GOOD NEWS AND BAD
His men were waiting for him, as he knew they would be, and the
story was soon told. They had started out in the morning, according
to his instructions, for a last run over the section, and soon
discovered the work of the enemy. Ties which had been piled neatly
at the side of the right of way had been thrown down, whitewashed
boulders around the mile-posts had been torn up, in many places
holes had been dug in the road-bed,—in short, the section was in a
condition which not only would have lost them the prize, but would
have brought unbearable disgrace upon their foreman.
They set to work like Trojans righting the damage, for they knew
they had only a few hours, beginning at the western end and working
slowly back toward the city. More than once it seemed that they
could not get through in time; but at last the work was done, just
as the whistle of the inspection train sounded in the distance.
“An’ mighty well done,” said Jack, approvingly, when the story was
ended. “You’ve done noble, m’ boys, an’ I won’t fergit it! Th’
section’s in as good shape as it was last night.”
“But what dirty criminal tore it up?” asked one of the men.
“I know who it was,” and Jack reddened with anger. “It was that
loafer of a Dan Nolan. He threatened he’d git even with me fer
firin’ him, but I didn’t pay no attention. I didn’t think he’d got
that low! Wait till I ketch him!”
And his men echoed the threat in a tone that boded ill for Daniel.
“Come on, Allan, we’ve got t’ be gittin’ back,” said Jack. “An’
thank y’ ag’in, boys,” and together he and Allan turned back toward
the waiting train.
Section Twenty-one was the last inspected before dinner, which was
awaiting them in the big depot dining-room at Wadsworth. The
officers came down from division headquarters to shake hands with
the men as they sat grouped about the long tables, and good-natured
chaff flew back and forth. But at last the engine-bell announced
that the green-decked train was ready to be off again eastward, over
the last hundred miles of the division, which ended at Parkersburg.
The men swarmed into their places again, and silence fell instantly
as the train started, rattling over the switches until it was clear
of the yards, then settling into a regular click, click, as it swung
out upon the main line. It must be confessed that this portion of
the trip had little interest for Allan. The monotony of it—mile
after mile of track gliding steadily away—began to wear upon him. He
was no expert in track-construction, and one stretch of road-bed
looked to him much like every other. So, before long, he found
himself nodding, and, when he straightened up with a jerk and opened
his eyes, he found Jack looking at him with a little smile.
They ran in upon a siding at Moonville to make way for a
passenger-train, and Jack, beckoning to Allan, climbed out upon the
track.
“I kin see you’re gittin’ tired,” said Jack, as they walked up and
down, stretching their legs. “I ought to let you stop back there at
Wadsworth. But mebbe I kin give y’ somethin’ more interestin’ fer
th’ rest o’ th’ trip. How’d y’ like t’ ride in th’ engine?”
Allan’s eyes sparkled.
“Do you think I might?” he asked, eagerly.
Jack laughed.
“I thought that’d wake y’ up! Yes,—we’ve got Bill Higgins with us on
this end, an’ I rather think he’ll let you ride in th’ cab. Let’s
find out.”
So they walked over to where the engineer was “oiling round,” in
railroad parlance—going slowly about his engine with a long-spouted
oil-can in one hand and a piece of waste in the other, filling the
oil-cups, wiping off the bearings, feeling them to see if they were
too hot, crawling under the boiler to inspect the link motion—in
short, petting his engine much as one might pet a horse.
“Bill,” began Jack, “this is Allan West, th’ boy thet I took on
section with me.”
Bill nodded, and looked at Allan with friendly eyes.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve heerd o’ him.”
“Well,” continued Jack, “he’s gittin’ purty tired ridin’ back there
with nothin’ t’ do but watch th’ track, an’ I thought mebbe you’d
let him ride in th’ cab th’ rest o’ th’ trip.”
“Why, sure!” agreed Bill, instantly. “Climb right up, sonny.”
Allan needed no second invitation, but clambered up and took his
place on one of the long seats which ran along either side of the
cab. Right in front of him was a narrow window through which he
could see the track stretching far ahead to meet the horizon. Below
him was the door to the fire-box, into which the fireman was at that
moment shovelling coal. At his side, mounted on the end of the
boiler, was a maze of gauges, cocks, wheels, and levers, whose uses
he could not even guess.
The engineer clambered up into the cab a moment later, glanced at
the steam and water gauges, to see that all was right, and then took
his place on his seat. He got out his “flimsy”—the thin, manifolded
telegraphic train order from headquarters, a copy of which had also
been given to the conductor—and read it carefully, noting the points
at which he was to meet certain trains and the time he was expected
to make to each. Then he passed it over to his fireman, who also
read it, according to the rules of the road. One man might forget
some point in the orders, but it was not probable that two would.
There came a long whistle far down the line, and Allan saw the
through passenger train leap into view and came speeding toward
them. It passed with a rush and a roar, and a minute later the
conductor raised his hand. The engineer settled himself on his seat,
pushed his lever forward, and opened the throttle gently, pulling it
wider and wider as the engine gathered speed. Never for an instant
did his glance waver from the track before him—a moment’s
inattention might mean death for him and for the men entrusted to
his care.
There was something fascinating in watching the mighty engine eat up
mile after mile of track. There were other things to watch, too. At
every crossing there was the danger of an accident, and Allan was
astonished at the chances people took in driving across the track,
without stopping to look up and down to see if there was any danger.
Deep in talk they were sometimes, until roused by a fierce blast
from the whistle; or sometimes the curtains of the buggy hid them
entirely from view. And although the right of way was private ground
and carefully fenced in on either side, there were many stragglers
along it,—a group of tramps boiling coffee in a fence corner, a
horse or cow that had managed to get across a cattle-guard, children
playing carelessly about or walking the rails in imitation of a
tight-rope performer. All these had to be watched and warned of
their danger. Never once did the engineer lift his hand from the
throttle, for that gave him the “feel” of the engine, almost as the
reins give the driver the “feel” of a spirited horse. Now and then
he glanced at the steam-gauge, but turned back instantly to watch
the track ahead.
Nor was the fireman idle. His first duty was to keep up steam, and
he noted every variation of the needle which showed the pressure,
shaking down his fire, and coaling up, as occasion demanded; raking
the coal down from the tender, so as to have it within easy reach;
sweeping off the “deck,” as the narrow passage from engine to tender
is called; and occasionally mounting the seat-box to ring the bell,
as they passed through a little village.
Allan began to understand the whistle signals—especially the two
long and two short toots which are the signal for a crossing, the
signal most familiar to travellers and to those who live along the
line of a railroad. And he grew accustomed to the rocking of the
engine, the roaring of the fire, the sudden, vicious hiss of steam
when the engineer tested a cock, the rush of the wind and patter of
cinders against the windows of the cab. He began to take a certain
joy in it—in the noise, the rattle, the motion. There was an
excitement in it that made his pulses leap.
So they hummed along, between broad fields, through little hamlets
and crossroads villages, mile after mile. Operators, flagmen, and
station-agents came out to wave at them, here and there they passed
a section-gang busy at work, now and then they paused until a
freight or passenger could thunder past—on and on, on and on. Allan
looked out at field and village, catching glimpses of men and women
at work, of children at play—they would turn their faces toward him,
and in another instant were gone. The life of the whole country was
unfolded before him,—everywhere there were men and women working,
everywhere there were children playing,—everywhere there was life
and hope and happiness and sorrow. If one could only go on like this
for ever, visiting new scenes, seeing new—
A sharp, sudden, agonized cry from the fireman startled him out of
his thoughts, and he felt the quick jolt as the engineer reversed
his engine and applied the brakes. For a moment, in the shrieking,
jolting pandemonium that followed, he thought the engine was off the
track; then, as he glanced ahead, his heart suddenly stood still.
For there, toddling down the track toward the engine, its little
hands uplifted, its face sparkling with laughter, was a baby, scarce
old enough to walk!
As long as he lives Allan will never forget that moment. He realized
that the train could not be stopped, that that little innocent,
trusting life must be ground out beneath the wheels. He felt that he
could not bear to see it, and turned away, but just then the fireman
sprang past him, slammed open the little window, ran along the
footboard, clambered down upon the pilot, and, holding to a bolt
with one hand, leaned far over and snatched the little one into the
air just as the engine bore down upon it. Allan, who had watched it
all with bated breath, fell back upon his seat with a great gasp of
thankfulness.
[Illustration: “SNATCHED THE LITTLE ONE INTO THE AIR JUST AS THE ENGINE
BORE DOWN UPON IT”]
The engine stopped with a jerk, the fireman sprang to the ground
with the baby in his arms. It was still crowing and laughing, and
patting his face with its hands. Allan, looking at him, was
surprised to see the great tears raining down his cheeks and
spattering on the baby’s clothes.
“It’s his kid,” said the engineer, hoarsely. “He lives up yonder,”
and he nodded toward a little house perched on the hillside that
sloped down to the track. “That’s th’ reason th’ kid was down
here—he come down t’ see his daddy!”
The section-men came pouring forward to find out what was the
matter, and surrounded the baby as soon as they heard the story,
petting him, passing him around from hand to hand—until, suddenly,
the mother, who had just missed him, came flying down the hill and
snatched him to her breast.
“Pile back in, boys,” called the conductor, cutting short the scene.
“We can’t stay here all day. We’ve got t’ make Stewart in eighteen
minutes.”
They hurried back to their places, the engineer, stopping only to
give his fireman a hearty grip of the hand, opened the throttle.
This time they were off with a jump—lost time had to be made up, and
in a moment they were singing along at a speed which seemed
positively dangerous. The engine rocked back and forth, and seemed
fairly to leap over the rails; the wind whistled around them; the
fire roared and howled in the fire-box. Eighteen minutes later, they
pulled in to the siding at Stewart, on time to the second.
Allan had had enough of riding in the cab, and, thanking the
engineer, and shaking hands with the fireman, he climbed down and
took his seat again in the inspection-car. But he was very tired,
and soon nodded off to sleep, and it was not until the train stopped
and a sudden clamour of talk arose that he started fully awake.
The men were handing in their reports to the superintendent, who,
with the assistance of the train-master, was going over them rapidly
to find out which section had received the most points. Zero was
very bad; ten was perfection. There were no zeros on any of the
seventy reports, however; and, let it be added, not many tens.
The moments passed as the train-master set down in a column under
each section the number of points it had received. Then he added up
the columns, the superintendent looking over his shoulder. They
compared the totals for a moment, and then, with a smile, the
superintendent took from his pocket a check upon which the name only
was lacking, and filled it in. Then he turned to the expectant men.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I think this company has cause to be
congratulated on the condition of its road-bed. A vote of seven
hundred, as you know, would mean perfection, and yet, not a single
section has fallen below six hundred. The highest vote for any one
section is 673, and that vote is given for Section Twenty-one, of
which John Welsh is foreman. Mr. Welsh, will you please come forward
and get your check?” and he fluttered the paper in the air above his
head.
A great burst of cheering broke forth again and again. They were
generous men, these section-foremen of the Irish Brigade, and,
seeing how all thought of self was forgotten, Allan’s eyes grew
suddenly misty. Not a man there who seemed to feel the bitterness of
the vanquished. But as Allan glanced over to Jack, who was making
his way over the seats and stopping to return hand-shakes right and
left, a cheer on his own account burst from the boy’s lips, and he
tossed his cap wildly in the air.
“Good for ye, lad!” cried one of the men, slapping the boy on his
back. “Give him a cheer! That’s right. Give him another cheer!” and
Allan was lifted to the shoulders of one of the brawny men, who
cried: “This is the b’y that saved Jack Welsh’s colleen, worth more
than a prize to Jack Welsh! Give the b’y a cheer!”
And the men responded with a will!
A moment later and they settled down again, as they saw the
superintendent was waiting for their attention.
“Welsh,” began that official, when quiet was restored, “you’re a
good man, and I’m glad that you got the prize. But,” he added,
looking around over the crowd, “you’re not the only good man in the
Irish Brigade. The only thing I’m sorry for is that I can’t give a
prize to every man here. I’m like the Dodo in ‘Alice in
Wonderland’—I think you’ve all won, and that you all ought to have
prizes. I want to thank you every one for your good work. I’m not
overstating things a bit when I say that this division is in better
shape than any other on the road. We’ve had fewer accidents, and
we’ve run our trains closer to the schedule than any other—all of
which is largely due to your good work. I’m proud of my Irish
Brigade!”
They cheered him and clapped him, and every man there resolved to do
better work, if possible, in the coming year than he had done in the
past one.
And yet there were some of the officials in the far-distant general
offices at Baltimore who wondered why the superintendent of the Ohio
division was so popular with his men!
* * * * *
Jack came to Allan at last and gripped his hand with a strength that
proved how deep his emotion was.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re goin’ home on Number Seven. It’ll start
in a minute.”
They went together across the tracks and clambered into the coach.
Allan caught a confused picture of a glare of lights and laughing
people crowding past. But hardly had the train started when his head
fell back against the seat, and slumber claimed him.
Jack waked him up at the journey’s end, and together they hurried
through the yards and up the steep path to the little cottage.
Jack’s wife was awaiting him in the doorway, and he drew forth the
check and placed it in her hands.
“We won,” he said, softly. “’Twas fer you, Mary, I wanted t’ win. It
means th’ new dress you’ve been a-needin’ so long, an’ a dress fer
Mamie; yes, an’ a new carpet.”
The wife said not a single word, but drew Jack’s face down to hers
and kissed it.
“Only,” he added, when his head was lifted, “I want t’ give tin
dollars of it t’ th’ boys—I’d ’a’ lost if it hadn’t been fer them.
An’ Reddy—how’s old Reddy?”
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, her eyes suffused with sudden tears, her lips
a-tremble, “it’s too terrible! He’s come to, but he don’t remember
nothin’—not a thing! He don’t know anybody—not even his own wife,
Jack, nor th’ childer, an’ th’ doctor says that maybe he never
will!”