EN ROUTE
Along the lonely Snailsdale branch of the Drerie Railroad crawled the
five forty-two, three hours and fifty-seven minutes late. It rumbled and
jerked along, unashamed. The smoke which poured out of the funny old
bulging smoke-stack was instantly swallowed in the thicker fog; it could
be seen only as a kind of restless mass at its point of issuance from
the stack.
The old kerosene headlight, standing out before the boiler on its
primitive bracket, broke the compact whiteness for only a yard or two
and even to that distance the engineer’s concentrated, searching gaze
was embarrassed by the mist which seemed waiting, eager to condense
again. It must have seemed odd to the cautious engineer that his
locomotive could be forever moving into this solid mass without any
noise of the collision. He was a substitute that night, and he hoped
never, never again to be given a run in that region which wore a snowy
death shroud.
The little, stubby train rattled slowly past Hickson Crossing, never,
stopping. The engineer did not see the shed. It passed Hawley’s, too,
then backed up to it. Here it was necessary to set a freight case down
on the platform and the engineer improved the time of waiting by wiping
off the glass and the reflector of his headlight. The murky atmosphere
prevented the little chimney from drawing and the interior of the
headlight was as black as the fog was white. When the train left
Hawley’s it was four hours and two minutes late and still gaining—in
lateness.
Within the single passenger car was a scene like unto the harrowing
scenes in starving Russia. All oblivious to this, Hink the conductor sat
at the end of the car, his feet sprawled upon the reversed seat in front
of him, unconscious of the groans of anguish, sweetly ignorant of
threats and sighs, and imprecations, wrapped in the innocent slumber
which shielded his senses from the mumbled profanity which filled the
air and could not get out because the windows stuck and would not open.
He had not awakened at Hickson Crossing because the train forgot to stop
there, but at Hawley’s he had awakened, attended to his brief duties and
gone to sleep again. He had a way of awakening automatically whenever
the train stopped. It seemed as if there might have been a wire
connected with him.
Striding back and forth in the uncarpeted aisle, like a restless lion in
its cage, was a distinguished looking elderly man wearing gold
spectacles. He was the very picture of physical impatience and pent up
wrath. This was Mr. A. Pylor Koyn, head of the firm of Koyn & Minter and
he was not accustomed to being delayed, much less starved.
“This is without exception positively the most outrageous thing I have
ever known,” he said, addressing everybody, apparently. “I’ve been in
this crawling dungeon for over five hours. First it was a hot box, then
it was a broken coupling, now it’s a fog. Next it will be a flood, I
suppose.”
“The more the merrier, boss,” said a young fellow who was playing cards
with another young fellow. “It’s all in the game. Anything for
adventure; here’s where I trump your ace of diamonds. Right.”
“I’d give fifty bucks for a cheese sandwich,” said his companion,
throwing a card on the board.
“I’ve given up all hope of eating,” said Mr. A. Pylor Koyn.
“It’s most exasperating,” said a lady who was seated with a young girl,
evidently her daughter.
“Oh, I think it’s fun,” said the girl.
“Dis you call vun?” vociferated a young man with long hair. He was just
reaching for a violin case in the rack above him in the persistent hope
that the next station would be his. Seventeen times, when the train had
stopped with apparently not the slightest reason, had he reached for
that coffin-like case, only to leave it where it was, his hopes dashed.
But still he hoped.
“Dis, you call dis fest drrevels in America,” he said. “Dere is going to
be do-night ah dance I should miss it?”
“Give us a tune, Trotsky,” called a young West Pointer who was sitting
on a seat arm watching the card game.
“It’s just like camping,” said the young girl, merrily.
“I almost feel I would prefer camping to this,” said her mother, with
good-humored resignation.
“_Anything_ would be better than this,” ejaculated Mr. A. Pylor Koyn.
“The grave would be better than this. I come into the country for a few
days’ rest and quiet, and simple, wholesome food, and here I am
starving! Not a bite to eat since we left Skinner City. Fresh air! Why
it’s worse than the subway in here. I’ll suffocate if this keeps on. Not
a drop of water in the cooler! This is awful—simply awful. Ten minutes
more and I’ll get out and walk.”
“I’d have gotten out half an hour ago if it wasn’t for the fog,” said
the young officer. “Stepping out of this train here would be like
stepping out of a submarine.”
“No submarine was ever like this,” said one of the young card players,
cheerily.
“I could go to Philadelphia and back—” began Mr. Koyn.
“They can’t stop the fog,” reasoned the other card player.
“They can stop broken couplings and hot boxes and they can have lights
on their locomotives instead of kitchen lamps,” Mr. Koyn blustered.
“They might at least have the windows so they would open,” said the
lady.
“Absolutely,” said one of the young card players, intent on his game;
“then some of the fog could get in and there’d be less of it outside and
we could get along faster. Good idea.”
“I intend to get out at the next station,” said Mr. A. Pylor Koyn, in
the manner of delivering an ultimatum. “There is a limit to human
patience. Where there’s a station there must be a house of some sort and
I’ll get in if it has a door. _I am going to get out of this at the next
station!_” “So am I,” said the young officer; “the next is Snailsdale
Manor.”
“We’re all with you, Cap,” said one of the card players to the irate Mr.
Koyn.
“Oh, I just hope we don’t get there,” said the girl. “It’s just like
travelling across the desert fifty years ago. I think it’s romantic.”
“I’m glad there are tracks under us,” said the young officer.
“Don’t say anything, they might break or disappear,” said one of the
young fellows.
The conversation lagged. The card game went on. The young Russian seemed
ready to reach for his miniature coffin at the least jerk. Mr. A. Pylor
Koyn continued striding back and forth in the aisle. Conductor Hink
slept.
Suddenly the rumbling was more clamorous, the front car bunked against
the engine, the second car bunked against the first car, the stubby
little train seemed trying to hold itself back and A. Pylor Koyn lost
his balance and nearly fell over the lap of the young Russian who was
reaching for his violin case.
“At last! Thank Heaven!” said the lady.
“Too good to be true,” said the young officer.
“Your deal,” said one of the card players unperturbed.
Just then, Hink, the conductor, arose with a start. He had never been
known to fail to rouse himself at the right moment.
“_Snailsdale Manor!_” he called. “_A-a-a-l-l out for Snailsdale Manor!_”