"FLAG NUMBER TWO!"
The snow was falling steadily, a late spring snow, but as heavy as any of
the winter. It had started in the early morning as sleet, which clung to
everything it touched with a vise-like grip. Then, the wind veering to
the north had turned the sleet to snow, soggy, tenacious, and swirling
fast and faster, until now, as night closed in, nearly six inches had
fallen.
It was a bad night for railroading, and the instruments in the office
clicked incessantly as the dispatchers laboured, with tense faces, to
keep their trains straight. The wires were working badly under the burden
of snow and sleet; some were crossed, some were down, and the instruments
slurred the dots and dashes which rattled over them in a way that brought
a line of worry between the eyes of the men upon whom rested so great a
responsibility.
As for the less experienced operators along the line, they were--to use
the expressive phrase usually applied to them--"up in the air." They
knew that a single mistake might cost the lives of a score of people,
and yet how were mistakes to be avoided when the instruments, instead of
their usual clear-cut enunciation, stuttered and stammered and chattered
meaninglessly. It was one of those crises which grow worse with each
passing moment; when nerves, strained to snapping, finally give way;
when brains, aching with anxiety, suddenly refuse to work; when, in a
word, there is a break in the system to which even the smallest cog is
necessary.
So it was that the trainmaster, having swallowed his supper hastily, had
hurried back to the office, and stood now peering out into the night,
chewing nervously the end of a cigar which he had forgotten to light,
and listening to the instruments clattering wildly on the tables behind
him. Although there were two of them, and their clatter never ceased, he
followed without difficulty the story which each was telling, for he had
risen to his present position after long years at the key.
Allan West had also hurried back to the office as soon as he had eaten
his supper. It seemed to him that disaster was in the air; besides, he
might be needed to carry a message, or for some other service, and he
wanted to be on hand. It had been a hard day, for he had toiled back
and forth across the slippery yards a score of times, but he forgot
his fatigue as he sat there and listened to the crazy instruments and
realized the tremendous odds against which the dispatchers were fighting.
For the trains must be moved, and as nearly on time as human effort could
do it. There is no stopping a railroad because of unfavourable weather.
The movement of trains ceases only when an accident breaks the road in
two or wreckage blocks the track, and then only until arrangements can be
made to détour them past the place where the accident has occurred. When
this cannot be done, a train is run to the spot from either side, and
passengers, mail, and baggage transferred.
And then the passengers get a fleeting and soon-forgotten glimpse of
how the road is struggling to set things right again. For as they hurry
past the place, they see a gang of men--a hundred, perhaps--toiling like
the veriest galley-slaves to repair the damage; they see a huge derrick
grappling with wrecked cars and engines and swinging them out of the way;
they see locomotives puffing and hauling, and in command of it all, two
or three haggard and dirt-begrimed men whom no one would recognize as
the well-dressed and well-groomed gentlemen who fill the positions of
superintendent, trainmaster, and superintendent of maintenance of way.
All this the passengers pause a moment to contemplate, as one looks at
a play at the theatre; then they hasten on and forget all about it. As
for the labourers, they do not even raise their heads. It is no play for
them, but deadly earnest. They have been toiling in just that fashion
for hours and hours; they will keep doggedly at it until the road is open.
To-night a dozen passengers in the luxuriantly appointed Pullmans of the
east-bound flyer were fuming and fretting because their train was ten
minutes late. They complained to the conductor; they expressed their
opinion of the road at length and in terms the most uncomplimentary. They
vowed one and all that never again would they travel by this route. Not
that the delay really made any difference to any of them; but average
human nature seems to be so constituted that it is most deeply annoyed by
trifles. And the conductor reassured them, talked confidently of making
up the lost time, did his best to keep them cheerful and contented, joked
and laughed and seemed to be thinking about anything rather than the
storm which swirled and howled outside. Only for an instant, as he passed
from one coach to another, and found himself alone, did the careless
smile leave his lips. His face lined with anxiety as he glanced out
through the door of the vestibule at the driving snow, and he shook his
head. Then he resumed his jaunty air and passed on into the next coach.
Every profession has its ethics--some citadel, some point of honour,
which must be defended to the death. The physician may not refuse a call
for aid, may not hesitate to risk his own life in the work of saving
others--that is the implied agreement he makes with humanity when he
accepts his diploma. The captain may not leave his ship until the last
passenger has done so; his life is negligible and worthless in comparison
with that of any passenger on board; if his passengers cannot be saved,
he must go down with them; to think of his own life at such a time is to
confess himself a coward and a traitor to a noble calling. The conductor
of a passenger-train occupies much the same position. He is responsible
for his train and his passengers; never must he seem worried, or admit
that there is any danger; he must front death with a smile on his
lips, and when the crash comes, his first duty is to the men and women
entrusted to his charge. And what a glorious commentary it is on human
nature that so few, brought face to face with that duty, seek to evade it!
* * * * *
Back in the dispatchers' office, the situation grew worse and worse.
The dispatcher in charge of the east end had lost a freight-train.
He supposed that it was somewhere between two stations, but it was
long overdue, and the conviction began to be forced upon him that it
had somehow got past a station unnoticed and unreported, in the snow
and storm. The operator swore it hadn't; swore that he had not slept
a second; swore that he had kept a sharp lookout for the train, and
hazarded the opinion that it had run off the track somewhere. The
dispatcher retorted that when he wanted his opinion he would ask for it;
and in the meantime that section of track was closed until the missing
train could be found.
A missing train! The words send a shiver through the bravest. Somewhere,
out yonder in the storm, it is careening along the rails; its crew is
confident that its passage has been noted by the operator at the last
station, and that the dispatcher will keep clear the track ahead. They
do not suspect their peril; they do not know that another train may be
speeding toward them, and that, in a few minutes, there will be a roar, a
crash, the shriek of escaping steam, and then the cruel tongues of flame
licking around the wrecked cars. So the fireman bends to his task, the
engineer stares absently out into the night, his hand on the throttle,
the front brakeman dozes upon the fireman's box, and back in the caboose,
the conductor and hind-end brakeman engage in a social game of seven-up--
In safety, this time; for the dispatcher is one who knows his business
and takes no chances. Proceeding on the theory that the train has got
past, he keeps the track clear and holds up the road's traffic until the
missing train can be found. Which, of course, is as soon as it reaches
the next station--for on that end of the road, every operator, knowing
what is wrong, has his eyes wide open. A mighty sigh of relief goes up
as it is reported; traffic starts again with a rush. And the next day,
the operator who swore so positively that the train had not got past was
hunting another job.
The dispatcher in charge of the west end was doing his best to keep the
track clear for Number Two, the east-bound flyer, the premier train of
the road, with right of way over everything; but there was no telling
what any train would do on such a night, and the flyer had already been
held ten minutes at Vienna because a freight-train had stuck on the hill
east of there and had to double over. The dispatcher set his teeth and
vowed that there should be no more delay if he had to hold every other
train on the division until the flyer passed. But freight conductors have
a persuasive way with them, and when Lew Johnson reported from Lyndon
at 8.40 that his train was made up, engine steaming finely, and that he
could make Wadsworth easily in half an hour, the dispatcher yielded and
told him to come ahead.
But Johnson had exaggerated a little, for his wife was sick and he was
anxious to get home to her; the engine was not steaming so well, after
all, the flues got to leaking, and when the train finally coasted down
the grade into the yards at Wadsworth, the flyer was only ten minutes
behind. Still, a miss is as good as a mile, and the dispatcher heaved a
sigh of relief, as he looked out from the window and saw the freight pull
into the yards. He stood staring a moment longer, then sprang to his key
and began calling Musselman.
The trainmaster swung around sharply.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"An extra west has just pulled out of the yards," gasped the dispatcher.
"It had orders to start as soon as Number Two pulled in. The engineer
must have thought that freight was the flyer," and he kept on calling
Musselman.
In a moment came the tick-tick, tick-tick, which told that the operator
at Musselman had heard the call.
"Flag Number Two!" commanded the dispatcher, "and hold till arrival extra
west."
There was an instant's suspense; then the reply came ticking slowly in:
"Number Two just passed. Was just going to report her."
The dispatcher leaned back in his chair, his face livid, and stared
mutely at the trainmaster.
"There's no night office between here and Musselman," he said, hoarsely.
"There'll be a head-end inside of ten minutes."
Allan had listened with white face. He shut his eyes for an instant and
fancied he could see the passenger and freight rushing toward each other
through the night. Then, suddenly, he sprang erect.
"Do you know the number of that outside wire on the lower cross-arm?" he
asked the trainmaster.
"Yes--fifteen--"
"Can you cut it in?"
"Of course--but what--"
"No matter--do it!" cried Allan, and sat down at the key, while the
trainmaster went mechanically to the switchboard and pushed the proper
plug into place.
"J--J--J!" Allan called. "J--J--J!"
Would Jim hear? Was he within call of his instrument? Perhaps he was in
some other part of the house; perhaps he was not at home at all. Even if
he were, how would he be able--
Then, suddenly, the circuit was broken, and as Allan held down his key,
there came the welcome tick-tick, tick-tick, which told that Jim had
answered.
"Flag Number Two!"
Allan's hand was trembling so that he could scarcely control the key.
"R--R," clamoured Jim. "Repeat--repeat!"
Small wonder that he doubted he had heard correctly!
"Flag Number Two--quick--collision!"
This time Allan controlled the trembling of his hand and sent the message
clearly.
"O. K.," flashed back the answer, and Jim was gone, forgetting in his
agitation to close his key.
"Who is it?" demanded Mr. Schofield, who had listened to this interchange
with strained attention.
"It's Jim Anderson," Allan explained. "He lives in that house right
by the track about a mile west of here. He and I rigged up a private
line--Mr. Mickey let us use that old wire. Perhaps he'll be in time."
"Perhaps--perhaps," agreed the trainmaster; but he did not permit himself
to hope. The chance was too slender. How was the boy to flag the train?
How could he make the engineer see him through that driving snow? It was
absurd to suppose it could be done.
"I think we'd better order out the wrecking-train," he said, to the
chief-dispatcher. "Call up a couple of doctors, too; we'll probably need
them; and tell the hospital to have its ambulance at the station here
before we get back. As for that fool who made the mistake--"
He stopped abruptly. For, in the driving snow, the mistake was not so
surprising, after all--the flyer was running ten minutes late, and the
freight had come in exactly on her time--two facts with which the crew of
the extra west could not have been familiar.
"Perhaps he's paid for it with his life by now," added the trainmaster,
after a moment, and started toward the telephone to order the
wrecking-train got ready.
Then, suddenly, he stopped, rigid with expectancy, for the instrument on
the table in front of Allan had begun to sound.
"A--A," it called. "A--A."
"Tick-tick, tick-tick," Allan answered, instantly.
"I have Number Two, also extra west stopped here," came the message.
"What shall they do?"
"I guess I'll have to turn this over to you, sir," said Allan, looking at
Mr. Schofield, his eyes bright with emotion. "Don't send too fast," he
added, with a little, unsteady laugh, as the trainmaster took the key.
"Neither Jim nor I is very expert, you know."