|ONCE, when a section-crew came down the mountain on the South Park
road, from Alpine Tunnel to Buena Vista, a very singular thing occurred,
which has never been given to the public. Every one who knows anything
at all, knows that riding down that mountain on a push-car, descending
at the rate of over 200 feet to the mile, means utter destruction,
unless the brake is on. This brake is nothing more nor less then a
piece of scantling, which is applied between one of the wheels and the
car-bed, in such a way as to produce great friction.
The section-crew referred to, got on at Hancock with their bronzed and
glowing hides as full of arsenic and rain-water as they could possibly
hold. Being recklessly drunk, they enjoyed the accumulated velocity of
the car wonderfully, until the section boss lost the break off the car,
and then there was a slight feeling of anxiety. The car at last acquired
a velocity like that of a young and frolicsome bob-tailed comet turned
loose in space. The boys began to get nervous at last, and asked each
other what should be done.
There seemed to be absolutely nothing to do but to shoot onward into the
golden presently.
All at once the section boss thought of something. He was drunk, but the
deadly peril of the moment suggested an idea. There was a rope on the
car which would do to tie to something heavy and cast off for an anchor.
The idea was only partially successful, however, for there was nothing
to tie to but a spike hammer. This was tried but it wouldn't work. Then
it was decided to tie it to some one of the crew and cast him loose
in order to save the lives of those who remained. It was a glorious
opportunity. It was a heroic thing to do. It was like Arnold
Winklered's great sacrifice, by which victory was gained by filling his
own system full of lances and making a toothpick holder of himself, in
order that his comrades might break through the ranks of their foes.
George O'Malley, the section boss, said that he was willing that Patsy
McBride should snatch the laurels from outrageous fortune and bind them
on his brow, but Mr. McBride said he didn't care much for the encomiums
of the world. He hadn't lost any encomiums, and didn't want to trade his
liver for two dollars' worth of damaged laurels.
Everyone declined. All seemed willing to go down into history without
any ten-line pay-local, and wanted someone else to get the effulgence.
Finally, it was decided that a man by the name of Christian Christianson
was the man to tie to. He had the asthma anyhow, and life wasn't much of
an object to him, so they said that, although he declined, he must take
the nomination, as he was in the hands of his friends.
So they tied the rope around Christian and cast anchor.
******
The car slowed up and at last stopped still. The plan had succeeded.
Five happy wives greeted their husbands that night as they returned from
the jaws of destruction. Christian Christianson did not return. The days
may come and the days may go, but Christian's wife will look up toward
the summit' of the snow-crowned mountains in vain.
He will never entirely return. He has done so partially, of course, but
there are still missing fragments of him, and it looks as though he must
have lost his life.