SLEEPING OUT
THE world looked dark to the widow Connor when her husband and her
eldest son were sleeping among the crosses in the little Catholic
graveyard.
Mrs. McGuire sent Denis to see Heidelberg, and when the roadmaster came
up from East St. Louis these three officials held an important and
animated meeting.
This conference was interrupted by Tommy McGuire, who burst in upon
them like a sunrise in the desert.
“I got a scheme,” said he to the agent, who, having grown up under a
cloud similar to that which hung over the freckled youth in front of
him, beamed upon the boy encouragingly and bade him reveal his plans.
“Yo’ see,” said Tommy, ignoring the roadmaster (he never noticed his
father, probably because his father never noticed him), “Jack can’t
keep th’ pump, ’cause he can’t harness d’ mule, an’ he can’t mind d’
bridge ’cause it’s too lonesome. Now I aint got nofin t’ do, an’ I can
run d’ pump in daytime, an’ Jack can sleep n ’en I can sleep in d’
shanty nights, an’ Jack can wake me when d’ Midnight Express goes by, n
’ne I can go t’ sleep agin.”
Tommy had talked very rapidly, and now as he paused for breath he
glanced at the roadmaster.
“And who’s goin’ t’ ’arness th’ mule fur ye, me lad?” asked the gruff
official.
Tommy gave him a dark look and turned to the agent, as much as to say,
“This is our end of the road.”
“I seen Mr. Collins,” he said to the station-master, “an’ he’s goin’
t’ build me a platform long side d’ stall so I can harness d’ mule and
jump on his back an’ go to me work ’thout asken any odds uv U. P. er
anybody, an’ till he gets d’ platform done d’ mule can sleep in his
harness a few nights--taint no worse fur ’im than fur me t’ sleep in me
clothes, an’ that’s what I’m goin’ to do.”
“Very well, Tommy,” said the agent, “you wait outside and we will see
what can be done.”
“Well,” began the roadmaster, when the august body had reconvened, “if
ye’s fellies wants to open a kindergarden, ye kin do it, but mind, I
tell ye, it’s agin me judgment t’ put a lad like little Jack Connor
watchin’ a bridge o’ nights.”
“I’ll be responsible fur Jack,” said McGuire, speaking for the first
time; “th’ lad have the head uv a man above his slender shoulders, an’
Pat Connor’s boy can be trusted, do ye mind that?”
“And I’ll be responsible for Tommy McGuire,” said the agent, looking at
the father of the freckled youth.
“He’s a tough kid that,” said the roadmaster, “wud all jew respect to
his mother.”
“Leave him to me,” said the station-master, “he’s no whit tougher than
I was at his age.”
When Tincher, the agent’s under-study, went out to look for Tommy, to
apprise him of what he had overheard, the boy was not to be seen. Of
course he could not be expected to sit quietly in the sun for nearly an
hour, and he had not. He had climbed to the top of the grain elevator,
he had mixed salt with U. P. Burns’s tobacco, and pinned a “lost”
notice to his father’s coat that hung on the handle-bar of the hand
car. Then he had scattered shelled corn for the miller’s pigs. He had
discovered the agent’s marking pot, and was now lying flat on his
stomach, reaching over the edge of the platform, making zebras of all
the white pigs in the drove.
* * * * *
The widow laughed and cried when Tommy told her how it had all been
arranged, and Tommy’s mother, to his surprise, actually kissed him.
Even Denis McGuire was able to feel a pardonable pride in the boy. Mrs.
Dutton said she was glad to “see th’ brat thryen to make suthen uv
hissilf.” The priest promised to pray for him. “I’ll stand good for him
here, father,” the agent had said to the priest, “if you’ll stand good
hereafter,” and the priest had promised.
The first day was all too short for Tommy, though sad enough for Jack.
By three o’clock in the afternoon the tank was full and the mule turned
out to graze.
Mr. Collins, the foreman of the bridge carpenters, had built a bunk
in the little shanty, and Mrs. McGuire and the widow had come down to
fix the bed for Tommy. The enthusiastic boy gave Jack little time to
hug his grief, but kept talking of the future, of their importance to
the company and to Jack’s family. His plans were not quite perfect in
his own mind, but he felt that in some way he must contribute to the
support of the widow’s family. He had no need of money for himself. He
had never had any or cared to have, unless it would be to buy a target
rifle like Anderson’s boy had, or maybe some firecrackers for the
Fourth, and for Christmas. But poor little Jack would not enthuse. As
often as Tommy looked up he found his companion staring at him as if
half afraid.
“Whatcher skeered about, Jack Connor?” demanded Tommy, boxing the boy’s
cap off.
“When ye goin’ to bed?” asked Jack, his wild eyes growing wider as he
pictured to himself the loneliness of the place when Tommy should go to
sleep.
“Aw, shucks,” said Tommy, “I’m not goin’ t’ bed at all; come outside
an’ le’s build a bonfire to keep th’ skeeters off.”
They made such a fire of dry brush and driftwood that when the Midnight
Express came round the curve at Hagler’s tank the engineer thought
the bridge was burning, and shut off. But a moment later little Jack
was at the end of the bridge moving the white light up and down, as
he had seen his father do, and the driver opened the throttle again.
Despite the fact that Tommy was close behind him, the timid boy began
to tremble and draw back as the headlight glared in his face. Tommy
seized the signal lamp and stood smiling in the face of the driver as
the great engine struck the bridge and roared past, shaking the earth
for rods around. Away the wild steed went, out toward the morning. She
had started fresh and clean from the Mississippi, she would slake, for
a brief moment, her burning thirst at the Ambraw, and at dawn drink of
the waters of the Wabash.
When the red lights on the rear of the flying train had drawn close
together and finally dropped over the bridge, Tommy turned to find
little Jack crouching at the door of the shanty.
“’Smatter uv you, Jack Connor?” demanded the freckled boy. “Guess I
better tie you under th’ bridge till yo’ git ust to the cars.”
They put the white light down on the floor, and began to practise their
writing lesson; learning to write their names so they could sign the
pay rolls when the car came up the road again. Tommy started to sing,
“The Hat Me Father Wore,” but remembering suddenly that this was the
only song Jimmie Connor had ever tried to sing, he changed off to
“Jerry Ile the Kayre,”--
“Wid a big soljer coat
Buttoned up to me troat,
All danger I would dare
Thin jint ahead an’ cinter back;
Oh! Jerry go ile th’ Kayre.”
But try as he would Tommy could not keep the clouds away from the face
of his friend. The poor lad seemed half dazed by the dreadful scenes
through which he had passed. It was nearly morning. The bonfire had
burned down to gray ashes, and the boys were sleepy.
Tommy took the red light, shook it, and turned it up. A lost dog over
by the saw-mill set up that awful unearthly howl that boys are wont
to connect in some way with abandoned farms and funerals. A hoot-owl
hooted on the top of the tank, and little Jack began to cry.