AN ADVENTURE AND A STORY
Jack Welsh, section-foreman, lived in a little frame house perched
high on an embankment just back of the railroad yards. The bank had
been left there when the yards had been levelled down, and the
railroad company, always anxious to promote habits of sobriety and
industry in its men, and knowing that no influence makes for such
habits as does the possession of a home, had erected a row of
cottages along the top of the embankment, and offered them on easy
terms to its employés. They weren’t palatial—they weren’t even
particularly attractive—but they were homes.
In front, the bank dropped steeply down to the level of the yards,
but behind they sloped more gently, so that each of the cottages had
a yard ample for a vegetable garden. To attend to this was the work
of the wife and the children—a work which always yielded a bountiful
reward.
There were six cottages in the row, but one was distinguished from
the others in summer by a mass of vines which clambered over it, and
a garden of sweet-scented flowers which occupied the little front
yard. This was Welsh’s, and he never mounted toward it without a
feeling of pride and a quick rush of affection for the little woman
who found time, amid all her household duties, to add her mite to
the world’s beauty. As he glanced at the other yards, with their
litter of trash and broken playthings, he realized, more keenly
perhaps than most of us do, what a splendid thing it is to render
our little corner of the world more beautiful, instead of making it
uglier, as human beings have a way of doing.
It was toward this little vine-embowered cottage that Jack and Allan
turned their steps, as soon as the hand-car and tools had been
deposited safely in the little section shanty. As they neared the
house, a midget in blue calico came running down the path toward
them.
“It’s Mamie,” said Welsh, his face alight with tenderness; and, as
the child swept down upon him, he seized her, kissed her, and swung
her to his shoulder, where she sat screaming in triumph.
They mounted the path so, and, at the door, Mrs. Welsh, a little,
plump, black-eyed woman, met them.
“I’ve brought you a boarder, Mary,” said Welsh, setting Mamie down
upon her sturdy little legs. “Allan West’s his name. I took him on
th’ gang to-day, an’ told him he might come here till he found some
place he liked better.”
“That’s right!” and Mrs. Welsh held out her hand in hearty welcome,
pleased with the boy’s frank face. “We’ll try t’ make you
comf’terble,” she added. “You’re a little late, Jack.”
“Yes, we had t’ stop t’ fix a break,” he answered; and he told her
in a few words the story of the broken fish-plates. “It don’t happen
often,” he added, “but y’ never know when t’ expect it.”
“No, y’ never do,” agreed Mary, her face clouding for an instant,
then clearing with true Irish optimism. “You’ll find th’ wash-basin
out there on th’ back porch, m’ boy,” she added to Allan, and he
hastened away to cleanse himself, so far as soap and water could do
it, of the marks of the day’s toil.
Mrs. Welsh turned again to her husband as soon as the boy was out of
ear-shot.
“Where’d you pick him up, Jack?” she asked. “He ain’t no common
tramp.”
“Not a bit of it,” agreed her husband. “He looks like a nice boy. He
jest come along an’ wanted a job. He said he’d come from Cincinnati,
an’ hadn’t any home; but he didn’t seem t’ want t’ talk about
hisself.”
“No home!” repeated Mary, her heart warming with instant sympathy.
“Poor boy! We’ll have t’ look out fer him, Jack.”
“I knew you’d say that, darlint!” cried her husband, and gave her a
hearty hug.
“Go ’long with you!” cried Mary, trying in vain to speak sternly. “I
smell th’ meat a-burnin’!” and she disappeared into the kitchen,
while Jack joined Allan on the back porch.
How good the cool, clean water felt, splashed over hands and face;
what a luxury it was to scrub with the thick lather of the soap, and
then rinse off in a brimming basin of clear water; how delicious it
was to be clean again! Jack dipped his whole head deep into the
basin, and then, after a vigorous rubbing with the towel, took his
station before a little glass and brushed his black hair until it
presented a surface almost as polished as the mirror’s own.
Then Mamie came with the summons to supper, and they hurried in to
it, for ten hours’ work on section will make even a confirmed
dyspeptic hungry—yes, and give him power properly to digest his
food.
How pretty the table looked, with its white cloth and shining
dishes! For Mary was a true Irish housewife, with a passion for
cleanliness and a pride in her home. It was growing dark, and a lamp
had been lighted and placed in the middle of the board, making it
look bright and cosy.
“You set over there, m’ boy,” said Mary, herself taking the
housewife’s inevitable place behind the coffee-pot, with her husband
opposite. “Now, Mamie, you behave yourself,” she added, for Mamie
was peeping around the lamp at Allan with roguish eyes. “We’re all
hungry, Jack, so don’t keep us waitin’.”
And Jack didn’t.
How good the food smelt, and how good it tasted! Allan relished it
more than he would have done any dinner of “Delmonicer’s,” for Mary
was one of the best of cooks, and only the jaded palate relishes the
sauces and fripperies of French chefs.
“A girl as can’t cook ain’t fit t’ marry,” Mary often said; a maxim
which she had inherited from her mother, and would doubtless hand
down to Mamie. “There’s nothin’ that’ll break up a home quicker ’n a
bad cook, an’ nothin’ that’ll make a man happier ’n a good one.”
Certainly, if cooking were a test, this supper was proof enough of
her fitness for the state of matrimony. There was a great platter of
ham and eggs, fluffy biscuits, and the sweetest of yellow butter.
And, since he did not drink coffee, Allan was given a big glass of
fragrant milk to match Mamie’s. They were tasting one of the best
sweets of toil—to sit down with appetite to a table well-laden.
After supper, they gathered on the front porch, and sat looking down
over the busy, noisy yards. The switch-lamps gleamed in long rows,
red and green and white, telling which tracks were open and which
closed. The yard-engines ran fussily up and down, shifting the
freight-cars back and forth, and arranging them in trains to be sent
east or west. Over by the roundhouse, engines were being run in on
the big turntable and from there into the stalls, where they would
be furbished up and overhauled for the next trip. Others were being
brought out, tanks filled with water, and tenders heaped high with
coal, ready for the run to Parkersburg or Cincinnati. They seemed
almost human in their impatience to be off—breathing deeply in loud
pants, the steam now and then throwing up the safety-valve and
“popping off” with a great noise.
The clamour, the hurry, the rush of work, never ceasing from dawn to
dawn, gave the boy a dim understanding of the importance of this
great corporation which he had just begun to serve. He was only a
very little cog in the vast machine, to be sure, but the smoothness
of its running depended upon the little cogs no less than on the big
ones.
A man’s figure, indistinct in the twilight, stopped at the gate
below and whistled.
“There’s Reddy Magraw,” said Jack, with a laugh. “I’d forgot—it was
so hot t’-day, we thought we’d go over t’ th’ river an’ take a dip
t’-night. Do you know how t’ swim, Allan?”
“Just a little,” answered Allan; “all I know about it was picked up
in the swimming-pool at the gymnasium at Cincinnati.”
“Well, it’s time y’ learned more,” said Jack. “Every boy ought t’
know how t’ swim—mebbe some day not only his own life but the lives
o’ some o’ his women-folks’ll depend on him. Come along, an’ we’ll
give y’ a lesson.”
“I’ll be glad to!” Allan cried, and ran indoors for his hat.
Reddy whistled again.
“We’re comin’,” called Jack. “We won’t be gone long,” he added to
his wife, as they started down the path.
“All right, dear,” she answered. “An’ take good care o’ th’ boy.”
Reddy greeted Allan warmly, and thoroughly agreed with Jack that it
was every boy’s duty to learn how to swim. Together they started off
briskly toward the river—across the yards, picking their way
carefully over the maze of tracks, then along the railroad
embankment which skirted the stream, and finally through a
corn-field to the water’s edge. The river looked very wide and still
in the semidarkness, and Allan shivered a little as he looked at it;
but the feeling passed in a moment. Reddy had his clothes off first,
and dived in with a splash; Jack waded in to show Allan the depth.
The boy followed, with sudden exhilaration, as he felt the cool
water rise about him.
“This is different from a swimmin’-pool, ain’t it?” said Jack.
“Indeed it is!” agreed Allan; “and a thousand times nicer!”
“Now,” added Jack, “let me give you a lesson,” and he proceeded to
instruct Allan in the intricacies of the broad and powerful breast
stroke.
The boy was an apt pupil, and at the end of twenty minutes had
mastered it sufficiently to be able to make fair progress through
the water. He would have kept on practising, but Jack stopped him.
“We’ve been in long enough,” he said; “you mustn’t overdo it. Come
along, Reddy,” he called to that worthy, who was disporting himself
out in the middle of the current.
As they turned toward the shore the full moon peeped suddenly over a
little hill on the eastern horizon, and cast a broad stream of
silver light across the water, touching every ripple and little wave
with magic beauty.
“Oh, look!” cried Allan. “Look!”
They stood and watched the moon until it sailed proudly above the
hill, and then waded to the bank, rubbed themselves down briskly,
and resumed their clothes, cleansed and purified in spirit as well
as body. They made their way back through the corn-field, but just
as they reached the embankment, Reddy stopped them with a quick,
stifled cry.
“Whist!” he said, hoarsely. “Look there! What’s that?”
Straining his eyes through the darkness, Allan saw, far down the
track ahead of them, a dim, white figure. It seemed to be going
through some sort of pantomime, waving its arms wildly above its
head.
“It’s a ghost!” whispered Reddy, breathing heavily. “It’s Tim
Dorsey’s ghost! D’ y’ raymimber, Jack, it was jist there thet th’
poor feller was killed last month! That’s his ghost, sure as I’m
standin’ here!”
“Oh, nonsense!” retorted Jack, with a little laugh, but his heart
was beating faster than usual, as he peered through the darkness at
the strange figure. What could it be that would stand there and wave
its arms in that unearthly fashion?
“It’s his ghost!” repeated Reddy. “Come on, Jack; Oi’m a-goin’
back!”
“Well, I’m not!” said Jack. “I’m not afraid of a ghost, are you,
Allan?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Allan, but it must be confessed
that his nerves were not wholly steady as he kept his eyes on the
strange figure dancing there in the moonlight.
“If it ain’t a ghost, what is it?” demanded Reddy, hoarsely.
“That’s just what we’re goin’ t’ find out,” answered Jack, and
started forward, resolutely.
Allan went with him, but Reddy kept discreetly in the rear. He was
no coward,—he was as brave as any man in facing a danger which he
knew the nature of,—but all the superstition of his untutored Irish
heart held him back from this unearthly apparition.
As they drew near, its lines became more clearly defined; it was
undoubtedly of human shape, but apparently it had no head, only a
pair of short, stubby arms, which waved wildly in the air, and a
pair of legs that danced frantically. Near at hand it was even more
terrifying than at a distance, and their pace grew slower and
slower, while Reddy stopped short where he was, his teeth
chattering, his eyes staring. They could hear what seemed to be a
human voice proceeding from the figure, raised in a sort of weird
incantation, now high, now low. Was it really a ghost? Allan asked
himself; was it really the spirit of the poor fellow whose life had
been crushed out a few weeks before? could it be....
[Illustration: “NEAR AT HAND IT WAS EVEN MORE TERRIFYING THAN AT A
DISTANCE”]
Suddenly Jack laughed aloud with relief, and hurried forward.
“Come on,” he called. “It’s no ghost!”
And in a moment Allan saw him reach the figure and pull the white
garment down over its head, disclosing a flushed and wrathful, but
very human, face.
“Thankee, sir,” said a hoarse voice to Jack. “A lady in th’ house
back there give me a clean shirt, an’ I was jest puttin’ it on when
I got stuck in th’ durn thing, an’ couldn’t git it either way. I
reckon I’d ’a’ suffocated if you hadn’t come along!”
Jack laughed again.
“We thought you was a ghost!” he said. “You scared Reddy, there, out
of a year’s growth, I reckon. Come here, Reddy,” he called, “an’
take a look at yer ghost!”
Reddy came cautiously forward and examined the released tramp.
“Well,” he said, at last, “if you ain’t a ghost, you ought t’ be! I
never seed anything that looked more loike one!”
“No, an’ you never will!” retorted Jack. “Come along; it’s time we
was home,” and leaving the tramp to complete his toilet, they
hurried away.
They found Mary sitting on the front porch, crooning softly to
herself as she rocked Mamie to sleep. They bade Reddy good night,
and sat down beside her.
“Well, did y’ have a nice time?” she asked.
“Yes,” laughed Jack, and told her the story of the ghost.
They sat silent for a time after that, looking down over the busy
yards, breathing in the cool night air, watching the moon as it
sailed slowly up the heavens. Allan felt utterly at rest; for the
first time in many days he felt that he had a home, that there were
people in the world who loved him. The thought brought the quick
tears to his eyes; an impulse to confide in these new friends surged
up within him.
“I want to tell you something about myself,” he said, turning to
them quickly. “It’s only right that you should know.”
Mrs. Welsh stopped the lullaby she had been humming, and sat quietly
waiting.
“Just as y’ please,” said Jack, but the boy knew he would be glad to
hear the story.
“It’s not a very long one,” said Allan, his lips trembling, “nor an
unusual one, for that matter. Father was a carpenter, and we lived
in a little home just out of Cincinnati—he and mother and I. We were
very happy, and I went to school every day, while father went in to
the city to his work. But one day I was called from school, and when
I got home I found that father had fallen from a scaffolding he had
been working on, and was so badly injured that he had been taken to
a hospital. We thought for a long time that he would die, but he got
better slowly, and at last we were able to take him home. But he was
never able to work any more,—his spine had been injured so that he
could scarcely move himself,—and our little savings grew smaller and
smaller.”
Allan stopped, and looked off across the yards, gripping his hands
together to preserve his self-control.
“Father worried about it,” he went on, at last; “worried so much
that he grew worse and worse, until—until—he brought on a fever. He
hadn’t any strength to fight with. He just sank under it, and died.
I was fifteen years old then—but boys don’t understand at the time
how hard things are. After he was gone—well, it seems now, looking
back, that I could have done something more to help than I did.”
“There, now, don’t be a-blamin’ yerself,” said Jack, consolingly.
The little woman in the rocking-chair leaned over and touched his
arm softly, caressingly.
“No; don’t be blamin’ yerself,” she said. “I know y’ did th’ best y’
could. They ain’t so very much a boy kin do, when it’s money that’s
needed.”
“No,” and Allan drew a deep breath; “nor a woman, either. Though it
wasn’t only that; I’d have worked on; I wouldn’t have given
up—but—but—”
“Yes,” said Mary, understanding with quick, unfailing sympathy; “it
was th’ mother.”
“She did the best she could,” went on Allan, falteringly. “She tried
to bear up for my sake; but after father was gone she was never
quite the same again; she never seemed to rally from the shock of
it. She was never strong to start with, and I saw that she grew
weaker and weaker every day.” He stopped and cleared his voice.
“That’s about all there is to the story,” he added. “I got a little
from the furniture and paid off some of the debts, but I couldn’t do
much. I tried to get work there, but there didn’t seem to be anybody
who wanted me. There were some distant relatives, but I had never
known them—and besides, I didn’t want to seem a beggar. There wasn’t
anything to keep me in Cincinnati, so I struck out.”
“And y’ did well,” said Welsh. “I’m mighty glad y’ come along jest
when y’ did. Y’ll find enough to do here, if y’ will keep a willin’
hand. Section work ain’t much, but maybe y’ can git out of it after
awhile. Y’ might git a place in th’ yard office if ye’re good at
figgers. Ye’ve got more eddication than some. It’s them that git
lifted.”
“You’d better talk!” said the wife. “’Tain’t every man with an
eddication that gits t’ be foreman at your age.”
“No more it ain’t,” and Jack smiled. “Come on; it’s time t’ go t’
bed. Say good night t’ th’ boy, Mamie.”
“Night,” murmured Mamie, sleepily, and held out her moist, red lips.
With a quick warmth at his heart, Allan stooped and kissed them. It
was the first kiss he had given or received since his mother’s
death, and, after he had got to bed in the little hot attic room,
with its single window looking out upon the yards, he lay for a long
time thinking over the events of the day, and his great good fortune
in falling in with these kindly people. Sometime, perhaps, he might
be able to prove how much their kindness meant to him.