AFTERMATH
SHOULD Allan West live for a hundred years, he will never forget that
instant in which he closed his eyes and braced himself for the terrific
shock he knew must come. There was no time to think, no time even for
the sensation of fear to make itself felt; only a sort of dim
realization that the end was at hand.
Then he felt the engine give a mighty lurch, which almost tore it from
the rails; a roar sounded in his ears, there was another lurch, and
opening his eyes, at last, he saw only the straight track ahead of him,
and felt the engine gradually gaining speed as Michaels released the
brakes and slowly opened the throttle.
He sat erect with a gasp of amazement, and wiped the sweat from his
forehead with shaking hand. He looked down at the fireman, who had
phlegmatically resumed his duties; then over at the engineer, who was
gazing straight ahead of him, his face set and gray.
“What happened?” he shouted, as the fireman closed the fire-box and
stood resting for a moment.
“Blamed if I know,” the latter answered. “I was shovellin’ in coal, when
Bill clapped on the brakes and purty nigh throwed me into the fire-box.
Then we passed a freight an’ Bill let her out again. He must ’a’ thought
she was on the same track.”
“She _was_ on the same track,” said Allan.
“Well, we passed her, anyway,” retorted the fireman, philosophically,
and returned to his duties.
Then Allan remembered the switch and understood dimly what had happened.
But it was not until the investigation was held that he knew all the
details.
The crew of the freight were, of course, hauled up “on the carpet.” The
two brakemen who had opened the switches at the proper instant and
shunted the special past were commended for their prompt action, and
exonerated from blame, as the train was, of course, in charge of the
conductor and engineer. The two latter worthies were suspended
indefinitely without pay.
It was by no means the first time in the history of the road that a
freight crew had gone to sleep on a siding and waked up to find that
they no longer knew what their rights were. The proper thing to have
done, of course, was either to have flagged in to the next station, or
to have hunted up the nearest telephone and found out from the
dispatchers’ office just what their rights were.
“That front brakeman will make a good railroad man,” remarked Mr.
Plumfield, when the inquiry into the incident was over, taking a little
red, leather-bound book from a drawer of his desk. “He’s quick-witted—no
man ever lasted very long with a railroad who wasn’t.”
He ran down the index at the front of the book, turned to the names of
the four men who had just been on the carpet, and wrote a short sentence
after each of them. That record would stand to commend or condemn them
so long as they were connected with the road. The record of every man
was there, with all his merits and demerits. Train masters might
forget—might be promoted or discharged—but that record always remained.
“Yes,” went on the train master, restoring the book to its drawer, “if a
railroad man’s wits aren’t hung on hair-triggers and quicker than
greased lightning in action, he’s usually knocked into Kingdom Come
before he has a chance to realize he never was cut out for the work.”
And Mr. Plumfield was right. A railroad man must learn to act without
stopping to think—he seldom has time to think. Perhaps if he had, he
wouldn’t be so ready to risk his life as he is—for he risks his life a
thousand times to a soldier’s once—but he always does it in a hurry.
There is no long waiting under fire until the welcome order comes to
charge—if there were, the railroad man would probably run away, and so
would the soldier, but for the iron discipline that binds him. That’s
what discipline is for—to hold men firm in the face of realized and
long-continued danger—for there is nothing on earth more difficult than
to make men stand still and be shot at. The railroad man never has to
stand still—he has to jump, and jump quick. All men aren’t heroes, but
their first impulse is usually to do the brave and necessary thing.
Railroad men always act on that first impulse—and think about it and
shiver over it and wonder at themselves afterwards.
* * * * *
Despite the misadventure, the special swept into Wadsworth on time,
having covered ninety miles in ninety minutes—a record which has never
been equalled, or even, for that matter, very nearly approached. For
never since has a train been sent over the road under such orders.
A crowd had gathered at the Wadsworth station to receive the great man,
confident that he would, at least, favour them with one of those
scintillating three-minute talks for which he was so famous. So they
gathered about the rear platform of his car yelling “Speech! speech!”
For a time there was no response, then, finally, the door opened, but it
was not the great man who appeared. It was his secretary, looking very
white and shaky. He apologized for the great man in a thin and tremulous
voice; the trip had been a very trying one, and the great man was
suffering from the strain incident to the vigorous campaign he had been
waging. He was lying down, endeavouring to get some much-needed rest,
recognizing the necessity of saving himself for the final struggle which
was to bring New York safe into line and assure an administration whose
first effort it would be, etc., etc.
The crowd gave a few subdued cheers and melted away. Then the secretary
leaped down the steps of the car and rushed up to Allan, who was
watching the process of changing engines.
“Are you in charge here?” asked the secretary.
“I’m putting this special through, if that’s what you mean,” answered
Allan.
“Well,” said the secretary, “you’re wanted in the private car at once.”
“Very well,” said Allan, and sprang up the steps behind him.
The great man was half-sitting, half-lying in a large chair. His face
was gray and sunken and his eyes strangely bloodshot.
“This is the man in charge,” said the secretary, bringing Allan to a
halt before the chair.
“I just want to tell you one thing,” said the great man, hoarsely,
lifting a trembling finger, “and that is that if you’re all crazy out
here I’m not! The man who brought us over that last stretch of road
ought to be in an asylum.”
“We made the ninety miles in ninety minutes,” said Allan, with some
pride.
“Well, I won’t stand for anything more of that sort. Give me your word
not to exceed fifty miles an hour at any time, or I’ll get off the
train.”
“Very well, sir,” answered Allan. “Will you put it in writing?”
“In writing? What for?”
“My orders are to push the engines for all they’re worth.”
The great man swore a mighty oath.
“Jim, give me a sheet of paper,” he said to his secretary. And a moment
later the order was written, in a sprawly scribble:
“October 15, 19—
“This special will hereafter at no time exceed a speed of fifty (50)
miles per hour.
“Signed, ————”
And Allan still has that order, neatly framed, hanging over his desk.
He hurried away and modified the train-orders, so that Clem Johnson, the
engineer who was to take the special from Wadsworth to Parkersburg,
suddenly lost all interest in life and climbed into his cab in a
towering rage.
“Lost his nerve,” he said to his fireman, with a jerk of his head toward
the private car. “An’ I don’t suppose they’ll be any runnin’ on the same
road with Michaels no more—he’ll have the swell-head so bad. It’s tough
luck—that’s what I call it—mighty tough luck.”
“Them fellers never do have any sand,” observed the fireman,
contemptuously. “We’d ’a’ beat Michaels’s time easy.”
“O’ course we would!” growled the engineer. “An’ now we’ve got t’ crawl
along like a funeral percession. I’ll show him!” and he pulled the
throttle open viciously, so that the train started with a jerk that
caused the great man to jump with alarm.
The engineer observed his orders not to exceed fifty miles an hour, but
the trip was not a pleasant one, for all that; for he took a savage
delight in banging and jerking the train, so that even the great private
car felt the uneven motion, and swayed and groaned and jumped in a
manner which reduced its distinguished occupant to the verge of
prostration. Finally he called the conductor.
“What’s the matter with this track, anyway?” he demanded. “I feel like I
was riding over a corduroy road. Has there been an earthquake, or what?”
“No, sir,” answered the conductor, who understood what the engineer was
doing and was delighted thereat. “There ain’t been no earthquake. The
track is perfectly smooth, sir. I don’t think the engine’s working just
right—a little uneven.”
“Uneven!” repeated the great man. “Is that the best word you can find
for it? It reminds me of a bucking broncho! Heavens!” and he buried his
face in his hands again.
“Huh!” grunted the conductor to himself, as he withdrew. “Lost his
nerve!”
It was true. The great man had lost his nerve. Not for weeks did he
regain his usual tone. The leaders in New York were greatly disappointed
by his lack of “ginger;” his speeches did not have that telling quality
they had possessed of old—in a word, he lost New York State and the
Presidency—and all, perhaps, because a freight crew went to sleep on a
siding out in Ohio. An incident, surely, to rank with the spider that
saved Mahomet or the whinny which made Darius King of Persia.
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