THE CONCRETE TRUCK
It was very hot in the deep hollow that pierced the mountain range behind
Santa Brigida on the Caribbean Sea. The black peaks cut against a glaring
sky and the steep slopes of red soil and volcanic cinders on one side of
the ravine were dazzlingly bright. The other was steeped in blue shadow
that scarcely seemed to temper the heat, and the dark-skinned men who
languidly packed the ballast among the ties of a narrow-gage railroad
that wound up the hill panted as they swung their shovels. At its lower
end, the ravine opened on to a valley that got greener as it ran down to
the glittering sea, on the edge of which feathery palms clustered round
Santa Brigida.
The old city, dominated by its twin, cathedral towers, shone ethereally
white in the distance, with a narrow fringe of flashing surf between it
and the vivid blue of the Caribbean. It was a thriving place, as the
black dots of steamers in the roadstead showed, for of late years
American enterprise had broken in upon its lethargic calm. The population
was, for the most part, of Spanish stock that had been weakened by
infusions of Indian and negro blood, but there were a number of Chinamen,
and French Creoles. Besides these, Americans, Britons, and European
adventurers had established themselves, and the town was a hotbed of
commercial and political intrigue. The newcomers were frankly there for
what they could get and fought cunningly for trading and agricultural
concessions. The leading citizens of comparatively pure Spanish strain
despised the grasping foreigners in their hearts, but as a rule took
their money and helped them in their plots. Moreover, they opened a
handsome casino and less reputable gambling houses with the object of
collecting further toll.
Such wealth as the country enjoyed was largely derived from the fertile
soil, but the district about Santa Brigida was less productive than the
rest and had been long neglected. There was rain enough all round, but
much of the moisture condensed on the opposite side of the range and left
the slopes behind the town comparatively arid. To remedy this an
irrigation scheme was being carried out by American capitalists, and the
narrow-gage railroad formed part of the undertaking.
A man dressed in rather baggy, gray clothes and a big, soft hat sat in
the shadow of the rock. His thin face had been recently browned by the
sun, for the paler color where his hat shaded it showed that he was used
to a northern climate. Though his pose was relaxed and he had a cigar in
his mouth, there was a hint of energy about him and he was following the
curves of the railroad with keenly observant eyes. A girl in white dress
of fashionable cut sat near him, holding a green-lined sunshade, for
although they were in the shadow the light was strong. The likeness
between them indicated they were father and daughter.
"I expect you're feeling it pretty hot," Fuller remarked.
"It is not oppressive and I rather like the brightness," the girl
replied. "Besides, it's cool enough about the tent after the sun goes
behind the range. Of course, you are used to the climate."
"I was, but that was twenty-four years ago and before you were born. Got
my first lift with the ten thousand dollars I made in the next state down
this coast, besides the ague and shivers that have never quite left me.
However, it's pretty healthy up here, and I guess it ought to suit Jake
all right."
Ida Fuller looked thoughtful, and her pensive expression added to the
charm of her attractive face. She had her father's keen eyes, but they
were, like her hair, a soft dark-brown; and the molding of brows and nose
and mouth was rather firm than delicate. While her features hinted at
decision of character, there was nothing aggressive in her look, which,
indeed, was marked by a gracious calm. Though she was tall, her figure
was slender.
"Yes," she agreed, "if he would stay up here!"
Fuller nodded. "I'd have to fix him up with work enough to keep him busy,
and ask for a full-length report once a week. That would show me what he
was doing and he'd have to stick right to his job to find out what was
going on."
"Unless he got somebody to tell him, or perhaps write the report. Jake,
you know, is smart."
"You're fond of your brother, but I sometimes think you're a bit hard on
him. I admit I was badly riled when they turned him down from Yale, but
it was a harmless fool-trick he played, and when he owned up squarely I
had to let it go."
"That's Jake's way. You can't be angry with him. Still, perhaps, it's a
dangerous gift. It might be better for him if he got hurt now and then."
Fuller, who did not answer, watched her, as she pondered. Her mother had
died long ago, and Fuller, who was largely occupied by his business, knew
that Jake might have got into worse trouble but for the care Ida had
exercised. He admitted that his daughter, rather than himself, had
brought up the lad, and her influence had been wholly for good. By and by
she glanced at Santa Brigida.
"It's the casino and other attractions down there I'm afraid of. If you
had some older man you could trust to look after Jake, one would feel
more satisfied."
"Well," said Fuller with a twinkle, "there's nobody I know who could fill
the bill, and I'm not sure the older men are much steadier than the
rest."
He stopped as a puff of smoke rose at the lower end of the ravine and
moved up the hill. Then a flash of twinkling metal broke out among the
rocks, and Ida saw that a small locomotive was climbing the steep track.
"She's bringing up concrete blocks for the dam," Fuller resumed. "We use
them large in the lower courses, and I had the bogie car they're loaded
on specially built for the job; but I'm afraid we'll have to put down
some pieces of the line again. The grade's pretty stiff and the curves
are sharp."
Ida was not bored by these details. She liked her father to talk to her
about his business, and her interest was quickly roused. Fuller, who was
proud of her keen intelligence, told her much, and she knew the
importance of the irrigation scheme he had embarked upon. Land in the
arid belt could be obtained on favorable terms and, Fuller thought, be
made as productive as that watered by the natural rainfall. It was,
however, mainly because he had talked about finding her scapegrace
brother employment on the work that Ida had made him take her South.
As she glanced at the track she noted that room for it had been dug out
of the hillside, which was seamed by gullies that the rails twisted
round. The loose soil, consisting largely of volcanic cinders, appeared
to offer a very unsafe support. It had slipped away here and there,
leaving gaps between the ties, which were unevenly laid and at the
sharper bends overhung the steep slope below. In the meantime, the small
locomotive came nearer, panting loudly and throwing up showers of sparks,
and Ida remarked how the rails bent and then sprang up again as the
truck, which carried two ponderous blocks of stone, rolled over them. The
engine rocked, sparks flashed among the wheels as their flanges bit the
curves, and she wondered what the driver felt or if he had got used to
his rather dangerous work.
As a matter of fact, Dick Brandon, who drove the engine, felt some
nervous strain. He had applied for the post at Kemp's suggestion, after
the latter had given him a few lessons in locomotive work, and had since
been sorry that he had obtained it. Still he had now a room to himself at
the shed where the engine was kept, and a half-breed fireman to help him
with the heavier part of his task. He preferred this to living in a hot
bunk-house and carrying bags of cement in the grinding mill, though he
knew there was a certain risk of his plunging down the ravine with his
engine.
The boiler primed when he started and was not steaming well. The pistons
banged alarmingly as they compressed the water that spurted from the
drain-cocks, and his progress was marked by violent jerks that jarred the
couplings of the bogie truck. Though Dick only wore a greasy shirt and
overall trousers, he felt the oppressive heat, and his eyes ached with
the glare as he gazed up the climbing track. The dust that rolled about
the engine dimmed the glasses, the footplate rattled, and it looked as if
his fireman was performing a clumsy dance.
By and by he rather doubtfully opened the throttle to its widest. If the
boiler primed again, he might knock out the cylinder-heads, but there was
a steep pitch in front that was difficult to climb. The short locomotive
rocked and hammered, the wheels skidded and gripped again, and Dick took
his hand from the lever to dash the sweat from his eyes.
They were going up, and he would be past the worst if he could get his
load round the curve ahead. They were half way round when there was a
clang behind him and the engine seemed to leap forward. Glancing over his
shoulder as he shut off steam, Dick saw the fireman gazing back, and a
wide gap between the concrete blocks and his load of coal. The couplings
had snapped as they strained round the bend and the truck would run down
the incline until it smashed through the sheds that held the grinding and
mixing plant at the bottom. He saw that prompt action was needed, and
reversing the machinery, gave the fireman an order in uncouth Castilian.
The fellow looked at him stupidly, as if his nerve had failed, or he
thought the order too risky to obey. There was only one thing to be done,
and since it must be done at once, Dick must undertake it himself. The
engine was now running down the line after the truck, which had not
gathered much speed yet, and he climbed across the coal and dropped upon
the rear buffer-frame. Balancing himself upon it, he waited until the gap
between him and the truck got narrower, and then put his hand on top of
the concrete and swung himself across. He got his foot upon the side of
the car and made his way along, holding the top of the block, while the
dust rolled about him and he thought he would be jolted off. Indeed,
there was only an inch-wide ledge of smooth iron to support his foot,
which slipped once or twice; but he reached the brake-gear and screwed it
down. Then, crawling back, he hooked on the spare coupling and returned,
breathless and shaky, to his engine. A minute or two later he brought it
to a stop and had got down upon the line when somebody called him.
Looking round, he saw Fuller standing near, and knew him as the man who
had given him the dollar in the American town. He had heard that his
employer had come out to see what progress was being made, but had not
yet encountered him. He did not notice Ida, who was sitting in the shadow
of the rock.
"You were smart," said Fuller. "There'd have been an ugly smash if the
blocks had got away down the grade. But why didn't you stick to the
throttle and send your fireman?"
"I don't think he understood what he ought to do, and there was no time
to explain."
Fuller nodded. "So you did it yourself! But why didn't you push the car?
You could have held her up better then."
"I couldn't get behind it. The loop-track down at the switches has caved
in."
"I see. But it's a stiff grade and you didn't seem to be hustling your
engine much."
"The boiler was priming and I was afraid of the cylinders."
"Just so. You pumped up the water pretty high?"
"No; it was at the usual working level," said Dick, who paused and
resumed thoughtfully: "I can't account for the thing. Why does a boiler
prime?"
There are one or two obvious reasons for a boiler's priming; that is to
say, throwing water as well as steam into the engine, but this sometimes
happens when no cause can be assigned, and Fuller saw that Dick did not
expect an answer to his question. It was rather an exclamation, prompted
by his failure to solve a fascinating problem, and as such indicated that
his interest in his task was not confined to the earning of a living.
Fuller recognized the mind of the engineer.
"Well," he replied, "there's a good deal we don't know yet about the
action of fluids under pressure. But do you find the grade awkward when
she's steaming properly?"
"I can get up. Still, I think it will soon cost you as much in extra fuel
as it would to relay this bit of line. Two hundred cubic yards cut out at
the bend would make things much easier."
"Two hundred yards?" said Fuller, studying the spot.
"Two hundred and fifty at the outside," Dick answered confidently, and
then felt embarrassed as he saw Miss Fuller for the first time. His
clothes were few and dirty and he was awkwardly conscious that his hands
and face were black. But his employer claimed his attention.
"What would you reckon the weight of the stuff?"
Dick told him after a short silence, and Fuller asked: "Two-thousand-pound
tons?"
"Yes; I turned it into American weight."
"Well," said Fuller, "you must get on with your job now, but come up to
my tent after supper."
Dick started his locomotive, and when it panted away up the incline
Fuller looked at his daughter with a smile.
"What do you think of that young man?"
"He has a nice face. Of course he's not the type one would expect to find
driving a locomotive."
"Pshaw!" said Fuller. "I'm not talking about his looks."
"Nor am I, in the way you mean," Ida rejoined. "I thought he looked
honest, though perhaps reliable is nearest what I felt. Then he was very
professional."
Fuller nodded. "That's what I like. The man who puts his job before what
he gets for it naturally makes the best work. What do you think of his
manner?"
"It was good; confident, but not assertive, with just the right note of
deference," Ida answered, and then laughed. "It rather broke down after
he saw me."
"That's not surprising, anyhow. I expect he's used to wearing different
clothes and more of them when he meets stylish young women. It doesn't
follow that the young fellow isn't human because he's professional.
However, I want to see what the boys are doing farther on."