THE MAID OF ERIN
“YOU sent for me?” asked the General Manager of the Vandalia.
“Yes,” said the President. “You remember Tom McGuire?”
“Is he the fellow that rode a mule into the White Mail one morning at
West Silver Creek?”
“The same freckled Thomas.”
“Well, I can’t say that I remember him, for I have never seen him; but
I have not had an opportunity to forget the story of his having saved a
couple of trains for the company. Every time I go down the Line someone
reminds me of his heroism. It got to that pass that when I heard the
car hit the East Bridge I looked up. In would come this man’s father,
who is now roadmaster on the west end, and say, ‘There’s phare Tommy--’
and if I happened to be alone the conductor would break the great news
to me, until I am sick of the story.”
“Well,” said the President, “this Thomas is coming over the road
to-day. He has just been re-elected President and General Manager
of the Inter-Mountain Air Line. He is bringing a wife with him; the
daughter of one of the directors, and I want to arrange a little
surprise for him.”
“That means a special train, I suppose?”
“No, that would not surprise him, for they are running him special over
the Pennsylvania. Do you think we could make time with his car on the
White Mail?”
“Well, we can try it. I’ll wire Sedgwick to give us the best engines
on the road. It will please him, I dare say, to ride down on the White
Mail.”
“Please him! why the Van will get all the business that originates on
the Inter-Mountain for the next hundred years.”
“Shall you meet him at the train?”
“Ah, yes. We’re very good friends; he did his first work for me when I
was general passenger agent.”
An hour later the office boy handed a piece of white paper to the
Trainmaster, upon which was written:
“Put President McGuire’s car, ‘Maid of Erin,’ on the White Mail
to-night.
G. M.”
“Who gave you this, boy?”
“G. M.”
“Himself?”
“That same.”
“Well, you take this back and ask him if he means the Night Express.”
Presently the boy came back, stopped in front of the Trainmaster’s
desk, and startled the office by reading aloud:
“Trainmaster, St. Louis, Vandalia, Terre Haute and Indianapolis
Railroad, Indianapolis:--
Put President McGuire’s car, ‘Maid of Erin’ on the White Mail to-night.
G. M.”
“Who told you to read that?” shouted the indignant Trainmaster.
“The G. M. told me to read it to you and see that you understood it.”
There was a mischievous twinkle in the boy’s eye, and gore in the eye
of the T. M.
The operators, bending over their keys, glanced at each other, but
there were no comments. There is very little talking in the office
where the despatchers work.
“Here, boy,” said the Trainmaster, handing a piece of clip to the
messenger. “Take that to the yardmaster.” This order read:
“Hook the ‘Maid of Erin’ on the White Mail to-night.”
“Who gave you this message?” demanded the yardmaster.
The boy was ready to explode with fun.
“The T. M.”
“Well, you go back, sonny, and ask him if he’s off his nut, see?” The
boy reached for the paper, but the man held it back. “Go and ask Mr.
Gilroy to explain this to you,” said the yardmaster. “Ask him if he
means the White Mail or the Night Express.”
Presently the boy came back, and, hooking his white light on his arm
as he had seen passenger conductors do, he stood in the centre of the
yardmaster’s office, and, having first arrested the attention of the
switchmen, engineers, and firemen who were “railroading” there, read
aloud:
“To the yardmaster, St. Louis, Vandalia, Terre Haute, and Indianapolis
Railroad, Indianapolis:--
Hook the ‘Maid of Erin’ on the White Mail to-night.
T. M.”
“Damn your skin, kid, who told you to read that?”
“The T. M. Told me to read it to you and see that you understood it,
see?”
The engine had just been coupled to the White Mail, that had come in
carrying green signals, when the special, running as second section of
No. 1, whistled in. The President of the Vandalia boarded the “Maid of
Erin,” introduced the General Manager, and they were in turn introduced
to Mrs. McGuire. By this time a yard engine had dashed up out of a
siding, picked up the car, and set her gently on behind the White Mail.
“What time shall we reach the river?” asked the President of the
Inter-Mountain.
“At 7.50,” said the President of the Vandalia. “Possibly 7.49, but it
will not be 51, Tommy, you can bet on that.”
“To-morrow night,” said McGuire, surprised but smiling. “How pokey you
are!”
“To-morrow morning, if you please.”
“What, you’re not running us special? Now I don’t want you to do that.”
“No, you are going on a regular train,” said the Van man.
“Then,” said McGuire, waving his hand enthusiastically, “we’re on the
White Mail. Kate, do you hear? we’re going through on the White Mail
to-night. Say, this is--”
“Good night! Good-bye,” said the officials, for the car was going. The
yard engine was giving them a kick out over the switches, and by the
time the President and General Manager got to the rear platform the
train was making fifteen miles an hour. The headlights of the pony
shone full upon the happy faces of the bride and groom on the rear
of the “Maid of Erin,” and with a hurried last good night, the two
officials dropped off, one on either side.
They had long since ceased to carry passengers on the White Mail, and
the engineer, who is not always consulted, wondered why they hung back
so that night.
This “Maid of Erin” car had a false bottom, and between the two floors
there was a layer of forty-five pound steel rails, laid close together,
to weight her down and make her ride easy. At Terre Haute, the engineer
called the conductor: “What in thunder you got on behind there
to-night, Jack?”
“Private car--‘Maid of Erin.’”
“Huh!” said the old driver, “I thought, way the damn thing pulled, it
must be made o’ lead.”
When the conductor learned at Terre Haute that the man in the private
car was President McGuire, Thomas McGuire, freckled Tommy, who used to
run the pump at West Silver Creek, he could scarcely wait until they
pulled out before going in to see the great railroad man.
When they had passed over the last switch the conductor went back.
McGuire turned and glanced at the man in the bright uniform.
“I beg pardon,” stammered the conductor, “I thought you were alone.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, we’re railroad people--sit down. I assure you
that you could not be more welcome.”
“But--I was looking for Mr. McGuire--I thought he might--well, we used
to work together at Silver Creek.”
“Is your name Connor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so. Now have you been on this train since you left
Indianapolis, and just now showed up?”
“But, you’re not Tom--Mr. McGuire?”
“Yes,--I--am--Tom Mr. McGuire,” and the President took the two hands of
the sallow conductor and looked into his face.
“Katie,” he said suddenly, “this is Jack Connor--little Jack that
helped me detect the train robbers when we were hiding from the police.
Shake hands with Mrs. McGuire, Jack, and then sit down.”
* * * * *
Mrs. McGuire had been sleeping for two hours. Jack had, at McGuire’s
request, been telling him all his troubles. Things were going from bad
to worse. The Engineers and Firemen were organized to fight, but the
O. R. C., the conductors’ organization, was opposed to strikes, and he,
this restless, unhappy soul, was working hard and hopefully for the
formation of a colossal union of all railroad organizations, against
which the soulless corporations could not prevail.
“But what’s the good of all this work and worry, Jack?”
“For mutual protection. For the general welfare of workingmen.”
“Oh, workingmen be hanged! aren’t we all workingmen? Wait till you
are President of a railroad, Jack. When your nerves are shaken and
your head roars when you go to bed, and you lie awake half the night
trying to work out a scheme by which you can save a few millions to the
soulless corporation that is clubbing the wolf away from your door,
and, incidentally, save your reputation and your job, then you will
know what it is to be a workingman.”
Jack smiled pathetically, and glanced about at the rich hangings and
expensive furnishings.
“I know what you are thinking now. You are saying, Tommy seems to be
having a pretty good time. Well, did you ever see a drunk man who
didn’t _seem_ to be having fun? I’m just married.”
President McGuire had intended to offer his old playmate a position on
the Air Line, but when he had heard him discourse for a couple of hours
on the relations of “Capital and Labor,” he changed his mind. “A man
who is always hugging a grievance will forget to flag,” was what passed
through the President’s mind, and he concluded to leave his old friend
on his native heath, where he was least liable to get into trouble.
“Jack, my boy,” said McGuire, with his hand on the door of his
stateroom, “you’re on the wrong leg of the ‘Y,’ and you’ll be throwing
sixes all your life unless you switch. If I work hard and get to the
front, and you work hard and get to the front--if each man takes care
of his own job, always lending a helping hand to a fellow-worker when
he can, there won’t be many misfits or failures, Jack.--Good night.”