There is not often much that is comic on the "rail," but occasionally
an incident occurs that brings a loud guffaw from everybody who
witnesses it.
I remember once standing by the side of an engine that was switching
in the yard. The fellow who was running it I thought, from his actions
while oiling, was drunk, so I watched him. He finished oiling, and
clambered up on to the foot-board and attempted, in obedience to the
orders of the yard-man, to start out. He jerked and jerked at the
throttle-lever, but all to no effect; the engine would not budge an
inch. I saw from where I stood what was the matter, and although nearly
bursting with laughter, I refrained from telling him, but looked on to
see the fun. After pulling for at least a dozen times, he bawled out
to the yard-man that he couldn't go, and then gave another twitch, but
it was of no use; then he stepped back a step or two and looked at the
throttle, with a look of the most stupid amazement that I ever saw; his
face expressed the meaning of the word "dumbfoundered" completely. At
last the fireman showed him what was the matter. It was simply that he
had set the thumb-screw on the throttle-lever and neglected to unloose
it, in each of his efforts.
Another laughable affair occurred on one of the Eastern roads, I forget
which. An engine stood on the switch, all fired up and ready to start;
the hands were all absent at dinner. A big black negro, who was loafing
around the yard, became exceedingly inquisitive as to how the thing was
managed--so up he gets and began to poke around. He threw the engine
into the forward gear and gave it steam, of course not knowing what he
was doing; but of that fact the engine was ignorant, and at once, like
a mettled steed, it sprung to full speed and away it went, carrying the
poor darkey an unwilling dead-head ride. He did not know how to stop
it, and dare not jump, for, as he himself expressed it, when found,
"Gorra mity, she mos flew." The engine of course ran until steam ran
down, which was not in fourteen miles, and Mr. Darkey got off and put
for the woods. He didn't appear at that station again for over a week.
He said that "ef de durn ting had a gon much furder he guessed he'd a
bin white folks."
"Ol Long," an old friend of mine, tells a pretty good story about an
old white horse that he struck once. Ol says that he was running at
about thirty miles an hour, when an old white horse jumped out on the
track right in front of the engine, which struck him and knocked him
away down into the ditch, where he lay heels up. He of course expected
that the horse was killed, and so reported on arriving at the end of
the road; but what was his surprise, on returning the next day, to see
the self-same old nag quietly eating by the side of the road. Ol says
he believes the old fellow did look rather sour at him, but he could
not apologize.