Yes, I think it has,” said the conductor.
“But Reed is as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, after all, and a
_first-rate_ engineer,” added the passenger, laying great stress on the
last adjective.
“Yes, he is the best engineer that runs on this road, by all odds,” said
the conductor. “He is always on hand, and he is cautious and careful
almost to a fault. He is cool, too, and thinks quick when any accident
happens.”
“He understands machinery pretty well, I should think,” observed the
passenger.
“Yes; he knows every bolt and screw in his engine just as well as you
know the way from your house to your shop,” replied the conductor.
“Well, an engineer’s berth is a pretty responsible one,—more so than
yours. Don’t you think so?” inquired the passenger.
“Yes; so far as the safety of the train is concerned, more depends on
him than on the conductor, or any body else,” replied the other.
“But if every thing goes right, the ‘gentlemanly conductor’ takes all
the glory,” said the passenger, with a sly chuckle.
“Yes, and he is saddled with all the blame if every thing doesn’t go
right,” retorted the conductor.
“No, it isn’t so; people remember that there is such a person as the
engineer when an accident happens, and that’s about the only time they
do think of him,” replied the passenger.
“Well, the conductor is held responsible for the train; but, after all,
a great deal depends upon the engineer, as you say,” said the conductor.
“He has his hands full every moment while the train is in motion. He
must judge of and regulate the speed, and see that the boiler is kept
supplied with water. At the same time, he must keep his eye on the
track, and see that there are no switches wrong, nor broken rails, nor
men, nor teams, nor other obstructions, in the way. He must look out for
signals of caution, and keep his machinery well oiled. He must watch his
engine closely, to see that every part works right; and if he hears any
unusual noise about the machinery, he must discover the cause of it.
When the train approaches a station, in order to bring it to a stand at
the right spot, he must take into account the speed and weight of his
train, the number of brakemen, the grade of the road,—whether upward,
downward, or level,—the state of the track,—whether dry, wet, or icy,
&c., &c. Besides all these things, he must be ready to act
instantaneously if any accident happens, and to do two or three things
at the same moment, if necessary. A man ought to have a pretty good head
to do all this, day after day, and never make a blunder.”
“That’s a fact,” replied the other. “We’re going at a pretty fair jog,
now,” he added, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes,” said the conductor; “the road is very straight along here, and we
get up an extra speed. I suppose we are going at the rate of forty miles
an hour, now.”
“Did you ever think what the consequences would be if the engineer
should lose the control of the engine when it is going at full speed?”
inquired the passenger.
“There isn’t much danger of that,” replied the conductor; “but, still,
such things have happened. We had an engine break its throttle-valve
once on this road, and the only way the engineer could stop it was by
putting out the fire. It ran about three miles before he could bring it
to a stand. If such an accident should happen near the end of the line,
it might do a good deal of mischief. But the greatest accident of this
kind that ever I saw, happened when I was out west. I was in a train
that was stopping at a dépôt, when a freight train suddenly came along,
and run into us. Our engineer and firemen saw that a collision was
coming, and jumped from the engine. Well, sir, the force of the blow
uncoupled the locomotive and tender from the baggage-car, and actually
jerked back the lever, and started the engine under a full pressure of
steam. She shot forward like an arrow, and we could see her for several
minutes flying over the track at the rate of seventy miles an hour. The
furnace had just been crammed with wood, and there was a full head of
steam on. The distance from Cincinnati was only fourteen miles, and we
knew she would get over the ground in about twelve minutes if the track
was clear, and then would come the crash. We listened, and almost
expected to hear it. But, as good luck would have it, the furnace door
flew open, and that stopped the draught, and the runaway came to a dead
halt just before it reached the city. I call that a pretty narrow
escape.”
“Yes, it was, truly,” remarked the passenger.
The train was now approaching a station, and the conductor broke off the
conversation, to which Whistler had listened with much interest, and
left the car.
[Illustration]
Railroad travelling, after the first hour or two, usually becomes rather
tedious, and the experience of our young travellers was not materially
different from that of older people. Now and then, however, as they
dashed on, an incident served to enliven the way. The attention which
the train every where attracted, although it must have been as familiar
a sight as the rising of the sun, accorded well with Clinton’s feelings;
but he was somewhat at a loss to account for the fact itself. In the
villages and at the dépôts people stared at the engine and cars as
intently as if they had never before seen such a sight. In passing over
a river they were greeted with cheers, the swinging of hats, and the
elevating of oars, by a party of boys in a small boat. At one station a
little black dog had the presumption to run a race with the train as it
started up, but he soon gave up the contest. A horse in a pasture kicked
defiance at his iron namesake, with heels high in the air, and galloped
to the remotest bounds of his enclosure. A flock of sheep in a field
huddled tremblingly together, and then broke the solid phalanx, and
hastily fled, as the train went thundering by. A brood of chickens
snuggled under their mother’s ample wings; and even that most grave and
unimpassioned of domestic animals, the cow, many of which they passed,
almost invariably looked up with a wondering expression of countenance,
and seemed more than half inclined to ask what the fuss was all about.
Such is the homage which man and beast ever pay to the railroad train,
the novelty and wonder of which are scarcely diminished by our
familiarity with it.
It was late in the evening when our young travellers reached their
journey’s end. Ella’s brother, Ralph, was waiting their arrival at the
dépôt, and his fair young face lit up with joy when he saw his sister
and Whistler descend from the train. As Ella was encumbered with a
trunk, he procured a place for her and her baggage in a coach, and then
walked, with the other boys, towards the quarter of the city in which
both families resided.
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