THE BOMB
THE watchman in the upper yards, passing wearily on his rounds at eleven
o’clock of that windy February night, and deeply thankful that his trick
would end in half an hour, stopped suddenly, ears a-strain, fancying
that he had heard, above the shrieking of the wind, the shrieking of a
human voice coming from the string of cars which stretched down into the
lower yards. Then, deciding that it was only the wind, after all, he
started on his way again, only to be startled by another scream there
was no mistaking—a scream shrill, agonized, telling of the last
extremity of suffering and terror.
Drawing his revolver, he started toward the cars as fast as his legs
would carry him. As he drew nearer, the screams increased in shrillness
and agony, and it required no little will-power on the part of the
watchman to keep his legs moving in the right direction. The thought
flashed through his brain that a man was being slowly torn to pieces by
some ferocious wild beast, but just as he turned the end of the row of
cars, he saw a sudden burst of flame from one of them, and a blazing
figure pitched out headlong to the ground—a figure which, with a sudden
sense of sickness, the watchman recognized as a human being.
Blowing a shrill blast on his whistle, and pulling off his overcoat as
he ran, he hastened forward. In a moment he was beside the moaning,
struggling, blackened figure, and threw his overcoat over it, his heart
faint within him, smothering the flames and beating at them with his
gloves. Another watchman, summoned by the whistle, ran up at that
moment.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Man burned t’ death,” panted the other.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know; but he’s done for, whoever he is. You ought to heard him
screamin’!”
They worked together feverishly for a moment longer, and beat out the
last of the flames, but it was evident that the unfortunate man at their
feet was far past human aid. He was still moaning and jerking
convulsively, but was mercifully unconscious and would no doubt remain
so to the end.
“We’ve got t’ git away from here, an’ that mighty quick,” said one of
the men, with a glance at the seething inferno beside them. “That car’s
loaded with oil, an’ it’s goin’ to blow up in about a minute.”
“How’re we goin’ to carry him?”
“Roll him on my overcoat—we can carry him that way.”
“I don’t want to touch him,” faltered the other. “He—he comes off on
your fingers.”
But the first watchman, with an exclamation of impatience, spread his
overcoat beside the blackened body and rolled it over with his foot.
“Now, take a hold of that end,” he said, “an’ git a move on.”
They gathered up the burden gingerly, and started away at a trot—not a
moment too soon, for they had gone scarcely a hundred feet, when the car
exploded with a mighty roar. Blazing oil was hurled over everything in
the neighbourhood, and instantly a dozen cars were afire—the flames
roaring and crackling furiously before the wind.
* * * * *
Stanley, awakened by the arrival of a crew from an incoming train and
the departure of another to take its place, lay for a while looking down
the room and watching the new arrivals prepare for bed. He was a
restless man and light sleeper at the best, and he devoutly hoped that
the strike was nearing an end. The strain was beginning to tell on his
nerves, never any too steady, and he longed for his comfortable and
quiet bed. The air in the freight-house had become fetid from the
exhalations of fifty men, not over dainty in their personal habits, and
with a sudden sense of disgust, Stanley threw back the covers and sat up
in bed.
As he did so, it seemed to him that he heard a faint knocking at the
wall underneath him. He listened a moment, but it was not repeated, and
he decided it was merely the vibration from a passing engine. But he was
burdened with a queer feeling of suffocation, and slipping into his
clothes, he went out to the platform for a breath of fresh air.
He was worried. He knew, somehow, that, during his absence in pursuit
and prosecution of the robbers, he had lost his grip of the situation.
It had got, in some subtle way, beyond his control, and he felt the
necessity of being “on the job” at every hour of the day and night. It
was as though he were shadowed by some impending calamity, which he
could not avoid.
He heard steps approaching along the platform and in a moment the
freight-house watchman emerged from the darkness.
“Everything quiet?” Stanley asked.
“Everything but the wind,” answered the watchman, laughing at his own
joke, and passed on his way.
“Blamed fool!” Stanley muttered to himself, for the jest and the laugh
jarred on him. “I’m gettin’ as nervous as a cat,” he added, and walked
slowly down the platform, trying to shake off the feeling of depression.
Another thing disturbed him. The tough-looking strangers whom he had
observed loitering about the depot-saloons for several days past, had
suddenly disappeared. He had made discreet inquiries, but no one seemed
to know who they were or what had become of them. Where had they gone,
he asked himself; where were they at this moment? He had heard some
vague rumours of the row at the brotherhood meeting, and he could
imagine Bassett’s rage and chagrin. He had always connected the
strangers with Bassett, in some indefinite way, and a little shiver
shook him at the thought that perhaps Bassett had taken them with him to
execute some fiendish project. Perhaps—
The piercing note of a watchman’s whistle shrilled through the night,
and Stanley, waking from this reverie with a start, saw a sudden burst
of flame from the cars just before him, and realized that the crisis he
had vaguely expected was at hand. And the realization made his nerves
taut and his head clear. Not even his worst enemies had ever accused
Stanley of cowardice in the face of danger.
“Call the fire department and the police and get out all our men!” he
shouted to the freight-house watchman, who had just come into view
again, and started with a jump toward the fire, which was growing
brighter every instant.
But suddenly he checked himself and swerved in his course, for from
beneath the platform almost at his feet, he saw a dim form emerge and
slink away through the darkness.
[Illustration: “HE HEARD THE BULLETS SING PAST HIS HEAD.”]
Stanley was off the platform and after him in an instant.
“Halt!” he shouted, drawing his revolver. “Halt, or I fire!”
And, as if in answer, phitt! phitt! came two flashes of flame out of the
darkness ahead, and he heard the bullets sing past his head.
“Take it, then!” he said, between his teeth, and fired at the legs of
the figure ahead.
The figure ran on, and Stanley raised his hand to fire again; but in a
moment he saw that this would not be necessary, for the fugitive was no
match for him in speed and he gained upon him rapidly. Apparently, the
stranger perceived the folly of flight, at last, for he stopped, one
hand against his side, and waited for his pursuer to overtake him. He
had not long to wait, for in an instant Stanley’s heavy hand fell upon
his shoulder.
“Drop that revolver!” said the detective, and knocked it with a quick
blow from his prisoner’s hand.
“Oh, it’s jammed,” said the other, with a little bitter laugh. “If it
hadn’t been fer that, I’d ’a’ got you!”
“What’s your game?” Stanley demanded, and swung his prisoner around so
that he could see his face. “Why,” he cried, chuckling with
satisfaction, “if it ain’t our old friend Hummel! This certainly is a
pleasant meeting. Welcome to our city!”
Hummel’s face was livid and his blackened and swollen lips were drawn
away from his teeth in an ugly snarl.
“Don’t be too gay!” he said, thickly. “Don’t be too gay! Mebbe you’ll be
laughin’ on the other side of your face afore long!”
“Well, one couldn’t tell which side you’re laughin’ on,” retorted
Stanley, “fer the dirt. Been livin’ with your friends the hogs?”
“Never you mind!” said Hummel, still more thickly, and reeled a little
and put his hands to his head. “Never you mind!”
“Why, I believe the man’s drunk!” said Stanley. “Come on back with me,
my friend, an’ I’ll send you up-town in style, behind two horses, with a
gong ringin’ in front. Come on,” and he started to lead his prisoner
back toward the freight-house.
But Hummel developed a sudden limpness and sat down suddenly upon the
pavement.
“What d’you want me fer?” he demanded, sullenly.
Stanley waved his hand toward the growing conflagration, which, at that
instant, burst, with a mighty report, into a fountain of flame.
“For that,” he said, sternly. “Come along, or I’ll find a way to make
you!”
“I didn’t do that,” protested Hummel, staring toward the fire, as though
conscious of it for the first time. “That must ’a’ been—”
“Who?” asked Stanley, as Hummel suddenly checked himself.
“No matter,” answered that worthy.
Stanley, his patience exhausted, jerked the little man to his feet and
struck him over the head with his revolver.
“Come on,” he said savagely, “I ain’t got no time to waste on you! Step
lively, or I’ll put you to sleep.”
Away in the distance, he could hear the growing rattle of the engine
gongs and knew, with a breath of relief, that the fire department was at
hand. He knew something else, too—that within a very few minutes, a
great mob would be upon the scene, which it would take the hardest kind
of work to control. The windows in the neighbourhood had been thrown up
at sound of the explosion—he could hear the hum of voices, the cries of
alarm. He had no time to fool with a reluctant prisoner, and he jerked
him again to his feet.
“Will you come?” he demanded.
“No,” answered Hummel, his face yellow with terror, struggling
desperately to free himself.
Then Stanley lost his temper and raised his arm to strike.
But even as he did so, a mighty roar seemed to rend the firmament above
him, the earth rocked, and a blinding flame leapt upwards towards the
heavens. There was an instant’s appalling silence, and then came the
sound of crashing walls, the rending of timbers—and again all was still.
Only for a breath—then the night was filled with yells and groans and
curses. And the whole neighbourhood, wakened by the roar, leaped from
bed and rushed out into the streets, white-lipped and trembling.
* * * * *
Allan West, having slept the greater part of the day and evening, found
himself restless and wakeful as the night progressed, and at last lay
staring up into the darkness above him, meditating with smiling lips, on
the events of the day. That this great happiness should have come to him
seemed almost past believing—he had done so little to deserve it, had
escaped so narrowly a nearly fatal blunder.
He cast his mind back over the years he had spent with the Welshes,
remembering how he had seen Mamie grow from a child of eight, through
all the stages of girlhood, to the radiant young womanhood she had
attained; he had seen her sweetness of disposition tested scores of
times; he knew how true and honest and loving she was, and he could not
but wonder at his own blindness, at his tardy awakening to his love for
her. Most wonderful of all it seemed that she should care for him, that
she—
The window rattled suddenly and sharply, the house seemed to quiver, as
though struck by some giant hand, and almost instantly there came a
deep, jarring roar. A moment later, Allan heard the distant ringing of
the fire alarm, heard excited footsteps along the street, and groped
blindly along the floor for the board to which his instrument was
attached.
He found it at last, seized it, pulled it up, and began calling the
dispatchers’ office. Fully a minute passed before the answer came, and
he knew that the dispatcher had not been at his key.
“This is West,” he clicked. “Any trouble up there?”
“Trouble!” flashed back the answer, in a staccato which told how excited
the sender was. “I should say so! All the cars in the yards are afire
and the freight-house is blown up!”
Allan gently replaced the instrument on the floor and slid out of bed.
He groped his way to the closet, got out his clothes and slipped into
them as quietly as he could. Shirt and coat gave him some trouble, but
he managed to get them on, gritting his teeth at the pain the movement
cost him. Then, without collar or tie, which he knew were beyond him,
even if he had cared to linger for such trifles, he took his shoes in
his hand, opened his door softly, and started down the stairs, hoping
that he might get away unseen.
But before he was half way down, he heard light steps behind him and a
low voice.
“Allan!” it called.
He turned as Mamie came flying down to him, visible only as a dim shape
in the darkness.
“You’re not going out!” she protested, her hands upon his shoulders.
“I must,” he said, bending and kissing her. “The strikers have fired the
yards and blown up the freight-house. I’ve got to go.”
“But you’re not able!”
“Oh, yes, I am,” he contradicted lightly, but he was grateful for the
darkness which hid his face from her anxious eyes.
“And there’ll probably be more trouble.”
“All the more reason I should be there. You wouldn’t have me be a
coward, Mamie!”
It was the one appeal to touch her, and he knew it.
“No,” she said, “I wouldn’t have you be a coward. Go if you must; but,
oh, Allan dear, be careful of yourself for my sake!”
“I will,” he promised and kissed her again, as she went with him down
the stairs. “I’ve got to put on my shoes,” he added. “I thought maybe I
could get away and be back and in bed again without anyone knowing.”
“Let me put them on,” she said quickly. “You can never manage it. You
know, in the old days, the ladies used to buckle on the armour of their
knights,” and she took the shoes from him, pressed him into a chair and
knelt before him.
“I’m sure no knight ever had a fairer lady,” and he caressed her hair
with tender hand.
He could feel the head lift proudly.
“Nor any lady a braver knight,” she said.
“‘I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more!’”
Allan hummed. “But what an imagination you’ve got, Mamie!”
“Yes—you know I’m Irish.”
“And what a warm, loyal heart!”
“That’s Irish, too, isn’t it? And there the armour’s on!” she added,
rising. “And now your overcoat, for it’s bitter cold, and this muffler
around your neck,” and she tucked the ends in under his coat. “There,”
she concluded, buttoning the last button, and raised herself on tip-toe
and kissed him. “Good-bye, Allan, and come back to me.”
“Good-bye, Mamie; never fear,” and he was off and away.
And Mamie, drawing closer about her the shawl she had thrown on when she
slipped out of bed, hurried up the stairs and knocked at the door of the
room where her parents slept. It was in the back wing of the house,
farthest from the street, which accounted for the fact that they had not
been awakened by the hurrying feet and excited talk of the
ever-increasing crowd running toward the fire. But Mamie’s knock
awakened Mary on the instant.
“What is it?” she called.
“It’s Mamie—the strikers have set the yards on fire and blown up the
freight-house—and Allan’s gone!”
“Gone!” echoed Mary, and sprang out of bed. “Jack!” she cried. “Wake
up!” and she repeated to him what Mamie had just told her.
Jack, with never a word, was out of bed and into his clothes, while his
wife, with trembling fingers, lighted a lamp and opened the door for
Mamie.
“How do you know he’s gone?” demanded Mary. “Did you see him?”
“Yes,” said the girl, her white face and trembling lips telling of her
struggle for self-control.
“And you let him go?”
“He had to go—it was his place to go.”
“She’s right, mother,” broke in Jack. “He had to go. I’m proud of the
boy. An’ I’ll see no harm comes to him.”
“Thank you, dad,” said Mamie, simply, and kissed him. “You’ll telephone
as soon as the danger’s over?”
“Yes,” Jack promised; “an’ don’t be worried.”
They heard the front door slam after him, and the house was still.
“I’m going to get dressed,” said Mamie; “then—then if anything happens,
we’ll be ready.”
She stole away to her room, but she did not proceed immediately to
dress. Instead, she slipped down beside her bed and threw her arms
forward across it and buried her face in them—and when, five minutes
later, she arose, it was with a countenance pale, indeed, but serene and
almost smiling.
She found her mother awaiting her in the dining-room, and they sat down
together and—waited. There is no harder task, and as the weary minutes
dragged along, they dared not look at each other, lest their
self-control slip from them. So half an hour passed, until Mrs. Welsh
could stand it no longer.
“I’m going to git some news,” she said, and went to the telephone, but
central could tell her little more than she already knew, for everything
was confusion as yet at the scene of the outrage. The dispatchers’
office was busy and refused to answer any call. So Mary hung up the
receiver again and came back to Mamie. “I’ll try again after a while,”
she said, and again they nerved themselves to wait.
But not for long.
For suddenly, the telephone rang sharply.
“I’ll go,” said Mary, and Mamie sat where she was, clutching blindly at
her chair, biting her lips until the blood came.
“He’s not hurt!” she said, over and over to herself. “He’s not hurt!
He’s not hurt! It can’t be! It sha’n’t be! He’s not hurt!”
“Is that you, Mary?” asked Jack’s voice.
“Yes; what’s the matter?—your voice don’t sound natural.”
“The boy’s hurted,” said Jack, his voice breaking in a sob. “Bring Mamie
an’ come quick.”
“Where to?”
“To Chestnut’s drugstore. I can’t tell you, Mary, but fer God’s sake,
come quick!”
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