ON THE LOCOMOTIVE.
After we had sufficiently discussed the explosion and my father’s
financial affairs, Christy Holgate took from under the seat where he
sat a curiously-shaped black bottle and a tumbler. I would rather
have seen him take a living rattlesnake from the box, and place it
at my feet--or rather at my father’s feet, for it was on his account
that I shuddered when I heard the owner of the bottle declare that it
contained “old rye whiskey.” Christy told a tedious story about the
contents of this “vial of wrath”--where it was distilled in the State
of Kentucky; how a particular friend of his had procured two quarts of
it, and no more of that year’s manufacture could be had in the whole
nation, either for love or for money.
One would have supposed, from the eloquent description of its virtues,
that it was the nectar of the gods, instead of the fiery fluid which
men put into their mouths to take their brains away. I was disgusted
with the description, and I shuddered the more when I saw that my
father was interested in it, and that he cast longing glances at the
queer-shaped bottle. I had heard that my father lost his situation
at the town on the Hudson by drinking to excess, and I trembled lest
the old appetite should be revived in him. If he had been a man like
Christy Holgate I should not have trembled, as I viewed the case, for
he had drunk liquor all his lifetime to moderation, and no one had
ever known him to be intoxicated. It was not so with my father. He had
struggled manfully against the insidious appetite, and, with only a
couple of exceptions, he had always done so successfully. Twice, and
twice only, had he been under the influence of liquor since he came to
Centreport. I feared, if he tasted the contents of the strange-looking
bottle, that the third time would have to be added to the list.
Christy poured out a glass of the “old rye” and my father drank it. The
engineer of the boat took one himself; and both of them talked very
fast then till the steamer arrived at her destination. I was alarmed
for my father’s safety, and I tried to induce him to go on shore the
moment we reached the wharf; but before we could leave Christy produced
the bottle again, and both of them took a second dram, though I noticed
that the engineer took a very light one himself.
The effect upon my father was soon apparent, though he did not appear
to be actually intoxicated. He did not stagger, but he talked in a
loud and reckless manner. He gave me a dollar, and told me to spend it
for anything I wanted. He said it was a holiday, and he wished me to
have a good time. I put the dollar in my pocket, but I did not leave
my father. I was mortified by his blustering speech and extravagant
manner, but I still clung to him. I hoped my presence would prevent him
from taking another dram; and I think it did; for though, on our way to
the bank, we passed several bar-rooms, he did not offer to enter one of
them. Two or three times he hinted to me that I had better go and enjoy
myself alone, which assured me that he desired to drink again, but did
not wish to do so before me.
I have since learned that a man will always be more circumspect before
his children than when away from them. He feels his responsibility at
such times, and is unwilling to degrade himself before those who are
his natural dependents. I told my father I had no place to go to, that
I did not wish to buy anything, and that I preferred to remain with
him. He was vexed at my obstinacy, but he did not say anything. We went
to the bank together, and he drew out his money, twenty-four hundred
dollars--more than he had ever possessed at one time before. It would
discharge the mortgage on the place, and leave him four hundred dollars
to make certain improvements which he contemplated.
The whiskey which he had drunk made him feel rich, and it pained me
to see him manifest his feelings in a very ridiculous way. He put the
money in a great leather pocket-book he carried, and placed it in his
breast pocket. By various little devices I induced him to return to
the steamer with me. When it was too late I was sorry I had done so,
for Christy Holgate again placed the bottle to his lips, taking hardly
a teaspoonful of its contents himself. It would be an hour before the
train arrived, whose passengers the steamer was to convey up the lake,
and I trembled for the safety of my father and of the large sum of
money he had in his pocket.
It seems very strange to me, and I dare say it has seemed so to others,
that some men, when they have the greatest work of their lifetime in
hand, or are pressed down by the heaviest responsibility that ever
weighed upon them, choose this very time to get intoxicated. My father
had certainly done so. With more than two thirds of his worldly wealth
in his pocket, he had taken to drinking whiskey--a thing he had not
done before for at least a year. Half of the hour we had to wait had
passed away, and my poor father made himself very ridiculous. I had
never felt so bad before in my life.
“Wolf, my boy, I forgot to get my tobacco when I was up in town,” said
he, handing me a quarter. “Run up to that store next to the hotel, and
get me half a pound of his best plug.”
I did not want to leave him, but I could not disobey without making a
terrible scene. I went as fast as my legs would carry me, and returned
out of breath with running. My father had drunk nothing during my
absence, and I was startled when I beheld his changed appearance on
my return. He was deadly pale, and was trembling with emotion. He was
searching his pockets, and gazing nervously into every hole and corner
in the engine-room, where I found him.
“What is the matter, father?” I asked, alarmed at his appearance.
“I have lost my pocket-book, Wolf,” gasped he, in an awful and
impressive whisper.
“Lost it!” I exclaimed, almost paralyzed by the intelligence.
“Nonsense, Ralph!” added Christy, with a forced laugh. “You can’t have
lost it, if you had it when you came here.”
“I did have it; I know I did. I felt it in my pocket after I came on
board.”
“Then it must be in your pocket now. You haven’t been out of the
engine-room since you came,” persisted Christy.
I helped my father search his pockets; but the pocket-book was
certainly gone.
“You must have dropped it out on your way down from the bank,” said the
engineer.
“How could I drop it out?” groaned my father, as he pointed to the deep
pocket in which he always kept it.
I searched again in every part of my father’s clothing, but in vain.
He was perfectly sober now, so far as I could judge, the grief and
mortification attending his heavy loss having neutralized the effects
of the liquor. On the seat stood the queer-shaped bottle from which
my father had imbibed confusion. By its side was the tumbler, half
filled with the whiskey. I concluded that it had been poured out
for my father, and that the discovery of his loss had prevented him
from drinking it. I put them on the floor and looked into the box; I
examined every part of the engine-room again, but without success. The
missing treasure could not be found.
My father sat down upon the box again, and actually wept for grief
and shame. I heard the whistle of the approaching train. It seemed
to startle the victim of the whiskey bottle from his sad revery. He
removed his hands from his face, and glanced at Christy, with a look
which was full of meaning to me, and seemed to be quite intelligible to
the engineer.
“I guess I’ll take a look on the wharf,” said Christy, beginning to
edge slowly out of the engine-room.
“Christy Holgate,” cried my father, springing at the throat of the
engineer, and clutching him like a madman, “you have got my money!”
“Why, Ralph, what ails you? Do you think I’d take your money?” replied
Christy; but his face was as pale as my father’s and his lip quivered.
“I know you have! That’s what you made me drunk for,” continued my
father savagely, as he began to claw into the garments of the engineer,
in search of his treasure.
Christy started as though he had been stung by a serpent when my father
placed his hand upon his breast pocket, and a violent struggle ensued.
As my maddened parent tore open his coat, I distinctly saw enough of
the well-known pocket-book to enable me to identify it. He had taken it
from my father’s pocket and transferred it to his own while handing him
the glass of whiskey.
“He has it, father!” I shouted. “I see it in his pocket.”
Christy was a powerful man, and with a desperate effort he shook off
my father, hurling him upon the floor with much violence. Having
shaken off his fierce assailant, he rushed from the engine-room to
the gang-plank forward, by which the passengers were coming on board,
and disappeared in the crowd. Without waiting to learn the condition
of my father, I followed him. I lost sight of him in the throng, but
I commenced an earnest search for him. Presently I discovered him
skulking along by the train on the side opposite that at which the
passengers were getting out.
The engine had been detached from the train, and had moved forward
to the water tank to have her tender filled. The engineer had left
the locomotive to speak with a friend on the wharf; and the fireman,
after the tender was filled, helped the men throw in the wood. I went
ahead of the engine, where I could observe the movements of Christy. I
thought he would hide till the train started, and then jump on board.
If he did, I meant to be a passenger on the same train.
The tender was filled with wood, and the men walked away, including
the fireman. The moment they had gone, Christy sneaked along by the
woodsheds, and jumped upon the locomotive. He could not see me, for I
was concealed by the smoke-stack. He started the engine. I jumped upon
the cow-catcher. In a moment, as he let on the steam, the locomotive
was flying like lightning over the rails. I clung to the cow-catcher
till the motion was steady, and then climbed up to the side of the
machine, exhibiting myself to the astonished villain. At this moment,
I happened to think of Waddie’s revolver in my pocket. It was a useful
plaything for an emergency like this, and I drew it forth.