TOMMY McGUIRE SEES THE CITY
IT took Tommy McGuire more than a month to recover from the effect
of his head-end collision with the White Mail. The old pump mule,
upon whose back Tommy had hurried to the top of the hill in the face
of the flying train, had lost his life, and the railway company had
lost a mule, but the company made no complaint. The brave boy, by
warning the engineer, had saved the company the trouble and expense
of hauling a heavy engine from the bottom of a very muddy stream,
rebuilding a number of cars, and apologizing to the postal authorities
at Washington, to say nothing of costly damage suits. And the President
of the Vandalia had marked the pump boy at West Silver Creek for
promotion. He had issued orders to that effect to his subordinate
officials. All these interesting facts had been made known to Tommy by
little Mary Connor, who had it by letter from her brother Jack, the
messenger boy in the office of the roadmaster at East St. Louis.
It had been arranged that Tommy should visit his friend, little Jack,
at the river, as soon as he was able to travel, and to that visit the
pump boy looked forward with great expectations.
It was midsummer when Tommy boarded the Highland accommodation one
morning at St. Jacobs. Heidelberg, the agent, had consigned him to
the care of the conductor, for none thought of transportation for
Tommy McGuire, the hero of Silver Creek. Jack met him at the depot
at East St. Louis and took him at once to his boarding house. After
dinner the messenger boy, who had been in the great city for nearly a
year, allowed Tommy to accompany him on his rounds among the various
departments of the road.
Tommy was surprised to see the timid Jack pushing his way through
crowds, darting across the tracks between the snorting switch engines,
talking back to the big policemen, and even threatening to thump a
grocer’s boy who was trying to run them down.
After supper that evening the boys took a ferry and crossed the great
river. Tommy, who had found little to awe him in his short life, said,
looking over-side, that it was awful. As they neared the west bank the
noise of the heavy traffic along the river front became deafening. As
far as they could see, up and down the river, there was nothing but
houses, and high above their heads hung the skeleton of the big bridge.
Tommy breathed easier when he felt the flagging beneath his feet. He
was inclined to shrink from the big wagons and heavy drays that rattled
past them in the narrow street, but when he caught little Jack grinning
at him, he determined to face whatever came without flinching. A boy
who had once ridden a mule up against an express train ought not to be
afraid of a dray, or a thousand drays.
When they had wandered for an hour, never losing sight of the river
that showed through the narrow streets up as far as Broadway, Jack
bethought him of the spending-money the roadmaster had given him.
Presently, near the door of a little wooden shop, they saw a sign that
read:
“Sweet Cider and Cigars.”
They were too big for candy, and not big enough for beer, so Jack
thought the sweet cider sign about the proper thing.
There was no light in the place, save the little that filtered through
the dirty window and fell from the street lamp through the open door.
The boys hesitated, but when the voice of a woman called kindly to
them, bidding them enter, they stepped inside. Jack called for cider,
and when they had tasted it they both said it was not cider. They
refused to drink it, but both pulled out their pocket books and wanted
to pay. They had each put a quarter on the little show-case and the
woman took both. The boys waited in silence for their change, and the
silence was broken by the snoring of a man just behind the calico
curtains that cut the narrow room eight feet from the door.
“Won’t yez have some candy, boys?” asked the woman, sliding the door in
the show-case and putting in a fat hand.
“No!” said Jack; “we want our change.”
“Yez don’t git no change. Drinks is twenty-five cents in this shop.”
“Come on! les go,” said Tommy.
“No, yez don’t,” said the woman, stepping from behind the low counter
and pushing the door shut. “Yez’ll drink what yez ordered or I’ll call
th’ police.”
The boys glanced at each other. Jack was thoroughly frightened. Tommy
was fighting mad. “Open that door,” he demanded. The woman laughed, a
laugh that the boys had never heard before, locked the door and removed
the key.
Tommy was about to throw himself upon her as she stepped toward the
curtains, but Jack caught hold of his arm.
“Moik! Moik! I say Moik, wake up. Come ahn, ye brute, git up.”
The woman passed behind the curtains and was endeavoring to rouse
the sleeping man. The place was quite dark now, with the door shut.
The narrow window panes were covered with dust, and only a faint ray
struggled through from a street lamp.
Tommy tried the door. “Take hold of my shoulder,” said he to Jack,
“and pull for your life.”
Tommy grasped the knob, put one foot against the door jamb, and the two
scared boys threw themselves back with all the strength they had. The
screws that held the lock in place must have been eaten with rust, or
the wood rotten, for the door gave way and the boys fell backward into
the room.
As they scrambled to their feet and rushed out, the woman came after
them, calling: “Police! police!” but the boys kept on running. They
turned a corner and made for the river. Once or twice they thought they
heard the heavy boots of a policeman close behind them, but they never
looked back. They reached the river just as a ferry-boat was about to
pull in the plank, and leaped aboard.
When they had gained courage to look back they saw a policeman standing
on the wharf looking at the boat. No doubt he was looking at them, and
they went forward, their hearts still beating wildly when they stepped
ashore on the Illinois side.
“Les go home,” said Tommy.
“Never. Everybody in St. Louis knows me, and if we’ve been reco’nized
they’ll go right to the house to git us. We must not go home to-night.”
“Well, les don’t stan’ here where they can see us,” said Tommy, and
they strolled down along the water-edge.
They climbed up onto an old, abandoned cart and watched the ferry-boats
come and go. They watched closely for the caps and buttons of police
officers among the passengers that passed out between the two big lamps
on the landing.
“Like as not they’ll put on citizens’ clothes, or maybe send detectives
after us, an’ you can’t tell a detective from anybody else; sometimes
they dress up like storekeepers an’ sometimes like tramps.”
It was quite dark now, where the boys sat upon the old cart, and
presently they saw three men coming up the river, walking slowly and
talking low.
“Come on,” said Jack, grasping Tommy’s arm, and hurrying down to the
very water-edge. They hid under an old, abandoned wooden pier and
waited for the men to pass by, for they made no doubt that they were
detectives.
“They must have seen us,” whispered Jack, “they’re comin’ out on the
pier.” Now the boys tried to hold their breath, for the men were
walking silently over their hiding-place, and not four feet above them.
The three men sat down upon one of the stringers that pointed out over
the water.
“Hark! what’s that?” said one.
“What’s what? you idiot; you’re worse ’an a two-year-old, shyin’ at a
fallin’ leaf.”
“I heard someon’ cough.”
“It’s that chicken heart of yours hittin’ your vest. Close that fissure
in your face.”
“Aw, cheese it,” said the third man, “what’s on yer mind, Charley?”
“A whole lot,” said the severe man, who seemed to be the captain. “The
night express is the proper train, Monday night the time, and Casey
Water Tank the place.”
Tommy hunched Jack.
“There’s always a lot of mail and express matter that accumulates
here over Sunday, therefore the Monday fast express ought to be good
picking.”
A bareheaded woman came down to the river, looked into the boiling
flood, shivered and went away, manifestly determined to make one more
effort to solve the bread and butter problem.
When she had passed out of hearing, the man went on: “Jim’ll go to
Casey to-morrow, Sunday, and make his way to the tank. Having the only
decent suit, I’ll take a sleeper for Indianapolis, but I promise you I
won’t sleep. And Pete, you white-livered coyote, you’ll take the blind
baggage at Greenup, so as to be on hand when the time comes.”
“An’ how do we proceed?” asked Jim.
“You’ll be hiding behind the tank, and when the fireman’s wrestling
with the spout an’ the engineer’s watching his signals so as to place
the engine, you’ll step quietly aboard, holding your gun close to the
engineer, but not offensively close so as to enable him to take it away
from you.”
“An’ must I pint it butt fust, er nozzle fust? You know I hain’t never
handled a gun afore.”
“Well, if you handle it as recklessly as you handle the English
language you’ll kill the man on sight. Well, to my tale: Pete will
uncouple the train the moment the engineer has placed the engine and
wait for me.”
“An’ what’ll the great man do?” demanded Jim, who was feeling the
insult to his grammar.
“The great man will herd the car-hands up through the sleepers and into
the day coach, where he will proceed to pacify the passengers. Having
slipped into his false face he will pause with his back to the door at
the rear of the car, twirl his arsenal playfully, and bid the multitude
be quiet. For the further awing of those who may meditate violence
he will fire three shots--bang, bang, bang--that shall come like the
measured thumping of my lady’s heart, when she sees a cow. These pistol
shots will be followed by the tinkling sound of falling glass, for the
three glims will have been doused. And, by the same token you shall
know, O, Jimmie, and you, my shivering Pete, that your uncle is doing
business in the day coach.”
“An’ I’ll come in wud a mail sack an’ git de watches and diamins.”
“Watches! shade of Jesse! Does Two-card Charley rob unarmed men and
helpless women? You will devote your time and that mite of gray matter
that you are supposed to have in your head to the parting of the train.”
“S’pose some on’ shows fight?”
“Why, apologize and bow yourself out, of course. Oh, Pete! Pete! I’ve
tried to make something of you, but it isn’t in the wood. It hurts me
to hint such a thing, and yet I know the day will come when I must
needs lay violent hands on you; kill you, mayhap, and cache you in the
waving grass, you ass.”
Pete had stuck a short pipe into his mouth, and now indiscreetly struck
a parlor match and held it to the pipe. The intellectual leader struck
the pipe and the match with his open hand and drove them into the face
of Pete, and immediately the conference broke up.
The two boys lay quiet until the men had passed the big lamp at the
landing, and then crawled out.
“Say, Jack,” said Tommy, and the sound of his voice broke the silence
so suddenly that Jack started and clutched at his friend’s arm, “them
fellows’ll be hidin’ out same as us, if they don’t watch out.”
“Shall we tell on ’em?”
“Sure! Aint the company’s business our business?”
“Yes; still we wouldn’t like to have somebody tell on us.”
“But what have we done, Jack Connor? We ordered the drinks an’ paid for
’em--both of us.”
“An’ pulled the door down. You often hear of fellows bein’ sent up for
breakin’ into houses.”
“We didn’t break in; we broke out, to gain our freedom. Liberty,
Heidelberg says, is the rightful heritage of American citizens.”
Now, the boys, full of a great tale, stole softly up the shadow side of
the street, and to bed.