REDDY’S EXPLOIT
As time went on, it became more and more evident that the doctor’s
prediction with regard to Reddy Magraw was to be fulfilled. He
regained his strength, but the light seemed quite gone from his
brain. The officials of the railroad company did all they could for
poor Reddy. When the local doctors failed, they brought an eminent
specialist from Cincinnati for consultation, but all seemed to agree
there was nothing to be done but to wait. There was one chance in a
thousand that a surgical operation might prove of benefit, but there
was just as great a chance that Nature herself might do the work
better.
Reddy remembered nothing of his past life. More than this, it
gradually became evident to his friends that his genial nature had
undergone a change through the darkness that had overtaken his
brain. He grew estranged from his family, and strangely suspicious
of some of his friends, those to whom he had really been most
attached. Among these last was Allan. He would have nothing whatever
to do with the boy.
“It’s one of the most ordinary symptoms of dementia,” the doctor had
explained, when Jack questioned him about it. “Aversion to friends
is what we always expect. His wife feels it more keenly than you
do.”
“Of course she does, poor woman!” agreed Jack. “But he hasn’t got to
abusin’ her, sir, has he?”
“Oh, no; he doesn’t abuse her; he just avoids her, and shows his
dislike in other ways. If he begins to abuse her, we’ll have to
send him to the asylum. But I don’t anticipate any violence—I think
he’s quite harmless.”
It was while they were sitting on the porch one evening discussing
the sad situation of their friend, that Allan turned suddenly to
Jack.
“Do you remember,” he said, “that first noon we were talking
together, you started to tell me of some brave thing Reddy had done,
and he shut you off?”
“Yes,” Jack nodded; “I remember.”
“Tell me now, won’t you? I’d like to hear about it.”
“All right,” said Jack, and told the story. Here it is:
Six years before, Reddy Magraw had been one of the labourers at the
big coal-chute which towered into the air at the eastern end of the
yards; just an ordinary labourer, working early and late, as every
labourer for a railroad must, but then, as always, happy and
care-free.
It was one afternoon in June that a message flashed into the
despatcher’s office which sent the chief despatcher headlong into
the office of the superintendent.
“The operator at Baker’s just called me up, sir,” he gasped, “to
report that second Ninety-seven ran through there, going forty miles
an hour, and that the engineer dropped a message tied to a wrench
saying his throttle-valve had stuck, and his brakes wouldn’t work,
and that he couldn’t stop his engine!”
The superintendent started to his feet, his face livid.
“They’ll be here in eight minutes,” he said. “Where’s Number Four?”
“Just past Roxabel. We can’t catch her, and the freight will run
into her sure if we let it through the yards.”
“We won’t let it through the yards,” said the superintendent, and
went down the stairs three steps at a time, and sped away in the
direction of the coal-chute.
He had reflected rapidly that if the freight could be derailed at
the long switch just below the chute, it could be run into a gravel
bank, where it would do much less damage than farther up in the
yards, among the network of switches there. He ran his swiftest, but
as he reached the chute, he heard, far down the track, the roar of
the approaching train. Evidently it was not yet under control. Reddy
Magraw heard the roar, too, and straightened up in amazement. Why
should a freight approach the yards at that speed? Then he saw the
superintendent tugging madly at the switch.
“Thet switch won’t work, sir,” he said. “A yard ingine hit the p’int
about an hour ago an’ jammed it.”
“Won’t work!” echoed the superintendent, and stared blankly down the
track at the train which every second was whirling nearer.
“Is it a runaway?” asked Reddy, suddenly understanding.
“Yes,—a runaway,—maybe I can make the other switch,” and he started
away, but Reddy caught him by the arm.
“Wait, sir,” he cried; “wait. We’ll fix ’em—throw ’em on to th’
chute.”
“On to the chute?”
“Yes, on to th’ chute. Throw th’ switch there,” and Reddy, grabbing
up two big cans of oil, started for the track leading to the long
ascent.
Then the superintendent understood, and, with a gasp of relief, ran
to the switch and threw it.
Up the steep ascent ran Reddy, a can in either hand, spurting
streams of oil upon the rails—up and up—yet it seemed that he must
certainly be caught and hurled to death, for a moment later the
great freight-engine reached the structure, which groaned and
trembled under this unaccustomed weight. Up the incline it mounted,
the weight of the train behind it urging it on. Half-way up,
two-thirds, almost upon Reddy, where he bent over the rails, a can
in either hand, never pausing to look back.
From under the pounding drivers the smoke flew in clouds—the oil was
being burned by friction. Yet down the rails flowed more oil; the
drivers were sliding now, the speed of the train was
lessening—lessening. The engine was racking itself out, its power
was spent, it had been conquered. For an instant it hung poised on
the incline, then slowly started down again. The crew had managed to
set the hand-brakes, and these held the train somewhat, but still it
coasted back down that incline at a speed that brought the watchers’
hearts into their throats. The wheels held the rails, however, and a
quarter of a mile back on the main line it stopped, its power for
evil exhausted. And just then Number Four whistled for signal, and
rumbled slowly into the other end of the yards. The superintendent
drew a deep breath of relief and thankfulness as he thought of what
the result would have been had the runaway not been stopped in time.
“Was Reddy hurt?” asked Allan, who had listened to the story
breathlessly.
“Hurt? Oh, no; he come down th’ chute, put th’ empty oil-cans back
in their places, an’ went t’ work ag’in.”
“But didn’t the company do something for him?” persisted the boy.
“Wasn’t he rewarded?”
“No,” said Jack, puffing away at his pipe with a very grim face;
“but th’ superintendent was promoted.”
“The superintendent?”
“Yes; he got his promotion. Y’ see, in his report of th’ accident,
he somehow fergot t’ mention Reddy.”
Allan flushed with a sudden generous anger.
“But,” he began, “that wasn’t—”
“Honest?” and Jack laughed a little bitterly. “No, maybe not; but
what could a poor feller like Reddy do about it? Only,” he added,
“it’s jest as well fer that superintendent he didn’t stay on this
division. Th’ boys would ’a’ given him some mighty lively times.
We’ve got a gentleman fer a superintendent now. He don’t try t’
stale nobody else’s thunder—he’s given Reddy a square deal this
time.”
Truth to tell, Reddy’s family was being better provided for than it
had ever been—the superintendent saw to that; and Reddy himself was
receiving the best medical attention to be secured, though it seemed
more and more certain that even the greatest skill would be unable
to restore his memory.
It was long before sleep came to Allan’s eyes that night, so excited
was he over Jack’s story of Reddy’s exploit, and so indignant at the
injustice that had been done him. He was thinking about it still,
next day, until, of a sudden, he was forcibly reminded that he also
possessed an enemy who was watching eagerly for an opportunity to
injure him, and who would pause at no treachery.