A NEW EXPERIENCE
“When I was a kid,” continued Welsh, reminiscently, after a moment,
“I was foolish, like all other kids. I thought they wasn’t nothin’
in th’ world so much fun as railroadin’. I made up my mind t’ be a
brakeman, fer I thought all a brakeman had t’ do was t’ set out on
top of a car, with his legs a-hangin’ over, an’ see th’ country, an’
wave his hat at th’ girls, an’ chase th’ boys off th’ platform, an’
order th’ engineer around by shakin’ his hand at him. Gee whiz!” and
he laughed and slapped his leg. “It tickles me even yet t’ think
what an ijit I was!”
“Did you try braking?” asked Allan.
“Yes—I tried it,” and Welsh’s eyes twinkled; “but I soon got enough.
Them wasn’t th’ days of air-brakes, an’ I tell you they was mighty
little fun in runnin’ along th’ top of a train in th’ dead o’ winter
when th’ cars was covered with ice an’ th’ wind blowin’ fifty mile
an hour. They wasn’t no automatic couplers, neither; a man had t’ go
right in between th’ cars t’ drop in th’ pin, an’ th’ engineer never
seemed t’ care how hard he backed down on a feller. After about six
months of it, I come t’ th’ conclusion that section-work was nearer
my size. It ain’t so excitin’, an’ a man don’t make quite so much
money; but he’s sure o’ gettin’ home t’ his wife when th’ day’s
work’s over, an’ of havin’ all his legs an’ arms with him. That
counts fer a whole lot, I tell yer!”
He had got out a little black pipe as he talked, and filled it with
tobacco from a paper sack. Then he applied a lighted match to the
bowl and sent a long whiff of purple smoke circling upwards.
“There!” he said, leaning back with a sigh of ineffable content.
“That’s better—that’s jest th’ dessert a man wants. You don’t smoke,
I guess?”
“No,” and Allan shook his head.
“Well, I reckon you’re as well off—better off, maybe; but I begun
smokin’ when I was knee high to a duck.”
“You were telling me about that engineer,” prompted Allan, hoping
for another story. “Are there any more like him?”
“Plenty more!” answered Jack, vigorously. “Why, nine engineers out
o’ ten would ’a’ done jest what he done. It comes nat’ral, after a
feller’s worked on th’ road awhile. Th’ road comes t’ be more t’ him
than wife ’r childer—it gits t’ be a kind o’ big idol thet he bows
down an’ worships; an’ his engine’s a little idol thet he thinks
more of than he does of his home. When he ain’t workin’, instead of
stayin’ at home an’ weedin’ his garden, or playin’ with his childer,
he’ll come down t’ th’ roundhouse an’ pet his engine, an’ polish her
up, an’ walk around her an’ look at her, an’ try her valves an’
watch th’ stokers t’ see thet they clean her out proper. An’ when
she wears out ’r breaks down, why, you’d think he’d lost his best
friend. There was old Cliff Gudgeon. He had a swell passenger run on
th’ east end; but when they got t’ puttin’ four ’r five sleepers on
his train, his old engine was too light t’ git over th’ road on
time, so they give him a new one—a great big one—a beauty. An’ what
did Cliff do? Well, sir, he said he was too old t’ learn th’ tricks
of another engine, an’ he’d stick to his old one, an’ he’s runnin’ a
little accommodation train up here on th’ Hillsboro branch at
seventy-five a month, when he might ’a’ been makin’ twict that
a-handlin’ th’ Royal Blue. Then, there’s Reddy Magraw—now, t’ look
at Reddy, y’ wouldn’t think he was anything but a chuckle-headed
Irishman. Yet, six year ago—”
Reddy had caught the sound of his name, and looked up suddenly.
“Hey, Jack, cut it out!” he called.
Welsh laughed good-naturedly.
“All right!” he said. “He’s th’ most modest man in th’ world, is
Reddy. But they ain’t all that way. There’s Dan Nolan,” and Jack’s
face darkened. “I had him on th’ gang up till this mornin’, but I
couldn’t stan’ him no longer, so I jest fired him. That’s th’ reason
there was a place fer you, m’ boy.”
“Yes,” said Allan, “Reddy was telling me about him. What was it he
did?”
“He didn’t do anything,” laughed Jack. “That was th’ trouble. He was
jest naturally lazy—sneakin’ lazy an’ mean. There’s jest two things
a railroad asks of its men—you might as well learn it now as any
time—they must be on hand when they’re needed, an’ they must be
willin’ t’ work. As long as y’re stiddy an’ willin’ t’ work, y’
won’t have no trouble holdin’ a job on a railroad.”
Allan looked out across the fields and determined that in these two
respects, at least, he would not be found wanting. He glanced at the
other group, gossiping together in the shade of a tree. They were
not attractive-looking, certainly, but he was beginning to learn
already that a man may be brave and honest, whatever his appearance.
They were laughing at one of Reddy’s jokes, and Allan looked at him
with a new respect, wondering what it was he had done. The foreman
watched the boy’s face with a little smile, reading his thoughts.
“He ain’t much t’ look at, is he?” he said. “But you’ll soon
learn—if you ain’t learnt already—that you can’t judge a man’s
inside by his outside. There’s no place you’ll learn it quicker than
on a railroad. Railroad men, barrin’ th’ passenger train crews, who
have t’ keep themselves spruced up t’ hold their jobs, ain’t much t’
look at, as a rule, but down at th’ bottom of most of them there
allers seems t’ be a _man_—a real man—a man who don’t lose his head
when he sees death a-starin’ him in th’ face, but jest grits his
teeth an’ sticks to his post an’ does his duty. Railroad men ain’t
little tin gods nor plaster saints—fur from it!—but they’re worth a
mighty sight more than either. There was Jim Blakeson, th’
skinniest, lankest, most woe-begone-lookin’ feller I ever see
outside of a circus. He was brakin’ front-end one night on third
ninety-eight, an’—”
From afar off came the faint blowing of whistles, telling that, in
the town of Wadsworth, the wheels in the factories had started up
again, that men and women were bending again to their tasks, after
the brief noon hour. Welsh stopped abruptly, much to Allan’s
disappointment, knocked out his pipe against his boot-heel, and rose
quickly to his feet. If there was one article in Welsh’s code of
honour which stood before all the rest, it was this: That the
railroad which employed him should have the full use of the ten
hours a day for which it paid. To waste any part of that time was to
steal the railroad’s money. It is a good principle for any man—or
for any boy—to cling to.
“One o’clock!” he cried. “Come on, boys! We’ve got a good stretch o’
track to finish up down there.”
The dinner-pails were replaced on the hand-car and it was run down
the road about half a mile and then derailed again. The straining
work began; tugging at the bars, tamping gravel under the ties,
driving new spikes, replacing a fish-plate here and there. And the
new hand learned many things.
He learned that with the advent of the great, modern, ten-wheeled
freight locomotives, all the rails on the line had been replaced
with heavier ones weighing eighty-five pounds to the yard,—850
pounds to their thirty feet of length,—the old ones being too light
to carry such enormous weights with safety. They were called
T-rails, because, in cross-section, they somewhat resembled that
letter. The top of the rail is the “head”; the thinner stem, the
“web”; and the wide, flat bottom, the “base.” Besides being spiked
down to the ties, which are first firmly bedded in gravel or crushed
stone, the rails are bolted together at the ends with iron bars
called “fish-plates.” These are fitted to the web, one on each side
of the junction of two rails, and bolts are then passed through them
and nuts screwed on tightly.
This work of joining the rails is done with such nicety, and the
road-bed built so solidly, that there is no longer such a great
rattle and bang as the trains pass over them—a rattle and bang
formerly as destructive to the track as to the nerves of the
passenger. It is the duty of the section-foreman to see that the six
or eight miles of track which is under his supervision is kept in
the best possible shape, and to inspect it from end to end twice
daily, to guard against any possibility of accident.
As the hours passed, Allan’s muscles began to ache sadly, but there
were few chances to rest. At last the foreman perceived that he was
overworking himself, and sent him and Reddy back to bring up the
hand-car and prepare for the homeward trip. They walked back to
where it stood, rolled it out upon the track, and pumped it down to
the spot where the others were working, Reddy giving Allan his first
lesson in how to work the levers, for there is a right and wrong way
of managing a hand-car, just as there is a right and wrong way of
doing everything else.
“That’s about all we kin do to-day,” and Jack took out his watch and
looked at it reflectively, as the car came rolling up. “I guess we
kin git in before Number Six comes along. What y’ think?” and he
looked at Reddy.
“How much time we got?” asked the latter, for only the foreman of
the gang could afford to carry a watch.
“Twelve minutes.”
“That’s aisy! We kin make it in eight without half-tryin’!”
“All right!” and Jack thrust the watch back into his pocket. “Pile
on, boys!”
And pile on they did, bringing their tools with them. They seized
the levers, and in a moment the car was spinning down the track.
There was something fascinating and invigorating in the motion. As
they pumped up and down, Allan could see the fields, fences, and
telegraph-poles rushing past them. It seemed to him that they were
going faster even than the “flier.” The wind whistled against him
and the car jolted back and forth in an alarming way.
“Hold tight!” yelled Reddy, and they flashed around a curve, across
a high trestle, through a deep cut, and down a long grade on the
other side. Away ahead he could see the chimneys of the town
nestling among the trees. They were down the grade in a moment, and
whirling along an embankment that bordered a wide and placid river,
when the car gave a sudden, violent jolt, ran for fifty feet on
three wheels, and then settled down on the track again.
“Stop her!” yelled the foreman. “Stop her!”
They strained at the levers, but the car seemed alive and sprang
away from them. Twice she almost shook them off, then sullenly
succumbed, and finally stopped.
“Somethin’s th’ matter back there!” panted Jack. “Give her a shove,
Reddy!”
Reddy jumped off and started her back up the track. In a moment the
levers caught, and they were soon at the place where the jolt had
occurred.
The foreman sprang off and for an instant bent over the track. Then
he straightened up with stern face.
“Quick!” he cried. “Jerk that car off th’ track and bring two
fish-plates an’ some spikes. West, take that flag, run up th’ track
as far as y’ kin, an’ flag Number Six. Mind, don’t stop runnin’ till
y’ see her. She’ll have her hands full stoppin’ on that grade.”
With beating heart Allan seized the flag and ran up the track as
fast as his legs would carry him. The thought that the lives of
perhaps a hundred human beings depended upon him set his hands to
trembling and his heart to beating wildly. On and on he went, until
his breath came in gasps and his head sang. It seemed that he must
have covered a mile at least, yet it was only a few hundred feet.
And then, away ahead, he saw the train flash into sight around the
curve and come hurtling down the grade toward him.
He shook loose the flag and waved it wildly over his head, still
running forward. He even shouted, not realizing how puny his voice
was. The engine grew larger and larger with amazing swiftness. He
could hear the roar of the wheels; a shaft of steam leaped into the
air, and, an instant later, the wind brought him the sound of a
shrill whistle. He saw the engineer leaning from his window, and,
with a great sob of relief, knew that he had been seen. He had just
presence of mind to spring from the track, and the train passed him,
the wheels grinding and shrieking under the pressure of the
air-brakes, the drivers of the engine whirling madly backwards. He
caught a glimpse of startled passengers peering from the windows,
and then the train was past. But it was going slower and slower, and
stopped at last with a jerk.
When he reached the place, he found Jack explaining to the conductor
about the broken fish-plates and the loose rail. What had caused it
could not be told with certainty—the expansion from the heat,
perhaps, or the vibration from a heavy freight that had passed half
an hour before, or a defect in the plates, which inspection had not
revealed. Allan sat weakly down upon the overturned hand-car. No one
paid any heed to him, and he was astonished that they treated the
occurrence so lightly. Jack and the engineer were joking together.
Only the conductor seemed worried, and that was because the delay
would throw his train a few minutes late.
Half a dozen of the passengers, who had been almost hurled from
their seats by the suddenness of the stop, came hurrying up. All
along the line of coaches windows had been raised, and white,
anxious faces were peering out. Inside the coaches, brakemen and
porters were busy picking up the packages that had been thrown from
the racks, and reassuring the frightened people.
“What’s the matter?” gasped one of the passengers, a tall, thin,
nervous-looking man, as soon as he reached the conductor’s side.
“Nothing serious, I hope? There’s no danger, is there? My wife and
children are back there—”
The conductor smiled at him indulgently.
“There’s no danger at all, my dear sir,” he interrupted. “The
section-gang here flagged us until they could bolt this rail down.
That is all.”
“But,” protested the man, looking around for sympathy, and obviously
anxious not to appear unduly alarmed, “do you usually throw things
about that way when you stop?”
“No,” said the conductor, smiling again; “but you see we were on a
heavy down-grade, and going pretty fast. I’d advise you gentlemen to
get back into the train at once,” he added, glancing at his watch
again. “We’ll be starting in a minute or two.”
The little group of passengers walked slowly back and disappeared
into the train. Allan, looking after them, caught his first glimpse
of one side of railroad policy—a policy which minimizes every
danger, which does its utmost to keep every peril from the knowledge
of its patrons—a wise policy, since nervousness will never add to
safety. Away up the track he saw the brakeman, who had been sent
back as soon as the train stopped, to prevent the possibility of a
rear-end collision, and he understood dimly something of the
wonderful system which guards the safety of the trains.
Then, suddenly, he realized that he was not working, that his place
was with that little group labouring to repair the track, and he
sprang to his feet, but at that instant Jack stood back with a sigh
of relief and turned to the conductor.
“All right,” he said.
The conductor raised his hand, a sharp whistle recalled the
brakeman, who came down the track on a run; the engineer opened his
throttle; there was a long hiss of escaping steam, and the train
started slowly. As it passed him, Allan could see the passengers
settling back contentedly in their seats, the episode already
forgotten. In a moment the train was gone, growing rapidly smaller
away down the track ahead of them. A few extra spikes were driven in
to further strengthen the place, and the hand-car was run out on the
track again.
“Y’ made pretty good time,” said Jack to the boy; and then, as he
saw his white face, he added, “Kind o’ winded y’, didn’t it?”
Allan nodded, and climbed silently to his place on the car.
“Shook y’r nerve a little, too, I reckon,” added Jack, as the car
started slowly. “But y’ mustn’t mind a little thing like that, m’
boy. It’s all in th’ day’s work.”
All in the day’s work! The flagging of a train was an ordinary
incident in the lives of these men. There had, perhaps, been no
great danger, yet the boy caught his breath as he recalled that
fearful moment when the train rushed down upon him. All in the day’s
work—for which the road paid a dollar and a quarter!