AN ERROR AT HEADQUARTERS
When the Brock-Harrison party, familiarly known--among those with whom
they were by no means familiar--as the Steel Crowd, bought the
transcontinental lines that J. S. Bucks, the second vice-president and
general manager, had built up into a system, their first visit to the
West End was awaited with some uneasiness. An impression prevailed that
the new owners might take decided liberties with what Conductor O'Brien
termed the "personal" of the operating department.
But week after week followed the widely heralded announcement of the
purchase without the looked-for visit from the new owners. During the
interval West End men from the general superintendent down were
admittedly on edge--with the exception of Conductor O'Brien. "If I go, I
go," was all he said, and in making the statement in his even,
significant way it was generally understood that the trainman that ran
the pay-cars and the swell mountain specials had in view a
superintendency on the New York Central. On what he rested his
confidence in the opening no one certainly knew, though Pat Francis
claimed it was based wholly on a cigar in a glass case once given to the
genial conductor by Chauncey M. Depew when travelling special to the
coast under his charge.
Be that as it may, when the West End was at last electrified by the
announcement that the Brock-Harrison syndicate train had already crossed
the Missouri and might be expected any day, O'Brien with his usual luck
was detailed as one of the conductors to take charge of the visitors.
The pang in the operating department was that the long-delayed inspection
tour should have come just at a time when the water had softened things
until every train on the mountain division was run under slow-orders.
At McCloud Vice-president Bucks, a very old campaigner, had held the
party for two days to avoid the adverse conditions in the west and turned
the financiers of the party south to inspect branches while the road was
drying in the hills. But the party of visitors contained two distinct
elements, the money-makers and the money-spenders--the generation that
made the investment and the generation that distributed the dividends.
The young people rebelled at branch line trips and insisted on heading
for sightseeing and hunting straight into the mountains. Accordingly, at
McCloud the party split, and while Henry S. Brock and his business
associates looked over the branches, his private cars containing his
family and certain of their friends were headed for the headquarters of
the mountain division, Medicine Bend.
Medicine Bend is not quite the same town it used to be, and
disappointment must necessarily attend efforts to identify the once
familiar landmarks of the mountain division. Improvement, implacable
priestess of American industry, has well-nigh obliterated the picturesque
features of pioneer days. The very right of way of the earliest overland
line, abandoned for miles and miles, is seen now from the car windows
bleaching on the desert. So once its own rails, vigorous and aggressive,
skirted grinning heaps of buffalo bones, and its own tangents were spiked
across the grave of pony rider and Indian brave--the king was: the king
is.
But the Sweetgrass winds are the same. The same snows whiten the peaks,
the same sun dies in western glory, and the mountains still see nestling
among the tracks at the bend of the Medicine River the first headquarters
building of the mountain division, nicknamed The Wickiup. What, in the
face of continual and unrelenting changes, could have saved the Wickiup?
Not the fact that the crazy old gables can boast the storm and stress of
the mad railroad life of another day than this--for every deserted curve
and hill of the line can do as much. The Wickiup has a better claim to
immortality, for once its cracked and smoky walls, raised solely to house
the problems and perplexities of the operating department, sheltered a
pair of lovers, so strenuous in their perplexities that even yet in the
gleam of the long night-fires of the West End their story is told.
In that day the construction department of the mountain division was
cooped up at one end of the hall on the second floor of the building.
Bucks at that time thought twice before he indorsed one of Glover's
twenty-thousand-dollar specifications. Now, with the department
occupying the entire third floor and pushing out of the dormer windows, a
million-dollar estimate goes through like a requisition for postage
stamps.
But in spite of his hole-in-the-wall office, Glover, the construction
engineer of that day, was a man to be reckoned with in estimates of West
End men. They knew him for a captain long before he left his mark on the
Spider the time he held the river for a straight week at twenty-eight
feet, bitted and gagged between Hailey's piers, and forced the yellow
tramp to understand that if it had killed Hailey there were equally bad
men left on the mountain pay-roll. Glover, it may be said, took his
final degrees in engineering in the Grand Cañon; he was a member of the
Bush party, and of the four that got back alive to Medicine one was Ab
Glover.
Glover rebuilt the whole system of snowsheds on the West End, practically
everything from the Peace to the Sierras. Every section foreman in the
railroad Bad Lands knew Glover. Just how he happened to lose his
position as chief engineer of the system--for he was a big man on the
East End when he first came with the road--no one certainly knew. Some
said he spoke his mind too freely--a bad trait in a railroad man; others
said he could not hold down the job. All they knew in the mountains was
that as a snow fighter he could wear out all the plows on the division,
and that if a branch line were needed in haste Glover would have the
rails down before an ordinary man could get his bids in.
Ordinarily these things are expected from a mountain constructionist and
elicit no comment from headquarters, but the matter at the Spider was one
that could hardly pass unnoticed. For a year Glover had been begging for
a stenographer. Writing, to him, was as distasteful as soda-water, and
one morning soon after his return from the valley flood a letter came
with the news that a competent stenographer had been assigned to him and
would report at once for duty at Medicine Bend.
Glover emerged from his hall-office in great spirits and showed the
letter to Callahan, the general superintendent, for congratulations.
"That is right," commented Callahan cynically. "You saved them a hundred
thousand dollars last month--they are going to blow ten a week on you.
By the way, your stenographer is here."
"He is?"
"She is. Your stenographer, a very dignified young lady, came in on
Number One. You had better go and get shaved. She has been in to
inquire for you and has gone to look up a boarding-place. Get her
started as soon as you can--I want to see your figures on the Rat Cañon
work."
A helper now would be a boon from heaven. "But she won't stay long after
she sees this office," Glover reflected ruefully as he returned to it.
He knew from experience that stenographers were hard to hold at Medicine
Bend. They usually came out for their health and left at the slightest
symptoms of improvement. He worried as to whether he might possibly have
been unlucky enough to draw another invalid. And at the very moment he
had determined he would not lose his new assistant if good treatment
would keep her he saw a trainman far down the gloomy hall pointing a
finger in his direction--saw a young lady coming toward him and realized
he ought to have taken time that morning to get shaved.
There was nothing to do but make the best of it; dismissing his
embarrassment he rose to greet the newcomer. His first reflection was
that he had not drawn an invalid, for he had never seen a fresher face in
his life, and her bearing had the confidence of health itself.
"I heard you had been here," he said reassuringly as the young lady
hesitated at his door.
"Pardon me?"
"I heard you had been here," he repeated with deference.
"I wish to send a despatch," she replied with an odd intonation. Her
reply seemed so at variance with his greeting that a chill tempered his
enthusiasm. Could they possibly have sent him a deaf stenographer?--one
worn in the exacting service at headquarters? There was always a fly
somewhere in his ointment, and so capable and engaging a young lady
seemed really too good to be true. He saw the message blank in her hand.
"Let me take it," he suggested, and added, raising his voice, "It shall
go at once." The young lady gave him the message and sitting down at his
desk he pressed an electric call. Whatever her misfortunes she enlisted
his sympathy instantly, and as no one had ever accused him of having a
weak voice he determined he would make the best of the situation. "Be
seated, please," he said. She looked at him curiously. "Pray, be
seated," he repeated more firmly.
"I desire only to pay for my telegram."
"Not at all. It isn't necessary. Just be seated!"
In some bewilderment she sat down on the edge of the chair beside which
she stood.
"We are cramped for room at present in the construction department," he
went on, affixing his frank to the telegram. "Here, Gloomy, rush this,
my boy," said he to the messenger, who came through a door connecting
with the operator's room. "But we have the promise of more space soon,"
he resumed, addressing the young lady hopefully. "I have had your desk
placed there to give you the benefit of the south light."
The stenographer studied the superintendent of construction with some
surprise. His determination to provide for her comfort was most apparent
and his apologies for his crowded quarters were so sincere that they
could not but appeal to a stranger. Her expression changed. Glover felt
that he ought to ask her to take off her hat, but could not for his life.
The frankness of her eyes was rather too confusing to support very much
of at once, and he busied himself at sorting the blueprints on his table,
guiltily aware that she was alive to his unshaven condition. He
endeavored to lead the conversation. "We have excellent prospects of a
new headquarters building." As he spoke he looked up. Her eyes were
certainly extraordinary. Could she be laughing at him? The prospect of
a new building had been, it was true, a joke for many years and evidently
she put no more confidence in the statement than he did himself. "Of
course, you are aware," he continued to bolster his assertion, "that the
road has been bought by an immensely rich lot of Pittsburg duffers----"
The stenographer half rose in her chair. "Will it not be possible for me
to pay for my message at once?" she asked somewhat peremptorily.
"I have already franked it."
"But I did not----"
"Don't mention it. All I will ask in return is that you will help me get
some letters out of the way to-day," returned Glover, laying a pencil and
note-book on the desk before her. "The other work may go till to-morrow.
By the way, have you found a boarding-place?"
"A boarding-place?"
"I understand you were looking for one."
"I have one."
"The first letter is to Mr. Bucks--I fancy you know _his_ address--" She
did not begin with alacrity. Their eyes met, and in hers there was a
queerish expression.
"I'm not at all sure I ought to undertake this," she said rapidly and
with a touch of disdainful mischief.
"Give yourself no uneasiness--" he began.
"It is you I fear who are giving yourself uneasiness," she interrupted.
"No, I dictate very slowly. Let's make a trial anyway." To avoid
embarrassment he looked the other way when he saw she had taken up the
pencil.
"My Dear Bucks," he began. "Your letter with programme for the Pittsburg
party is received. Why am I to be nailed to the cross with part of the
entertaining? There's no hunting now. The hair is falling off grizzlies
and Goff wouldn't take his dogs out at this season for the President of
the United States. What would you think of detailing Paddy McGraw to
give the young men a fast ride--they have heard of him. I talked
yesterday with one of them. He wanted to see a train robber and I
introduced him to Conductor O'Brien, but he never saw the joke, and you
know how depressing explanations are. Don't, my dear Bucks, put me on a
private car with these people for four weeks--my brother died of
paresis----"
"Oh!" He turned. The stenographer's cheeks were burning; she was
astonishingly pretty. "I'm going too fast, I'm afraid," said Glover.
"I do not think I had better attempt to continue," she answered, rising.
Her eyes fairly burned the brown mountain engineer.
"As you like," he replied, rising too, "It was hardly fair to ask you to
work to-day. By the way, Mr. Bucks forgot to give me your name."
"Is it necessary that you should have my name?"
"Not in the least," returned Glover with insistent consideration, "any
name at all will do, so I shall know what to call you."
For an instant she seemed unable to catch her breath, and he was about to
explain that the rarefied air often affected newcomers in that way when
she answered with some intensity, "I am Miss Brock. I never have
occasion to use any other name."
Whatever result she looked for from her spirited words, his manner lost
none of its urbanity. "Indeed? That's the name of our Pittsburg
magnate. You ought to be sure of a position under _him_--you might turn
out to be a relation," he laughed, softly.
"Quite possibly."
"Do not return this afternoon," he continued as she backed away from him.
"This mountain air is exhausting at first----"
"Your letters?" she queried with an expression that approached pleasant
irony.
"They may wait."
She courtesied quaintly. He had never seen such a woman in his life, and
as his eyes fixed on her down the dim hall he was overpowered by the
grace of her vanishing figure.
Sitting at his table he was still thinking of her when Solomon, the
messenger, came in with a telegram. The boy sat down opposite the
engineer, while the latter read the message.
"That Miss Brock is fine, isn't she?"
Glover scowled. "I took a despatch over to the car yesterday and she
gave me a dollar," continued Solomon.
"What car?"
"Her car. She's in that Pittsburg party."
"The young lady that sat here a moment ago?"
"Sure; didn't you know? There she goes now to the car again." Glover
stepped to the east window. A young lady was gathering up her gown to
mount the car-step and a porter was assisting her. The daintiness of her
manner was a nightmare of conviction. Glover turned from the window and
began tearing up papers on his table. He tore up all the worthless
papers in sight and for months afterward missed valuable ones. When he
had filled the waste-basket he rammed blue-prints down into it with his
foot until he succeeded in smashing it. Then he sat down and held his
head between his hands.
She was entitled to an apology, or an attempt at one at least, and though
he would rather have faced a Sweetgrass blizzard than an interview he set
his lips and with bitterness in his heart made his preparations. The
incident only renewed his confidence in his incredible stupidity, but
what he felt was that a girl with such eyes as hers could never be
brought to believe it genuine.
An hour afterward he knocked at the door of the long olive car that stood
east of the station. The hand-rails were very bright and the large plate
windows shone spotless, but the brown shades inside were drawn. Glover
touched the call-button and to the uniformed colored man who answered he
gave his card asking for Miss Brock.
An instant during which he had once waited for a dynamite blast when
unable to get safely away, came back to him. Standing on the handsome
platform he remembered wondering at that time whether he should land in
one place or in several places. Now, he wished himself away from that
door even if he had to crouch again on the ledge which he had found in a
deadly moment he could not escape from. On the previous occasion the
fuse had mercifully failed to burn. This time when he collected his
thoughts the colored man was smilingly telling him for the second time
that Miss Brock was not in.