COMPLICATIONS
“WELL, well; wonders will niver cease!” remarked Reddy Magraw,
contemplating the newspaper he held in his hand—Reddy safe once more in
the bosom of his family, a hero if there ever was one, a czar whose
slightest word was law—and, all in all, as true and loyal and honest and
warm-hearted an Irishman as ever lived in this world.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Magraw, looking over his shoulder.
“That,” answered Reddy, slapping the page with his open hand—a page
overflowing with heavy headlines and further embellished with a group of
photographs. “Now who’d ’a’ thought that anybody would iver want t’ put
my ugly mug in the paper?”
“Sure ’tis no uglier than lots of others,” protested Mrs. Magraw, gazing
at it fondly.
“Mebbe so; but this here picter don’t look nothin’ like what I see when
I looks in the glass.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Magraw, examining it critically, “it ain’t jest what
I’d call a perfect likeness; but the eyes are yours an’ the nose an’ the
mouth.”
“If they are, they ain’t put together right,” said Reddy. “I’ve often
wondered how a criminal could git away when the papers all over the
country was printin’ his picter, but I understand now. If I’d done
somethin’ an’ was runnin’ away an’ was arrested on suspicion, I could
prove by that picter that they’d got the wrong man.”
“Well, anyways,” said Mrs. Magraw, “we gits half a dozen cabinets fer
lettin’ ’em take it.”
“’Twas real generous,” agreed Reddy. “But I wish they was of the baby. I
niver thought that I’d iver ag’in face a cammery. The last picter I had
took, darlint, was whin I was courtin’ ye.”
“Yes, an’ I’ve got it yet, as ye know,” said Mrs. Magraw, “an’ a love of
a picter it is.”
“All that I raymimber about it is that me pants was very tight an’ me
shoes was killin’ me,” said Reddy, with a smile of reminiscence.
“However, I was ready an’ willin’ to suffer any torture—even to cuttin’
off me toes if ye thought me feet too big.”
“As if I iver looked at yer feet! It was in your honest blue eyes that I
looked, Reddy Magraw, an’ nowheres else.”
“Well, I reckon we didn’t either of us make no mistake, darlint,” said
Reddy comfortably. “We ain’t niver been bothered by a bank account, ’tis
true; but nayther have we starved or gone naked.”
Mrs. Magraw patted him on the shoulder as a token of her approval of the
sentiment.
“Let’s see the other picters,” she said. “There’s Jack Welsh an’
Stanley—trust him t’ have his picter ready.”
“Yes,” chuckled Reddy, “an’ anybody could recognize it a mile off by the
nose.”
“But where’s Allan?”
Reddy chuckled again.
“Didn’t have none; neither did Mamie—at least, that’s what they said.
But that didn’t trouble most o’ the papers none. They jest went ahead
an’ made ’em up. One feller must ’a’ cut his picter o’ Mamie out of a
fashion paper, an’ another used one of them skinny magazine girls, with
their hair all a-flyin’ around their faces. An’ Allan—he looks like one
of them young hayroes from the ready-made suit advertisements.”
“An’ does that look like the house?” asked Mrs. Magraw, indicating a
building, with smoke and flames pouring from it in a truly terrifying
manner, which further ornamented the newspaper’s account of the rescue.
“Well,” said Reddy, cautiously, “it does in a gineral way. It’s got four
walls an’ a roof an’ some windeys. Furder ’n that I wouldn’t keer t’
go.”
“An’ have ye read the story?”
“Yes; I’ve read it. An’ a very purty story it is—a very purty work of
the imagination. You should read it, an’ see what a liar yer husband is.
I allers did admire them newspaper felleys. T’ hear them tell the story,
you’d think they was right on the scene—an’ them that was there can’t
recognize the place.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Magraw, in amazement, “I allers thought I could
believe what I saw in the papers. What’ll I do now?”
“Do as I do, darlint,” replied her husband; “read the papers not fer
instruction but fer entytainment.”
* * * * *
The story of the abandoned train and the eleventh hour rescue of its
crew was a nine days’ wonder. There was the hearing of the case, the
robbers’ confession, the lapse into violent insanity of the murderous
idiot, the serious condition of two of the crew, and of the young chief
dispatcher who had risked his life searching for them. All these kept up
the interest from day to day, adding new fuel to the flames, and the
enterprising reporters made the most of them. The two brakemen
recovered, however, in a few days, but nearly a week had elapsed before
the doctor, coming down from the room where Allan West lay, pronounced
him out of danger.
“Careful nursing is all he needs now,” he said, “and I know he’ll get
that.”
“You kin be sure of it,” said Mary. “This ain’t the first time he’s
needed it an’ got it.”
“I know that,” and the doctor smiled. “It was I, you know, who took that
bullet out of him and who fixed those broken ribs. He’s surely had his
share.”
“An’ every time,” said Mary, with spirit, “it was a-doin’ some other
man’s work—a-doin’ somethin’ he thought was his duty, where the other
man would most likely have runned away.”
* * * * *
It was a very white and shaky, but thoroughly cheerful boy who smiled up
at Mary Welsh five minutes later, when she mounted the stairs with the
good news.
“Though it’s more ’n you deserve,” she added, with simulated wrath; “for
ever pokin’ your nose in where you ain’t no business to.”
“What!” protested Allan, “would you have had me let those five poor
fellows burn to death!”
“No; but when they’s detective work t’ do, let the detective do it.
What’s Stanley for?”
“He was busy doing something else. And that reminds me—I must see him
right away.”
“Right away, indade!” cried Mary, with an indignant snort. “Next week,
mebbe, if the doctor—”
“Then I guess I’ll have to get up and hunt him,” said Allan, and made a
movement as though to rise.
“Lay still; lay still,” said Mary hastily, “an’ I’ll send fer him,” but
Allan, smiling to himself, could hear her grumbling all the way down the
stairs.
Stanley lost no time in answering the summons, though Mrs. Welsh had
tried to persuade him to refuse to come, or, at least, to postpone his
visit until the next day.
“The lad’s in no shape to see you,” she said, over the telephone, “but I
had t’ promise t’ tell you, or he’d ’a’ been climbin’ out o’ bed, an’
him scarce able t’ stand.”
“I’ve got to come then, ma’am,” said Stanley politely, but with great
positiveness. “I’ve got to obey my superior officer. Besides, I’ve
pretty near got to see him, anyway. I was goin’ to come around in the
mornin’ myself.”
“Well, come on then, an’ bad cess to ye!” said Mary, and five minutes
later he was at the door. “Now don’t you go to excitin’ the lad,” she
added, before she let him in.
“I won’t, ma’am,” Stanley promised meekly. “I’ll be a reg’lar soothin’
syrup. It’ll do him good to see me—it really will.”
“Huh!” grunted Mary, “that’s more ’n it does me!”
But she let him in reluctantly, and led him upstairs to Allan’s bedroom.
“I’ll give you two ten minutes,” she announced, and closed the door
behind her.
Stanley, grinning, drew a chair up to the bedside and sat down.
“Something of a Tartar,” he observed.
“Yes, bless her, where I’m concerned. She’s the best woman on earth and
the biggest hearted. Now, what’s the news?”
“Well, sir,” said Stanley, crossing his legs deliberately, “this big
sensation sort of took people’s minds off the strike, and the situation
hasn’t been watched as close as it might have been. I’ve had to be away
a good deal, attendin’ the hearin’ an’ lookin’ after things, and I kind
of think some of the strikers got at our men.”
“How could they do that?”
“I suspect one of my men of givin’ us the double cross—I fired him
to-day.”
“But what makes you think the strikers got at the men?”
“Well, three more pulled out yesterday without waitin’ fer their pay,
and I hear they joined the brotherhood last night.”
Allan’s face cleared.
“If that’s all!” he said. “I guess we can spare three men. If no more
than that leave us, it shows the men are pretty well contented. Has Mr.
Schofield or Mr. Plumfield been here?”
“No,” Stanley answered, “and from what I hear, they ain’t likely to be.
They’ve both got their hands full. Somebody tried to set fire to the
stock-yards the other night and pretty near succeeded—in fact, did start
a lively blaze, but it was discovered and put out before much damage was
done—and mighty lucky it was that the night wasn’t a windy one. But ever
since, Mr. Schofield has had to patrol the whole approach to Cincinnati,
a matter of five or six miles.”
“Yes—and what about Mr. Plumfield?”
“Well,” said Stanley, “the same night, one of the track walkers happened
to find a big dynamite bomb on the Parkersburg bridge and dumped it over
into the river just in time. That means more patrollin’ at that end.”
“But who did it? Who started the fire and who placed the bomb?”
“You can search me! The strikers say it wasn’t them, and the brotherhood
is offering a reward of a thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction
of the guilty parties. I guess, though, their money’s in no danger,”
Stanley added, with a grin.
“You mean you think the strikers did it?” asked Allan, quickly.
“I don’t suppose anybody’s doin’ it fer their health.”
“But if that’s their game, what’s to prevent them from blowing up a
bridge or culvert somewhere out on the line any time they want to? We
can’t guard the whole right of way.”
“There ain’t a thing on earth to prevent them,” answered Stanley,
cheerfully. “You know as well as I do, that there never is any thing to
prevent any tramp or bum or scoundrel blowin’ up a bridge at any
time—but they never do—at least, mighty seldom, though to hear some of
’em talk, you’d think all they wanted was half a chance t’ blow up the
whole world. So I don’t look for anything of that sort now. In the first
place, scoundrels of that kind won’t operate far from a base of
supplies, which means a grog-shop. An’ in the second place, they’ve got
to operate in a mob, for they’re the biggest cowards on earth—and that
means a big town. I take back what I said a while ago. I don’t think the
strikers put that bomb on the bridge—I think it was some Russian or
Italian anarchist from the Parkersburg coal mines or steel works.
There’s plenty of ’em there. An’ I ain’t so dead sure they started the
stock-yards fire, either. I had a talk with Simpson, their special
delegate, yesterday, and he seems to be a pretty decent sort of feller.
I really believe he’s tryin’ to prevent trouble, and I could see that he
was considerable down in the mouth about the strike. I think he’s
gittin’ cold feet and would be glad to back out, if he could. I figger
it out this way—the brotherhood’s split up. The old, conservative men,
headed by Simpson, want to avoid trouble; the young, hot-headed ones,
headed by Bassett, are sp’ilin’ for a fight. And they’re roundin’ up all
the toughs they can find to help them.”
“Well,” said Allan, with a sigh of relief, “they won’t be able to find
many here to help them, and that’s a blessing!”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Stanley; “but I don’t think
there’ll be any trouble here—not for a few days, anyway.”
“A few days?” echoed Allan. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean,” answered Stanley, slowly, “that I don’t like the looks of
things. There’s too many strangers in town.”
“Too many strangers?”
“Yes—too many strangers. Why, the saloons are full of the toughest
lookin’ lot of men you ever saw. Where’d they come from—that’s what I
want to know—and what’s their business—and who’s payin’ for their
whiskey?”
“I don’t understand you yet, Stanley,” said Allan, a little impatiently.
“Tell me straight out what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m afraid that them fellers are bein’ brought in here to cause
trouble,” answered Stanley, bluntly. “And I believe that Bassett’s at
the bottom of the whole thing. And furthermore I believe he’s got that
little devil of a Hummel helpin’ him.”
“Hummel? Have you seen him?”
“Seen him! I guess not! If I did, I’d have him behind the bars so quick
’twould make his head swim. But I’ve got to have some more men, and the
trouble is that the more I get, the more danger there is of gettin’ some
strike sympathizers among them. I think I’d better patrol the yards and
track clear through to the city limits.”
“So do I,” Allan agreed. “I’d keep everybody out of the yards and off
the right of way who hasn’t business there. And if there’s any sign of
trouble, let me know at once.”
“I will,” Stanley promised; “I’m mighty glad to have somebody to talk
things over with. I’ve felt like I was goin’ to bust the last few days.
And I’m glad you’re gettin’ better.”
“Thank you,” Allan answered. “It’s just a question now of getting my
strength back.”
“Well, don’t you worry none; let me do that,” and the detective took his
leave, much to the satisfaction of Mrs. Welsh, who had been fuming
outside the door for the last five minutes, without daring to break in
upon the conversation.
“And now,” said Allan, cheerfully, when she returned from showing
Stanley out, “I wish you’d call Tom Murray, our chief lineman, and tell
him I want my instrument put on a board, so that I can use it here in
bed. Of course,” he added, as Mary frowned mutinously, “I could get up
and go over there to the table, but I thought maybe you’d rather I
stayed in bed.”
“Yes,” said Mary grimly, “it’ll save us the trouble o’ puttin’ you there
after you’ve kilt yerself,” but she went and summoned the lineman, and
in half an hour, the little instrument was removed from the table to a
board, and Allan was working it with his left hand, for his right arm
was incapacitated by reason of the broken collar-bone.
Ever since the day when he and Jim Anderson had rigged up a little
private line for the study of telegraphy, he had kept an instrument in
his room, connected with headquarters, so that he could be called at any
hour of the night, without anyone else in the house being disturbed. For
he had long since acquired that sixth sense of the telegrapher, which
responds to its call, even though its possessor may be sound asleep, and
awakens him much as an alarm clock might.
So now, with the instrument under his hand, he first called up the
offices and had a little chat with the dispatcher who was looking after
his work as chief—work which was not exacting since traffic was so
light; and then, calling Cincinnati, he asked for Mr. Schofield. But Mr.
Schofield was out somewhere, and Allan was forced to content himself for
the time being with the assurance of the man who answered him that
everything seemed to be all right.
He pushed the instrument away, at last, and lay back on the pillow,
wearier than he cared to confess, realizing how far from strong he was.
The shock of his terrible experience was one from which he would
probably be long in completely recovering, but he set his teeth and
resolved that he would not be chained to his bed an instant longer than
was absolutely necessary.
He dozed off, after a time, half-sleeping, half-waking, and Mary,
opening the door and glancing in at him, closed it softly and went away.
He heard her and smiled to himself and sank deeper among the pillows.
It was not exactly a dream that he had as he lay there—it was rather a
vision—a living over again of the incidents of that terrible day—living
them over, though, calmly; looking at them from the outside, as though
they were happening to someone else. He saw himself struck down in the
empty stable; saw his assailant stoop above him, and finally, after
reconnoitring to make sure he was not observed, drag his victim to the
house, in through the back door, and up the stairs to a room on the
floor above.
He saw himself lying there unconscious, and fear gripped his heart lest
he might die there without awaking; but the still figure stirred
presently, and opened its eyes. In the cellar beneath the house, he
could see a dim shape moving about, illumined only by the light of a
dirty lantern. It was gathering a pile of rubbish together and adding to
it some rotten boards which it tore from some shelving in one corner.
Then the figure mounted to the ground floor and collected a similar heap
there; then to the floor above, where it entered the room in which he
lay. He heard himself talking to it, questioning it, heard its savage
responses; then he saw it go out and shut the door and proceed to
another room near by where five figures lay bound upon the floor. They
cursed it, railed at it, implored it; but the fiend only laughed
sardonically and left them.
Then it descended leisurely to the floor below, and from a cupboard
produced some scraps of food, which it proceeded to consume, after which
it returned to the stable, extinguished the lantern, lay down upon its
bed of straw and slept. How long it slept, Allan could not tell, but at
last it arose, gathered the straw under one arm, and with the lantern
swinging from the other hand, returned to the house. A portion of the
straw was added to the pile of rubbish in the cellar, and the rest of it
to the pile on the floor above. Then, the idiot opened the lantern and
poured over the pile the kerosene which remained in it. Finally, with a
devilish leer, he struck a match and touched it to the straw.
For a moment he sat feeding the flames carefully, his face more demoniac
than ever in the red shadows which danced over it. Then, closing the
door, he proceeded to the cellar and set fire to the rubbish there, and,
finally, left the house and sat down on a little hummock of earth
outside. Allan watched the flame grow and grow, the straw throwing off a
dense cloud of smoke as it burned; he saw himself awaken, crawl to the
door, along the hall, to the stairs; saw himself pitch headforemost
through the darkness—
“Mamie!” he cried. “Mamie!”
And he started awake to find Mamie’s arms about him, and her dear face
above him—
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