THE CABLES
The General Manager of the Pacific, Lakes & Atlantic Railroad
System had had a hard struggle of it. He who begins his career with
a shovel in a locomotive cab usually has something of that sort
to look back upon. There are no roses along the pathway he has
traversed. In the end, perhaps, he wonders if it has been worth
while. David Cable was a General Manager; he had been a fireman.
It had required twenty-five years of hard work on his part to break
through the chrysalis. Packed away in a chest upstairs in his house
there was a grimy, greasy, unwholesome suit of once-blue overalls.
The garments were just as old as his railroad career, for he had worn
them on his first trip with the shovel. When his wife implored him
to throw away the "detestable things," he said, with characteristic
humour, that he thought he would keep them for a rainy day. It was
much simpler to go from General Manager to fireman than vice versa,
and it might be that he would need the suit again. It pleased him
to hear his wife sniff contemptuously.
David Cable had been a wayward, venturesome youth. His father and
mother had built their hopes high with him as a foundation, and he
had proved a decidedly insecure basis; for one night, in the winter
of 1863, he stole away from his home in New York; before spring
he was fighting in the far Southland, a boy of sixteen carrying a
musket in the service of his country.
At the close of the Civil War Private Cable, barely eighteen, returned
to his home only to find that death had destroyed its happiness:
his father had died, leaving his widowed mother a dependant upon
him. It was then, philosophically, he realised that labour alone
could win for him; and he stuck to it with rigid integrity. In
turn, he became brakeman and fireman; finally his determination
and faithfulness won him a fireman's place on one of the fast New
York Central "runs." If ever he was dissatisfied with the work, no
one was the wiser.
Railroading in those days was not what it is in these advanced times.
Then, it meant that one was possessed of all the evil habits that
fall to the lot of man. David Cable was more or less contaminated
by contact with his rough, ribald companions of the rail, and
he glided moderately into the bad habits of his kind. He drank
and "gamboled" with the rest of the boys; but by nature not being
vicious and low, the influences were not hopelessly deadening to
the better qualities of his character. To his mother, he was always
the strong, good-hearted, manly boy, better than all the other
sons in the world. She believed in him; he worshipped her; and it
was not until he was well up in the twenties that he stopped to
think that she was not the only good woman in the world who deserved
respect.
Up in Albany lived the Widow Coleman and her two pretty daughters.
Mrs. Coleman's husband died on the battlefield, and she, like many
women in the North and the South, after years of moderate prosperity,
was compelled to support herself and her family. She had been
a pretty woman, and one readily could see where her daughters got
their personal attractiveness. Not many doors from the boisterous
little eating-house in which the railroad men snatched their meals
as they went through, the widow opened a book and newsstand. Her
home was on the floor above the stand, and it was there she brought
her little girls to womanhood. Good-looking, harum-scarum Dave
Cable saw Frances Coleman one evening as he dropped in to purchase
a newspaper. It was at the end of June, in 1876, and the country
was in the throes of excitement over the first news of the Custer
massacre on the Little Big Horn River.
Cable was deeply interested, for he had seen Custer fighting at
the front in the sixties. Frances Coleman, the prettiest girl he
had ever seen, sold him the newspaper. After that, he seldom went
through Albany without visiting the little book shop.
Tempestuous, even arrogant in love, Cable, once convinced that he
cared for her, lost no time in claiming her, whether or no. In less
than three months after the Custer massacre they were married.
Defeated rivals unanimously and enviously observed that the
handsomest fireman on the road had conquered the mo&t outrageous
little coquette between New York and Buffalo. As a matter of fact,
she had loved him from the start; the others served as thorns with
which she delightedly pricked his heart into subjection.
The young husband settled down, renounced all of his undesirable
habits and became a new man with such surprising suddenness that
his friends marvelled and--derided. A year of happiness followed.
He grew accustomed to her frivolous ways, overlooked her merry
whimsicalities and gave her the "full length of a free rope," as he
called it. He was contented and consequently careless. She chafed
under the indifference, and in her resentment believed the worst
of him. Turmoil succeeded peace and contentment, and in the end,
David Cable, driven to distraction, weakly abandoned the domestic
battlefield and fled to the Far West, giving up home, good wages,
and all for the sake of freedom, such as it was. He ignored her
letters and entreaties, but in all those months that he was away
from her he never ceased to regret the impulse that had defeated
him. Nevertheless, he could not make up his mind to go back and
resume the life of torture her jealousy had begotten.
Then, the unexpected happened. A letter was received containing
the command to come home and care for his wife and baby. At once,
David Cable called a halt in his demoralising career and saw the
situation plainly. He forgot that she had "nagged" him to the point
where endurance rebelled; he forgot everything but the fact that
he cared for her in spite of all. Sobered and conscience-stricken,
he knew only that she was alone and toiling; that she had suffered
uncomplainingly until the babe was some months old before appealing
to him for help. In abject humiliation, he hastened back to New
York, reproaching himself every mile of the way. Had he but known
the true situation, he would have been spared the pangs of remorse,
and this narrative never would have been written.