THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND
[Illustration: “CAUGHT THE CHILD FROM UNDER THE VERY WHEELS OF THE
ENGINE”]
THE YOUNG
SECTION-HAND
By BURTON E. STEVENSON
Author of “The Holladay Case,” “Tommy
Remington’s Battle,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
L. J. BRIDGMAN
Boston
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
Mdccccv
Copyright, 1905
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)
All rights reserved
Published July, 1905
COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U. S. A.
TO
E. B. S., G. W. P
AND THE OTHER “BOYS” OF YARD
AND SHOP AND OFFICE
IN MEMORY
OF THAT FAR-OFF TIME
WHEN I “COVERED” THE RAILROAD
CONTENTS
I. The Bottom Round
II. A New Experience
III. An Adventure and a Story
IV. Allan Meets an Enemy
V. Allan Proves His Metal
VI. Reddy to the Rescue
VII. The Irish Brigade
VIII. Good News and Bad
IX. Reddy’s Exploit
X. A Summons in the Night
XI. Clearing the Track
XII. Unsung Heroes
XIII. A New Danger
XIV. Allan Makes a Discovery
XV. A Shot from Behind
XVI. A Call to Duty
XVII. A Night of Danger
XVIII. The Signal in the Night
XIX. Reddy Redivivus
XX. The Road’s Gratitude
ILLUSTRATIONS
“Caught the child from under the very wheels of the engine”
“Near at hand it was even more terrifying than at a distance”
“He struck suddenly and viciously at the boy’s face”
“Snatched the little one into the air just as the engine bore
down upon it”
“Just in time to escape a large boulder”
“He stepped to one side, and ... brought down his club upon
the other’s head”
THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND
CHAPTER I.
THE BOTTOM ROUND
“Excuse me, sir, but do you need a man?”
Jack Welsh, foreman of Section Twenty-one, on the Ohio division of
the P. & O., turned sharply around at sound of the voice and
inspected the speaker for a moment.
“A man, yes,” he said, at last. “But not a boy. This ain’t boy’s
work.”
And he bent over again to sight along the rail and make sure that
the track was quite level.
“Up a little!” he shouted to the gang who had their crowbars under
the ties some distance ahead.
They heaved at their bars painfully, growing red in the face under
the strain.
“That’ll do! Now keep it there!”
Some of the men braced themselves and held on to their bars, while
others hastened to tamp some gravel solidly under the ties to keep
them in place. The foreman, at leisure for a moment, turned again to
the boy, who had stood by with downcast face, plainly undecided what
to do. Welsh had a kindly Irish heart, which not even the
irksomeness of section work could sour, and he had noted the boy’s
fresh face and honest eyes. It was not an especially handsome face,
yet one worth looking twice at, if only for its frankness.
“What’s yer name, sonny?” he asked.
“Allan West.”
“An’ where’d y’ come from?”
“From Cincinnati.”
The foreman looked the boy over again. His clothes were good, but
the worn, dusty shoes told that the journey of nearly a hundred
miles had been made on foot. He glanced again at the face—no, the
boy was not a tramp; it was easy to see he was ambitious and had
ideals; he was no idler—he would work if he had the chance.
“What made y’ come all that way?” asked Welsh, at last.
“I couldn’t find any work at Cincinnati,” said the boy, and it was
evident that he was speaking the truth. “There’s too many people
there out of work now. So I came on to Loveland and Midland City and
Greenfield, but it’s the same story everywhere. I got some little
jobs here and there, but nothing permanent. I thought perhaps at
Wadsworth—”
“No,” interrupted the foreman. “No, Wadsworth’s th’ same way—dead as
a doornail. How old’re you?” he asked, suddenly.
“Seventeen. And indeed I’m very strong,” added the boy, eagerly, as
he caught a gleam of relenting in the other’s eye. “I’m sure I could
do the work.”
He wanted work desperately; he felt that he had to have it, and he
straightened instinctively and drew a long breath of hope as he saw
the foreman examining him more carefully. He had always been glad
that he was muscular and well-built, but never quite so glad as at
this moment.
“It’s mighty hard work,” added Jack, reflectively. “Mighty hard. Do
y’ think y’ could stand it?”
“I’m sure I could, sir,” answered Allan, his face glowing. “Just let
me try.”
“An’ th’ pay’s only a dollar an’ a quarter a day.”
The boy drew a quick breath.
“That’s more than I’ve ever made regularly, sir,” he said. “I’ve
always thought myself lucky if I could earn a dollar a day.”
Jack smiled grimly.
“You’ll earn your dollar an’ a quarter all right at this work,” he
said. “An’ you’ll find it’s mighty little when it comes t’ feedin’
an’ clothin’ an’ lodgin’ yerself. But you’d like t’ try, would y’?”
“Yes, indeed!” said Allan.
There could be no doubting his eagerness, and as he looked at him,
Jack smiled again.
“I don’t know what th’ road-master’ll say; mebbe he won’t let me
keep you—I know he won’t if he sees you can’t do th’ work.” He
looked down the line toward the gang, who stood leaning on their
tools, enjoying the unusual privilege of a moment’s rest. “But I’m a
man short,” he added. “I had t’ fire one this mornin’. We’ll try
you, anyway. Put your coat an’ vest on th’ hand-car over there, git
a pick an’ shovel an’ go up there with th’ gang.”
The boy flushed with pleasure and hurried away toward the hand-car,
taking off his coat and vest as he went. He was back again in a
moment, armed with the tools.
“Reddy, you show him the ropes!” shouted the foreman to one of the
men.
“All roight, sir!” answered Reddy, easily distinguishable by the
colour of his hair. “Come over here, youngster,” he added, as Allan
joined the group. “Now you watch me, an’ you’ll soon be as good a
section-man as they is on th’ road.”
The others laughed good-naturedly, then bent to work again,
straightening the track. For this thing of steel and oak which bound
the East to the West, and which, at first glance, would seem to have
been built, like the Roman roads of old, to last for ever, was in
constant need of attention. The great rails were of the toughest
steel that forge could make; the ties were of the best and soundest
oak; the gravel which served as ballast lay under them a foot deep
and extended a foot on either side; the road-bed was as solid as the
art of man could make it, pounded, tamped, and rolled, until it
seemed strong as the eternal hills.
Yet it did not endure. For every hour of the day there swept over
it, pounding at it, the monstrous freight locomotives, weighing a
hundred tons, marvels of strength and power, pulling long lines of
heavy cars, laden with coal and iron and grain, hurrying to give the
Old World of the abundance of the New. And every hour, too, there
flashed over it, at a speed almost lightning-like, the through
passenger trains—the engines slim, supple, panting, thoroughbred;
the lumbering mail-cars and day coaches; the luxurious Pullmans far
heavier than any freight-car.
Day and night these thousands of tons hurled themselves along the
rails, tearing at them at every curve, pounding them at every joint.
Small wonder that they sometimes gave and spread, or broke short
off, especially in zero weather, under the great pressure. Then,
too, the thaws of spring loosened the road-bed and softened it;
freshets undermined it and sapped the foundations of bridge and
culvert. A red-hot cinder from the firebox, dropped on a wooden
trestle, might start a disastrous blaze. And the least defect meant,
perhaps, the loss of a score of lives.
So every day, over the whole length of the line, gangs of
section-men went up and down, putting in a new tie here, replacing a
defective rail there, tightening bolts, straightening the track,
clearing the ditches along the road of water lest it seep under the
road-bed and soften it; doing a thousand and one things that only a
section-foreman would think needful. And all this that passengers
and freight alike might go in safety to their destinations; that the
road, at the year’s end, might declare a dividend.
There was nothing spectacular about their work; there was no romance
connected with it. The passengers who caught a glimpse of them, as
the train flashed by, never gave them a second thought. Their
clothes were always tom and soiled; their hands hard and rough; the
tugging at the bars had pulled their shoulders over into an
ungraceful stoop; almost always they had the haggard, patient look
of men who labour beyond their strength. But they were cogs in the
great machine, just as important, in their way, as the big fly-wheel
of a superintendent in the general offices; more important,
sometimes, for the superintendent took frequent vacations, but the
section work could not be neglected for a single day.
Allan West soon discovered what soul-racking work it was. To raise
the rigid track a fraction of an inch required that muscles be
strained to bursting. To replace a tie was a task that tried every
nerve and sinew. The sun beat down upon them mercilessly, bringing
out the sweat in streams. But the boy kept at it bravely, determined
to do his part and hold the place if he could. He was under a good
teacher, for Reddy, otherwise Timothy Magraw, was a thorough-going
section-hand. He knew his work inside and out, and it was only a
characteristic Irish carelessness, a certain unreliability, that
kept him in the ranks, where, indeed, he was quite content to stay.
“Oi d’ want nothin’ else,” he would say. “Oi does me wor-rk, an’
draws me pay, an’ goes home an’ goes t’ sleep, with niver a thing t’
worrit me; while Welsh there’s a tossin’ aroun’ thinkin’ o’ what’s
before him. Reespons’bility—that’s th’ thing Oi can’t stand.”
On the wages he drew as section-hand—and with the assistance, in
summer, of a little “truck-patch” back of his house—he managed to
keep himself and his wife and numerous children clothed; they had
enough to eat and a place to sleep, and they were all as happy as
possible. So that, in this case, Reddy’s philosophy seemed not a
half-bad one. Certainly this freedom from responsibility left him in
perpetual good-humour that lightened the work for the whole gang and
made the hours pass more swiftly. Under his direction, the boy soon
learned just what was expected of him, and even drew a word of
commendation from his teacher.
“But don’t try to do the work all by yourself, me b’y,” he
cautioned, noting Allan’s eagerness. “We’re all willing t’ help a
little. If y’ try t’ lift that track by yerself, ye’ll wrinch y’r
back, an’ll be laid up fer a week.”
Allan laughed and coloured a little at this good-natured raillery.
“I’ll try not to do more than my share,” he said.
“That’s roight!” approved Reddy, with a nod. “Whin each man does his
share, why, th’ wor-rk goes along stiddy an’ aisy. It’s whin we gits
a shirker on th’ gang like that there Dan Nolan—”
A chorus of low growls from the other men interrupted him. Nolan,
evidently, was not a popular person.
“Who was he?” asked Allan, at the next breathing-spell.
“He’s th’ lazy hound that Jack fired from th’ gang this mornin’,”
answered Reddy, his blue eyes blazing with unaccustomed wrath. “He’s
a reg’lar bad ’un, he is. We used t’ think he was workin’ like
anything, he’d git so red in th’ face, but come t’ find out he had a
trick o’ holdin’ his breath t’ make hisself look that way. He was
allers shirkin’, an’ when he had it in fer a feller, no trick was
too mean or dir-rty fer him t’ try. Y’ remimber, boys, whin he
dropped that rail on poor Tom Collins’s foot?”
The gang murmured an angry assent, and bent to their work again. Rod
by rod they worked their way down the track, lifting, straining,
tamping down the gravel. Occasionally a train thundered past, and
they stood aside, leaning on their tools, glad of the moment’s rest.
At last, away in the distance, Allan caught the faint sound of
blowing whistles and ringing bells. The foreman took out his watch,
looked at it, and closed it with a snap.
“Come on, boys,” he said. “It’s dinner-time!”
They went back together to the hand-car at the side of the road,
which was their base of supplies, and slowly got out their
dinner-pails. Allan was sent with a bucket to a farmhouse a quarter
of a mile away to get some fresh water, and, when he returned, he
found the men already busy with their food. They drank the cool
water eagerly, for the hot sun had given them a burning thirst.
“Set down here,” said the foreman, “an’ dip in with me. I’ve got
enough fer three men.”
And Allan sat down right willingly, for his stomach was protesting
loudly against its continued state of emptiness. Never did cheese,
fried ham, boiled eggs, bread, butter, and apple pie taste better.
The compartment in the top of the dinner-pail was filled with
coffee, but a share of this the boy declined, for he had never
acquired a taste for that beverage. At last he settled back with a
long sigh of content.
“That went t’ th’ right place, didn’t it?” asked Jack, with
twinkling eyes.
“That it did!” assented Allan, heartily. “I don’t know what I’d have
done if you hadn’t taken pity on me,” he added. “I was simply
starving.”
“You had your breakfast this mornin’, didn’t y’?” demanded Jack,
sharply.
Allan coloured a little under his fierce gaze.
“No, sir, I didn’t,” he said, rather hoarsely. “I couldn’t find any
work to do, and I—I couldn’t beg!”
Jack looked at him without speaking, but his eyes were suspiciously
bright.
“So you see, I just had to have this job,” Allan went on. “And now
that I’ve got it, I’m going to do my best to keep it!”
Jack turned away for a moment, before he could trust himself to
speak.
“I like your grit,” he said, at last. “It’s th’ right kind. An’ you
won’t have any trouble keepin’ your job. But, man alive, why didn’t
y’ tell me y’ was hungry? Jest a hint would ’a’ been enough! Why,
th’ wife’ll never fergive me when she hears about it!”
“Oh,” protested Allan, “I couldn’t—”
He stopped without finishing the sentence.
“Well, I’ll fergive y’ this time,” said Jack. “Are y’ sure y’ve ate
all y’ kin hold?”
“Every mite,” Allan assured him, his heart warming toward the
friendly, weather-beaten face that looked at him so kindly. “I
couldn’t eat another morsel!”
“All right, then; we’ll see that it don’t occur ag’in,” said Jack,
putting the cover on his pail, and then stretching out in an easier
position. “Now, d’ y’ want a stiddy job here?” he asked.
“If I can get it.”
“I guess y’ kin git it, all right. But how about your home?”
“I haven’t any home,” and the boy gazed out across the fields, his
lips quivering a little despite his efforts to keep them still.
The foreman looked at him for a moment. There was something in the
face that moved him, and he held out his hand impulsively.
“Here, shake!” he said. “I’m your friend.”
The boy put his hand in the great, rough palm extended to him, but
he did not speak—his throat was too full for that.
“Now, if you’re goin’ t’ stay,” went on the other, “you’ve got t’
have some place t’ board. I’ll board an’ room y’ fer three dollars a
week. It won’t be like Delmonicer’s, but y’ won’t starve—y’ll git
yer three square meals a day. That’ll leave y’ four-fifty a week fer
clothes an’ things. How’ll that suit y’?”
The boy looked at him gratefully.
“You are very kind,” he said, huskily. “I’m sure it’s worth more
than three dollars a week.”
“No, it ain’t—not a cent more. Well, that’s settled. Some day,
maybe, you’ll feel like tellin’ me about yerself. I’d like to hear
it. But not now—wait till y’ git used t’ me.”
A freight-train, flying two dirty white flags, to show that it was
running extra and not on a definite schedule, rumbled by, and the
train-crew waved their caps at the section-men, who responded in
kind. The engineer leaned far out the cab window and shouted
something, but his voice was lost in the roar of the train.
“That’s Bill Morrison,” observed Jack, when the train was past.
“There ain’t a finer engineer on th’ road. Two year ago he run into
a washout down here at Oak Furnace. He seen it in time t’ jump, but
he told his fireman t’ jump instead, and he stuck to her an’ tried
to stop her. They found him in th’ ditch under th’ engine, with his
leg mashed an’ his arm broke an’ his head cut open. He opened his
eyes fer a minute as they was draggin’ him out, an’ what d’ y’ think
he says?”
Jack paused a moment, while Allan listened breathlessly, with
fast-beating heart.
“He says, ‘Flag Number Three!’ says he, an’ then dropped off
senseless ag’in. They’d forgot all about Number Three, th’ fastest
passenger-train on th’ road, an’ she’d have run into them as sure as
shootin’, if it hadn’t been fer Bill. Well, sir, they hurried out a
flagman an’ stopped her jest in time, an’ you ort t’ seen them
passengers when they heard about Bill! They all went up t’ him where
he was layin’ pale-like an’ bleedin’ on th’ ground, an’ they was
mighty few of th’ men but what was blowin’ their noses; an’ as fer
the women, they jest naturally slopped over! Well, they thought Bill
was goin’ t’ die, but he pulled through. Yes, he’s still runnin’
freight—he’s got t’ wait his turn fer promotion; that’s th’ rule o’
th’ road. But he’s got th’ finest gold watch y’ ever seen; them
passengers sent it t’ him; an’ right in th’ middle of th’ case it
says, ‘Flag Number Three.’”
Jack stopped and looked out over the landscape, more affected by his
own story than he cared to show.
As for Allan, he gazed after the fast disappearing train as though
it were an emperor’s triumphal car.