After a fit of choking that could be heard all over the train the left
lung of the locomotive gave out. I had heard her coughing up the long
grade and had begun to wonder whether she would pull through, when she
gave a wheeze and then a jerk, and out went her cylinder head.
Boston was four hours away and time of value to me. So it was to all the
other passengers, judging from the variety and pungency of their
remarks--all except one, an old lady who had boarded the train at a
station near the foot of the long grade and who occupied a seat
immediately in front of mine.
Such a dear old lady! plump and restful, a gray worsted shawl about her
shoulders and a reticule on her arm. An old lady with a round rosy face
framed in a hood-of-a-bonnet edged with ruffles, the strings tied under
her chin, her two soft, human, kindly eyes peering at you over her
gold-rimmed spectacles resting on the end of her nose. The sort of an
old lady that you would like to have had for a mother provided you never
had one of your own that you could remember--so comforting would have
been her touch.
As the delay continued, the passengers made remarks. Some I cannot
remember; others I cannot print.
One man in unblacked boots, with a full set of dusting-brush whiskers
sticking up above his collarless shirt, smooth-shaven chin, red face,
and a shock of iron-gray hair held in place by a slouch hat, said he'd
"be doggoned if he ever knowed where he was at when he travelled on this
road."
Another--a man with a leather case filled with samples on the seat
beside him--a restless, loud-talking man, remarked that "they ought to
build a cemetery at both ends of the road, and then the mourners could
go in a walk and everybody would be satisfied, instead of trying to haul
trains loaded with live people that wanted to get somewheres."
Another--a woman this time, in a flower-covered hat and shiny brown
silk dress, new, and evidently the pride of her heart from the care she
took of it--one of those crisp, breezy, outspoken women of forty-five or
fifty--slim, narrow-faced, keen-eyed, with a red--quite red--nose that
would one day meet an ambitious upturned chin, and straight, firm mouth,
the under lip pressed tight against the upper one when her mind was made
up--remarked in a voice that sounded like a buzz-saw striking a knot:
"You ain't tellin' me that we're goin' to miss the train at Springfield,
be ye?"
This remark being addressed to the car as a whole--no single passenger
having vouchsafed any such information--was received in dead silence.
The arrival of the conductor, wiping the grease and grime from his hands
with a wad of cotton-waste, revived hope for a moment and encouraged an
air of gayety.
He was a gentlemanly conductor, patient, accustomed to be abused and
brief in his replies.
"Maybe one hour; maybe six."
The gayety ceased.