ALLAN MEETS AN ENEMY
It was not until morning that Allan realized how unaccustomed he was
to real labour. As he tried to spring from bed in answer to Jack’s
call, he found every muscle in revolt. How they ached! It was all he
could do to slip his arms into his shirt, and, when he bent over to
put on his shoes, he almost cried out at the twinge it cost him. He
hobbled painfully down-stairs, and Jack saw in a moment what was the
matter.
“Yer muscles ain’t used t’ tuggin’ at crowbars an’ shovellin’
gravel,” he said, laughing. “It’ll wear off in a day or two, but
till then ye’ll have t’ grin an’ bear it, fer they ain’t no cure fer
it. But y’ ain’t goin’ t’ work in them clothes!”
“They’re all I have here,” answered Allan, reddening. “I have a
trunk at Cincinnati with a lot more in, and I thought I’d write for
it to-day.”
“But I reckon ye ain’t got any clothes tough enough fer this work.
I’ll fix y’ out,” said Welsh, good-naturedly.
So, after breakfast, he led Allan over to a railroad outfitting shop
and secured him a canvas jumper, a pair of heavy overalls, and a
pair of rough, strong, cowhide shoes.
“There!” he said, viewing his purchases with satisfaction. “Y’ kin
pay fer ’em when y’ git yer first month’s wages. Y’ kin put ’em on
over in th’ section shanty. You go along over there; I’ve got t’
stop an’ see th’ roadmaster a minute.”
Allan walked on quickly, his bundle under his arm, past the long
passenger station and across the maze of tracks in the lower yards.
Here lines of freight-cars were side-tracked, waiting their turn to
be taken east or west; and, as he hurried past, a man came suddenly
out from behind one of them and laid a strong hand on his arm.
“Here, wait a minute!” he said, roughly. “I’ve got somethin’ t’ say
t’ you. Come in here!” And before Allan could think of resistance,
he was pulled behind the row of cars.
Allan found himself looking up into a pair of small, glittering
black eyes, deeply set in a face of which the most prominent
features were a large nose, covered with freckles, and a
thick-lipped mouth, which concealed the jagged teeth beneath but
imperfectly. He saw, too, that his captor was not much older than
himself, but that he was considerably larger and no doubt stronger.
“Ye’re th’ new man on Twenty-one, ain’t you?” he asked, after a
moment’s fierce examination of Allan’s face.
“Yes, I went to work yesterday,” said Allan.
“Well, y’ want t’ quit th’ job mighty quick, d’ y’ see? I’m Dan
Nolan, an’ it’s my job y’ve got. I’d ’a’ got took back if ye hadn’t
come along. So ye’re got t’ git out, d’ y’ hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” answered Allan, quietly, reddening a little; and his
heart began to beat faster at the prospect of trouble ahead.
“If y’ know what’s good fer y’, y’ll git out!” said Nolan, savagely,
clenching his fists. “When’ll y’ quit?”
“As soon as Mr. Welsh discharges me,” answered Allan, still more
quietly.
Nolan glared at him for a moment, seemingly unable to speak.
“D’ y’ mean t’ say y’ won’t git out when I tells you to? I’ll show
y’!” And he struck suddenly and viciously at the boy’s face.
But Allan had been expecting the onslaught, and sprang quickly to
one side. Before Nolan could recover himself, he had ducked under
one of the freight-cars and come up on the other side. Nolan ran
around the end of the car, but the boy was well out of reach.
“I’ll ketch y’!” he cried after him, shaking his fists. “An’ when I
do ketch y’—”
He stopped abruptly and dived back among the cars, for he had caught
sight of Jack Welsh coming across the yards. Allan saw him, too, and
waited for him.
“Wasn’t that Dan Nolan?” he asked, as he came up.
“Yes, it was Nolan,” answered Allan.
“Was he threatenin’ you?”
[Illustration: “HE STRUCK SUDDENLY AND VICIOUSLY AT THE BOY’S FACE”]
“Yes; he told me to get out or he’d lay for me.”
“He did, eh?” and Jack’s lips tightened ominously. “What did y’ tell
him?”
“I told him I’d get out when you discharged me.”
“Y’ did?” and Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Good fer you! Let
me git my hands on him once, an’ he’ll lave ye alone! But y’ want t’
look out fer him, m’ boy. If he’d fight fair, y’ could lick him; but
he’s a big, overgrown brute, an’ ’ll try t’ hit y’ from behind
sometime, mebbe. That’s his style, fer he’s a coward.”
“I’ll look out for him,” said Allan; and walked on with beating
heart to the section shanty. Here, while Jack told the story of the
encounter with Nolan, Allan donned his new garments and laid his
other ones aside. The new ones were not beautiful, but at least they
were comfortable, and could defy even the wear and tear of work on
section.
The spin on the hand-car out into the open country was full of
exhilaration, and, after an hour’s work, Allan almost forgot his
sore muscles. He found that to-day there was a different class of
work to do. The fences along the right of way were to be repaired,
and the right of way itself placed in order—the grass cut back from
the road-bed, the gravel piled neatly along it, weeds trimmed out,
rubbish gathered up, cattle-guards, posts, and fences at crossings
whitewashed. All this, too, was a revelation to the new hand. He had
never thought that a railroad required so much attention. Rod after
rod was gone over in this way, until it seemed that not a stone was
out of place. It was not until the noon-hour, when he was eating his
portion of the lunch Mrs. Welsh had prepared for them, that he
learned the reason for all this.
“Y’ see we’re puttin’ on a few extry touches,” remarked Jack. “Th’
Irish Brigade goes over th’ road next week.”
“The Irish Brigade?” questioned Allan; and he had a vision of some
crack military organization.
“Yes, th’ Irish Brigade. Twict a year, all th’ section foremen on
th’ road ’r’ taken over it t’ look at th’ other sections, an’ see
which man keeps his in th’ best shape. Each man’s section’s graded,
an’ th’ one that gits th’ highest grade gits a prize o’ fifty
dollars. We’re goin’ t’ try fer that prize. So’s every other
section-gang on th’ line.”
“But what is the Irish Brigade?” questioned the boy.
“The foremen of the section-men. There’s about a hundred, and the
officers give us that name. There’s many a good Irishman like myself
among the foremen;” and a gleam of humour was in Jack’s eyes. “They
say I’m puttin’ my Irish back of me in my talk, but the others stick
to it, more or less. It’s a great time when the Irish Brigade takes
its inspection tour.”
Allan worked with a new interest after that, for he, too, was
anxious that Jack’s section should win the fifty dollars. He could
guess how much such a sum would mean to him. He confided his hopes
to Reddy, while they were working together cutting out some weeds
that had sprung up along the track, but the latter was not
enthusiastic.
“Oi don’t know,” he said. “They’s some mighty good section-men on
this road. Why, last year, when Flaherty, o’ Section Tin, got th’
prize, his grass looked like it ’ud been gone over with a lawnmower,
an’ he’d aven scrubbed th’ black gr’ase from th’ ingines off th’
toies. Oh, it looked foine; but thin, so did all th’ rist.”
But Allan was full of hope. As he looked back over the mile they had
covered since morning, he told himself that no stretch of track
could possibly be in better order. But, to the foreman’s more
critical and experienced eye, there were still many things wanting,
and he promised himself to go over it again before inspection-day
came around.
Every train that passed left some mark behind. From the freights
came great pieces of greasy waste, which littered up the ties, or
piles of ashes sifted down from the fire-box; while with the
passengers it was even worse. The people threw from the coach
windows papers, banana peelings, boxes and bags containing remnants
of lunch, bottles, and every kind of trash. They did not realize
that all this must be patiently gathered up again, in order that the
road-bed might be quite free from litter. Not many of them would
have greatly cared.
“It’s amazin’,” remarked Reddy, in the course of the afternoon, “how
little people r’ally know about railroadin’, an’ thin think they
know ’t all. They think that whin th’ road’s built, that’s all they
is to it, an’ all th’ expinse th’ company’s got’s fer runnin’ th’
trains. Why, on this one division, from Cincinnati t’ Parkersburg,
they’s more’n two hunderd men a-workin’ ivery day jest kapin’ up th’
track. Back there in th’ shops, they’s foive hundred more, repairin’
an’ rebuildin’ ingines an’ cars. At ivery little crossroads they’s
an operator, an’ at ivery little station they’s six or eight people
busy at work. Out east, they tell me, they’s a flagman at ivery
crossin’. Think o’ what all that costs!”
“But what’s the use of keeping the road-bed so clean?” asked Allan.
“Nobody ever sees it.”
“What’s th’ use o’ doin’ anything roight?” retorted Reddy. “I tell
you ivery little thing counts in favour of a road, or agin it. This
here road’s spendin’ thousands o’ dollars straightenin’ out curves
over there in th’ mountings, so’s th’ passengers won’t git shook up
so much, an’ th’ trains kin make a little better toime. Why, I’ve
heerd thet some roads even sprinkle th’ road-bed with ile t’ lay th’
dust!
“Human natur’ ’s a funny thing,” he added, shaking his head
philosophically, “’specially when it comes t’ railroads. Many’s th’
man Oi’ve seen nearly break his neck t’ git acrost th’ track in
front of a train, an’ thin stop t’ watch th’ train go by; an’ many
another loafer, who never does anything but kill toime, ’ll worrit
hisself sick if th’ train he’s on happens t’ be tin minutes late.
It’s th’ man who ain’t got no business that’s always lettin’ on t’
have th’ most. Here comes th’ flier,” he added, as a shrill whistle
sounded from afar up the road.
They stood aside to watch the train shoot past with a rush and roar,
to draw into the station at Wadsworth on time to the minute.
“That was Jem Spurling on th’ ingine,” observed Reddy, as they went
back to work. “Th’ oldest ingineer on th’ road—an’ th’ nerviest.
Thet’s th’ reason he’s got th’ flier. Most fellers loses their nerve
after they’ve been runnin’ an ingine a long time, an’ a year ’r two
back, Jem got sort o’ shaky fer awhile—slowed down when they wasn’t
no need of it, y’ know; imagined he saw things on th’ track ahead,
an’ lost time. Well, th’ company wouldn’t stand fer thet, ’specially
with th’ flier, an’ finally th’ train-master told him thet if he
couldn’t bring his train in on time, he’d have t’ go back t’
freight. Well, sir, it purty nigh broke Jem’s heart.
“‘Oi tell y’, Mister Schofield,’ he says t’ th’ train-master, ‘Oi’ll
bring th’ train in on toime if they’s a brick house on th’ track.’
“‘All right,’ says Mr. Schofield; ‘thet’s all we ask,’ an’ Jem went
down to his ingine.
“Th’ next day Jem come into th’ office t’ report, an’ looked aroun’
kind o’ inquirin’ like.
“‘Any of it got here yet?’ he asks.
“‘Any o’ what?’ asks Mr. Schofield.
“‘Any o’ thet coal,’ says Jem.
“‘What coal?’ asks Mr. Schofield.
“‘Somebody left a loaded coal-car on th’ track down here by th’
chute,’ says Jem.
“‘They did?’
“‘Yes,’ says Jem; ‘thought they’d throw me late, most likely; but
they didn’t. Oi’m not loike a man what’s lost his nerve—not by a
good deal.’
“‘But th’ car—how’d y’ git around it?’ asks Mr. Schofield.
“‘Oh, Oi didn’t try t’ git around it,’ says Jem. ‘Oi jest pulled her
wide open an’ come through. They’s about a ton o’ coal on top o’ th’
rear coach, an’ Oi thought maybe I’d find th’ rest of it up here. I
guess it ain’t come down yit.’
“‘But, great Scott, man!’ says Mr. Schofield, ‘that was an awful
risk.’
“‘Oi guess Oi’d better run my ingine down t’ th’ repair shop,’ went
on Jem, cool as a cucumber. ‘Her stack’s gone, an’ the pilot, an’
th’ winders o’ th’ cab are busted. But Oi got in on toime.’
“Well, they laid Jem off fer a month,” concluded Reddy, “but they’ve
niver said anything since about his losin’ his nerve.”
So, through the afternoon, Reddy discoursed of the life of the rail,
and told stories grave and gay, related tragedies and comedies,
described hair-breadth escapes, and with it all managed to impart to
his hearer many valuable hints concerning section work.
“Though,” he added, echoing Jack, “it’s not on section you’ll be
workin’ all your life! You’ve got too good a head fer that.”
“I don’t know,” said Allan, modestly. “This takes a pretty good
head, too, doesn’t it?”
“It takes a good head in a way; but it’s soon learnt, an’ after
thet, all a man has t’ do is t’ keep sober. But this is a, b, c,
compared t’ th’ work of runnin’ th’ road. Ever been up in th’
despatcher’s office?”
“No,” said Allan. “I never have.”
“Well, y’ want t’ git Jack t’ take y’ up there some day; then y’ll
see where head-work comes in. I know thet all the trainmen swear at
th’ despatchers; but jest th’ same, it takes a mighty good man t’
hold down th’ job.”
“I’ll ask Jack to take me,” said Allan; and he resolved to get all
the insight possible into the workings of this great engine of
industry, of which he had become a part.
Quitting-time came at last, and they loaded their tools wearily upon
the car and started on the five-mile run home. This time there was
no disturbing incident. The regular click, click of the wheels over
the rails told of a track in perfect condition. At last they rattled
over the switches in the yards and pushed the car into its place in
the section-house.
“You run along,” said Jack to Allan. “I’ve got t’ make out a report
to-night. It’ll take me maybe five minutes. Tell Mary I’ll be home
by then.”
“All right!” and Allan picked up his bundle of clothes and started
across the yards. He could see the little house that he called home
perched high on its bank of clay. Apparently they were watching for
him, for he saw a tiny figure running down the path, and knew that
Mamie was coming to meet him. She did not stop at the gate, but ran
across the narrow street and into the yards toward him. He quickened
his steps at the thought that some harm might befall her among this
maze of tracks. He could see her mother standing on the porch,
looking down at them, shading her eyes with her hand.
And then, in an instant, a yard-engine whirled out from behind the
roundhouse. Mamie looked around as she heard it coming, and stopped
short in the middle of the track, confused and terrified in presence
of this unexpected danger.