“THEY’RE OFF”
The Snailsdale branch of the Drerie Railroad went through the loneliest
country that Pee-wee had ever seen. Leaving the main line at Woodsend
Junction, the train of two musty, dilapidated, old cars lurched and
rattled along like an old hay wagon.
The engineer and the conductor were all there was to the train crew and
there was a pleasant air of family familiarity between them and the few
lounging passengers bound for Snailsdale Manor, all calling each other
by their first names.
The engineer, glancing backward, shot remarks about the crops to the
occupants of the baggage compartment who were playing checkers on a milk
can. He wore old-fashioned spectacles, did this engineer, and he looked
over the top of them along the track like a stern schoolmaster. His very
look was enough to frighten away any cow that had ever attended school.
The conductor’s name was evidently Hink, and from the trend of the talk
it appeared that his cow was capable of some speed, if his train was not
for she had escaped the day before and had not yet returned. He told
every one about this.
There were two stations, or rather sheds along this line, at which the
train stopped, but no one got on or off. The ghosts of former passengers
or loiterers were to be seen, however, in the form of carved initials
which literally covered these makeshift shelters. Across the end of each
of these sheds was a large sign, quite disproportionate to the modest
edifice, giving the name of the station. The signs looked garish enough
on these board shelters for they were of the regulation size and pattern
used for such purpose from one end of the Drerie Railroad to the other.
Thus HICKSON CROSSING was as great as Jersey City (if that were
possible), at least so far as its flaunting sign was concerned. The
other station was HAWLEY’S. The sign did not say Hawley’s _what_; it
just said HAWLEY’S. There did not seem to be anything about for Hawley
to own.
One would say that it would be quite impossible for any village, or
neighborhood, or cross-road, to have less of a station than these two.
Yet the neighborhood of Goodale Manor Farm beat them in this, for it had
just no station at all. It is true that a road crossed the track and
that half a mile of travel over this road brought one to the farm, but
the train never stopped at this road. It kept going, after a fashion,
and did not stop till it reached Snailsdale Manor.
Beyond Snailsdale Manor lay Snailsdale Glen, then North Snailsdale,
where there was a tannery, three houses and a turntable. Here the
engineer turned around while Hink turned the seat-backs over and the
train was ready to return to Woodsend Junction. Posted on the side of
this busy terminal was a list of two names called to service by the
draft. Those rural heroes had gone and served, and in the interim the
single locomotive had ridden upon its drowsy carousal, how many times?
But the two names were still posted there at the station.