IN CHARGE AT WADSWORTH
THE P. & O. freight-house at Wadsworth is a long, low, one-storied brick
building which stands just across the yards from the station. Like the
station, it is dingy and grimy and gritty, as well as inadequate to the
needs of the terminal; but no attempt was ever made to clean or
brighten—much less to enlarge—it, and its self-respect had long since
disappeared as a result of this neglect.
At one end of the building are the offices, where the freight agent and
his clerks labour with reports and receipts and bills of lading—a mass
and complexity of documents appalling and seemingly inextricable. The
offices are crowded and gloomy and ill-smelling, for here, too, the road
economizes at the expense of its employees’ health; but their condition
is order and cleanliness itself when compared with that of the great
echoing freight-shed which occupies three-fourths of the building. No
light penetrates to it except from the doors, for there is no room for
windows, and the doors are overhung by the wide, low roof which covers
the surrounding platform. As a result, the freight-shed resembles a
cavern in everything but atmosphere. In that, it resembles only itself;
for its atmosphere is a thing apart, a thing to be encountered nowhere
else, compounded as it is of a variety of odours which defy enumeration.
You have seen composite photographs? Well, the freight-house atmosphere
reminded one of a composite photograph of particularly ugly people. It
was something to flee from and wonder at and remember with awe.
A wide platform the height of a freight car door runs all around this
portion of the building, abutting on one side on the yards and on the
other on the street. Behind it, and stretching along between the yards
and the street, is a long platform, an extension of the one running
around the building. Beside this platform, a long line of freight cars
is always standing—loaded cars from which the freight is being yanked
out into the freight-house, or empties into which freight from the house
is being hustled. And so various it is—crates, boxes, barrels, kegs,
baskets, loose pieces of steel and iron, great sacks of burlap—it is
impossible to give any idea of it here. Imagine, if you can, all the
things you ever saw in all the stores in town, and all the raw material
which is used in your town’s manufactures, and you will find that nearly
all of it came through the freight depot; to say nothing of your town’s
products which go out again. It is a strenuous place, the freight depot,
and the men who labour there are big-armed and strong-backed and
deep-chested. For theirs is a job that demands brawn.
It was the echoing cavern of the freight-shed at Wadsworth which had
been selected by Mr. Round as headquarters for the strike-breakers, not
because it was particularly adapted to that use, but because it was the
only place available. So the freight on hand had to be carefully sorted
over, the larger articles taken out and stacked on the platform, the
smaller ones stacked up at the end of the room nearest the offices,
behind a flimsy board partition which had been hastily nailed up. Behind
this barrier the freight men were instructed to transact their business,
and orders were issued that on no account should any of them be
permitted any intercourse with the strike-breakers.
Then some attempt was made to clean the remainder of the room; the
tables and cots were put in place, the range installed, the cook put to
work arranging his pantry, and the place was ready for its occupants.
These, as has been said, arrived on the evening train, and were at once
marched over to the place which was to be their home for an indefinite
length of time.
Under the glare of the gas lights overhead, the place presented a
somewhat more attractive appearance than it did by day, and the
bountiful supper which was soon provided did its share toward putting
the newcomers in good humour with themselves and their surroundings. The
odour of cooking had served to mitigate the odour of the freight-house,
and a cloud of tobacco smoke soon wiped it out altogether. The
strike-breakers, under the softening influence of all this, began to
look around at each other and to take the first steps toward getting
acquainted.
For they were strangers to each other; they had been gathered together
hastily from many different sources, and were as diverse in appearance
and, no doubt, in character, as forty-eight men could be. None of them,
it was evident at once, would rank very high in the social scale. Most
of them were plainly failures, and a glance at their rubicund and
mottled faces revealed what the principal cause of failure had been.
“But then,” as Mr. Schofield was remarking to Mr. Plumfield and Allan
West, in his office across the yards, at that very moment, “we can keep
drink away from them for a time, or, at least, give them just enough to
keep them from losing their nerve. It will be easy enough for the first
two or three days, but after that we’ll have to look out. The drink
hunger will get some of them sure, and they’ll break away; but most of
them will stay, because we won’t give them any money till payday, and
they’re all broke. Those who want to go, we’ll have to let go, of
course, for we can’t hold them prisoners—though we’ll be accused of
doing it, no matter what happens. Now what I want to say is this—we need
a man we can trust to make his headquarters in that freight-house and to
keep his eye out for trouble. And, Allan, I’m going to give you charge
of the situation here. Mr. Plumfield and myself will have to be looking
after matters at other points on the line—I’m going to Cincinnati
to-morrow and George will go to Parkersburg. I don’t believe there’s as
much chance of trouble here as there is at Cincinnati, where a mob of
thugs and toughs can be collected in no time; or at a river town like
Parkersburg, where there are always a lot of roust-abouts looking for
trouble.”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Plumfield, slowly. “There are more railroad men
here than at any other point on the division, since this is division
headquarters. And the entire police force consists of about a dozen
men.”
“I know that,” replied the superintendent; “but there’s mighty few of
the railroad men who will give us any trouble; even if they did want to,
in a small town like this everybody knows them, and a man doesn’t begin
to riot and destroy property where he’s generally known—he’s too likely
to be caught and punished. Anyway, Allan must take the job.”
“All right, sir,” said Allan. “I’ll do my best.”
“And now who’s the right man to put over there in the freight-house?”
“Reddy Magraw,” answered Allan, promptly. “He’s true blue and as sharp
as a steel trap.”
Mr. Schofield nodded his approval.
“The very man,” he agreed. “Will you see him?”
“Yes, sir; right away,” and a moment later he was hurrying away in the
direction of Reddy’s home.
It may be explained in passing that, in Reddy Magraw’s home, Allan West
was regarded with a degree of veneration and affection possible only to
warm Irish hearts.
In the old days, by an accident, it is true, he had brought Reddy out of
a dangerous condition of insanity, and, since that time, any member of
the Magraw household would have cheerfully risked life and limb for him.
So, when, in answer to his knock, Mrs. Magraw opened the door, her
honest Irish face lighted with pleasure at sight of him.
“Why, good avenin’, Mister West,” she cried. “Won’t ye come in?”
“I surely will,” said Allan. “But since when have I been ‘Mister’ West?”
he added, laughingly, as he stepped inside.
“Iver since you’ve been chief dispatcher,” answered Mrs. Magraw
promptly, leading the way and holding the lamp carefully so that he
could see. “Indade, we knows our place, sir, an’ it’s not fer the likes
of us t’ be gittin’ too familiar with the chief dispatcher.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Magraw,” laughed Allan. “I’m just the same fellow I
always was—I haven’t changed a bit.”
“Not in yer heart, God bless ye. I know that ain’t changed an’ niver
will be. Reddy,” she added, opening the door and showing Allan into the
room which served as dining-room and sitting-room, “Reddy, here’s Mister
West.”
“Mister West?” echoed Reddy, looking up in surprise. “Who d’ye— Oh, how
are ye, Allan,” he cried, recognizing the visitor, and springing to his
feet with hand outstretched.
“First rate, thank you. And I’m glad you remember my first name,
anyhow.”
“Oh,” said Reddy, “the ole woman’s been so stuck up iver since ye got
your promotion you’d think it was me. It’s been Mister West this an’
Mister West that, till half the time I didn’t know who she was talkin’
about. Won’t you set down?”
“Yes,” answered Allan, getting out of his coat, which Mrs. Magraw was
waiting to receive. “I’ve come for a little talk. Oh, don’t send them
away, Mrs. Magraw,” he added quickly, for at his words, that lady had
begun to herd the children out of the room. “They won’t be in the way.”
“Yes, they will, sir,” she contradicted. “Besides, little pitchers has
big ears; though if I iver caught one o’ them kids repatin’ anything ye
didn’t want repated, I’d kill him, I would, an’ think it good riddance.
But it’s best t’ be on the safe side, an’ they’ll be very well off in
the kitchen.”
The two youngest were protesting somewhat lustily that they did not
think they would be at all well off in the kitchen, and immensely
preferred to remain where they could continue to gaze at the illustrious
visitor; but their mother was inexorable, and banished the whole herd
together.
“An’ now,” said Reddy, when that had been safely accomplished and the
door was shut, “what is it?”
“You know the strike begins to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“And you know what it’s about?”
“Yes. But I can’t hardly believe it. Neither kin anybody else who knows
that drunken Rafe Bassett. It’s about him, ain’t it?”
“Yes—we’ve fired him.”
“An’ small blame to ye.”
“And we won’t take him back.”
“An’ right ye are. I hope ye’ll fight it out.”
“We intend to. Mr. Schofield has placed me in charge of the situation
here.”
“An’ they couldn’t ’a’ got anybody better,” put in Reddy, with
conviction.
“I’m going to do the best I can, anyway—and I want you to help.”
“I’m ready.”
“You know we brought in a lot of men to-night to take the place of the
strikers.”
Reddy nodded.
“We’ve got the freight-house fitted up for them, and Stanley has a
detail of men guarding it. You know as well as I do that the only way to
hold those men is to keep the strikers away from them. Stanley can keep
guard all right on the outside, but we’ve got to have somebody to keep
guard on the inside. I want you to go to work there as a kind of head
bottle-washer, and keep your eyes open for trouble. At the first sign of
it, let me know.”
Reddy nodded again.
“All right,” he said. “I ain’t much at bottle-washin’, but I knows how
t’ kape my eyes open an’ my ears too. When do I begin?”
“The sooner the better.”
“I’ll go over right away, then,” and Reddy took down his hat and put on
his coat. “Good-bye, old woman,” he added to his wife, who had been
sitting listening silently to all this. “Look fer me back whin ye see me
comin’.”
He patted her on the back and started for the door. Mrs. Magraw paused
to help Allan into his overcoat.
“You won’t be lettin’ nothin’ happen t’ him, Allan?” she asked,
anxiously, forgetting his new title in the emotion of the moment.
“That I won’t,” he assured her.
“I’ve got a sort o’ feelin’ that there’s goin’ t’ be trouble, an’ that
Reddy’ll be in it,” she added. “It come t’ me strong when I set there
listenin’.”
“Perhaps there will be trouble, Mrs. Magraw,” said Allan. “Indeed, I’ll
be surprised if there isn’t. But we’ll come through all right.”
“Oh, I hope so, sir!” she cried, and lighted him to the door.
She stood in the open doorway holding the lamp above her head as he and
Reddy started together down the path to the gate. They had almost
reached it, when Reddy suddenly paused, rubbed his forehead perplexedly,
and then glanced around at the figure in the doorway.
“I’ve got t’ go back a minute,” he said, apologetically. “You go ahead.
I’ll ketch up with you.”
Allan walked on slowly, then, at the gate, he looked around. Reddy was
holding Mrs. Magraw in his arms, kissing her as tenderly as any lover.
The quick moisture sprang to Allan’s eyes; he closed the gate behind
him, and started across the yards; for Reddy’s house was perched on an
embankment which had been left when the lower yards had been graded down
to their present level. A minute later, he heard quick steps behind him
and Reddy came running up.
“I jest had t’ go back,” he explained, a little shamefacedly. “I don’t
know what it was—but somethin’ kind o’ took me by the elbow an’ steered
me around. Mighty queer.”
They walked on together in silence to the freight-house. As soon as they
approached it, they were challenged sharply, and stopped by one of the
deputies. Stanley, attracted by the noise, came up a moment later and
passed them through.
“Nobody can come through that line, day or night, unless I say so,” he
explained. “I’m not going to take any chances.”
“That’s right,” agreed Allan heartily. “Mr. Stanley, this is Reddy
Magraw.”
“Yes,” said Stanley. “I know him. He’s all right.”
“I’m glad you think so. I’m putting him on the inside to keep his eyes
open. He’ll report to you, but you oughtn’t to be seen talking together
too much. You’ll report to me, or send him on to me, when you can.”
“All right, Mr. West. I’d suggest that he comes along after while and
asks the cook for a job. He’d better not make his first appearance with
you and me.”
“That’s a good idea. You wait here, Reddy, till you’re sent for.”
“Right,” agreed Reddy, and sat down on the platform.
Stanley opened the door of the freight-house and led the way in. It was
the first time Allan had seen it in its new incarnation, and it wasn’t
exactly what one would call an attractive scene. Indeed, it was
indescribably sordid. Some of the men had gone to bed; others were
sitting around the tables playing cards or listlessly turning the leaves
of the illustrated papers. The gas lights overhead flared dimly through
a haze of tobacco smoke. The odour of cooking still lingered in the air,
with onions striking the high note, and at one end of the room, the cook
was sullenly banging the tin dishes around, as he made a pretence of
washing them.
“He won’t know Reddy,” said Stanley, in an aside. “He ain’t been in town
long, an’ while he was here, he never stuck his nose outside that little
joint where he worked. Hello, Sam,” he added, in a voice which everyone
could hear. “It looks to me like you need some help.”
“Help!” snarled the cook. “No, I don’t need no help. That’s a mistake.
I’m a wonder, I am. I kin cook three meals a day fer fifty men, wash th’
dishes, make the beds, an’ do all the other work without turnin’ a hair.
I don’t need no help. I’m goin’ t’ quit,” he added, in another tone.
“There’s a feller outside askin’ fer a job, an’ I just happened to think
of you,” said Stanley, and strode to the door. “Here, you,” he called to
Reddy. “Step in here a minute. Here he is, Sam. What do you think of
him?”
“He ain’t no prize beauty,” said the cook, looking Reddy over
critically; “but he looks like he could work. Anybody’s better’n nobody.
I’ll try him,” and he led Reddy away and set him to work with the
dishes. It was all Allan could do to keep his face straight, as he saw
Reddy, with evident repugnance, tie a piece of burlap around his waist
for an apron and pick up a dish-cloth.
Stanley led the way to one of the groups around the tables.
“Boys,” he said, in a voice which made all within hearing look up, “this
is Mr. West, the chief dispatcher for this division. He’s in complete
charge of affairs here at Wadsworth, and he’ll see that you get a square
deal.”
As Allan looked down into the faces gazing up at him, his heart failed
him for an instant. How could any good work be done with such material?
But he shook the thought away.
“I’ll have your details ready to-morrow morning,” he said, “and we’ll
see that you are properly taken care of. We are going to fight this
thing through to a finish, and we rely on your help to break this
strike, for which there wasn’t the shadow of excuse. I don’t believe
there’ll be any trouble, but we’ll take every precaution and see that
you are thoroughly protected. And when the strike is over, a permanent
position will be open to every one of you who wants it and who has made
good. I hope that will mean all of you.”
There was a little feeble applause at this, but most of his listeners
knew, deep down in their hearts, that they would not make good, that
they were unfit to hold a permanent position anywhere.
“If you want anything,” Allan added, “ask for it. If you’re not
comfortable, say so. Be loyal to the road and the road will be loyal to
you. Good night.”
But as he left the place and walked slowly homeward, the futility of his
appeal sickened him. Why should they be loyal to the road—what incentive
was there? How could those weak and hopeless and degraded creatures be
loyal to anything, except their own desperate needs? They had taken the
job offered them for the money there was in it; or, perhaps, for the
excitement which might follow. They would be careless and incompetent—it
would be a tremendous task to get any results from them at all. He had
never before appreciated how difficult it would be. For the railroad was
a machine infinitely complicated, infinitely delicate. At noon on the
morrow, scores of smooth and nicely-fitting parts would be removed, to
be replaced by rough and ill-fitting ones. Who could expect the machine
to work smoothly—or, indeed, to work at all,—under such circumstances?
------------------------------------------------------------------------