THE PRESIDENT'S SPECIAL
The operator's work at Byers Junction was more important and difficult
than at any of the other small stations on the line, because, as has
already been explained, it was at that point that the track of the D. W.
& I. joined that of the P. & O., and all D. W. & I. trains ran over the
P. & O. tracks as far as West Junction, a distance of about eight miles.
This complicated the traffic problem and the movement of trains much more
than a simple crossing would have done, for the trains had to be kept out
of each other's way not only at the junction, but for the whole length of
that stretch of track which was used in common by the two roads.
The P. & O. was considerably the older of the two, and had been built
along the main line of traffic from east to west--the line which, in the
old days, had been followed by the stage-coach. As the State became more
thickly settled, other lines sprang up, and finally, when rich deposits
of coal were discovered in Jackson County, the D. W. & I. was built to
tap this territory and connect it with the northwestern part of the
State. The P. & O. also ran through Jackson County, and, of course, soon
built a branch to the coal-fields, so that when the work of construction
on the new road began it was found that it would closely parallel the P.
& O. for a distance of about eight miles. The new road was short of cash
at the time, as most roads in the building are, and decided to use the P.
& O. track for that distance, instead of building a track of its own.
So a traffic arrangement was made, the junction points established, and
joint operators placed there. This arrangement, which, as was at first
supposed, would be only temporary, was continued from year to year, the
P. & O. getting a good rental out of this stretch of track, and the D. W.
& I. never accumulating a sufficient balance in the treasury to build a
track of its own--at least, whenever it _did_ get such a balance, it was
always needed for some more pressing purpose, and the old arrangement was
allowed to stand. When a railroad has to fight to earn the interest on
its bonds, it is willing to do anything that will give it a longer lease
of life.
The D. W. & I. was, as will be seen, an unimportant road. It ran only one
passenger-train a day in each direction, and, as it was not on the way to
anywhere, its business, both freight and passenger, was purely local. At
the beginning of its existence, it had hauled a great deal of coal for
the Chicago market, but this business had been killed by the development
of the great Pocahontas fields in West Virginia. Luckily for the road,
it was discovered at this time that it might serve as a link between
the mighty N. & W. and C. H. & D. to connect the Pocahontas fields with
Chicago, so, while the east end of the line gradually degenerated into a
streak of rust, traffic on the west end, from Wadsworth to Dayton, became
heavier than ever, as train after train of coal and coke, from the West
Virginia fields, passed daily over this little stretch of track, and then
rushed away to the busy city by the lake. It was a good deal like a man
living on one lung, or with one side partially paralyzed; yet a certain
sort of life is possible under those conditions, and this one-sided
traffic provided the only dividend the D. W. & I. had ever paid, and
permitted the road to struggle along without going into the hands of a
receiver.
Owing to this double use of this little stretch of track, the operators
at both Byers and West Junction were what is called "joint operators;"
that is, they served as operator for both roads, received orders from
both headquarters, and so managed the traffic that there should be no
conflict. This consisted, for the most part, in holding the D. W. & I.
trains until the P. & O. trains were out of the way; for the trains of
the more important road were always given precedence, and the others had
to make the best of it and hurry through whenever there was an opening.
The P. & O. dispatcher had absolute control over the track, and the D. W.
& I. trains were not turned back to the control of that road until they
had got back upon their own line.
At night, luckily, there was very little traffic over the D. W. & I.--so
little that it had not bothered Allan at all. But during the day trick,
traffic was much livelier, and it required a cool head and steady
judgment to get everything past without confusion. There was, both at
Byers and West Junction, a long siding upon which trains could be held
until the track ahead was clear, but they were used only when absolutely
necessary, for the ideal and constant endeavour of dispatcher, operator,
and every other employee of a railroad is to keep things moving.
Only by keeping things moving, can a railroad be profitably operated.
One stalled train soon blocks a dozen others, and any derangement of the
time-card means delayed mails, wrathful passengers, irate trainmen, and
a general tangle of traffic almost certain to result in accident. To
keep things moving on a single-track road, such as the P. & O., requires
no little judgment and experience, as well as the power of reaching the
wisest decision instantly. There must be, too, in the ideal dispatcher,
an element of daring, for chances have to be taken occasionally, and in
railroading, more than in any other business, he who hesitates is lost.
Not of foolhardiness, be it understood, for the foolhardy dispatcher soon
comes to grief; but he must, as it were, expect the best, not the worst,
and govern himself accordingly. Before he sits down at his desk, he must
make up his mind that during his trick, every train is going to get over
the road on time, and then bend every energy to accomplish that result.
This, it may be added, is the secret of all successful train-dispatching.
Nevins reported on time next morning, and greeted Allan with unusual
affability; but his eyes were bloodshot, and though he pretended to
listen to Allan's explanation of the orders in force, it was evident that
his attention wandered and that he was making no effort to understand.
"All right," he said, when Allan had finished. "I've got that all
straight," and he sat down heavily before the table.
His hand trembled perceptibly as he opened his key, and Allan, as he put
on his coat, noticed the confused way in which he started to answer the
dispatcher's question about the position of a train.
The dispatcher cut in sharply.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"Nevins."
"What's the matter--been out all night?"
Nevins, who knew that Allan had heard the question, reddened to his ears.
"Now try again," added the dispatcher, "and brace up."
Nevins, by a mighty effort, controlled his uncertain muscles, and sent
the remainder of the message accurately, but considerably slower than
usual.
The dispatcher acknowledged it.
"All right," he said, "but take my advice and go out and put your head
under the pump. You need it. The way you sent that message reminds me
of a man going down the street so drunk that the only way he can walk
straight is to watch every step he takes."
Nevins reddened again and growled unintelligibly.
As for Allan, he caught up his lunch-basket and hurried out of the
office, sorry that he had overheard the reprimand, but scarcely able to
suppress his laughter at the aptness of it. For Nevins _had_ sent the
message in just that slow, painful, dignified way.
The accommodation stopped at the junction a few minutes later, and
he swung aboard and settled into a seat. As the train started, some
unaccountable impulse caused him to lean toward the window and look back
at the little shanty. A man was just entering the door. Allan caught
but a glimpse of him, and yet it seemed to him in that instant that he
recognized the slouching figure of Dan Nolan.
He sank back into his seat strangely troubled. Could it, indeed, be
Nolan? Was he hanging about the place for some sinister purpose? Then he
thrust the thought away. It could not have been Nolan. That worthy was
by this time many miles away, on the road to Parkersburg, in search of a
chance to make an honest living.
When Allan stepped upon the platform of the Wadsworth station that
evening, lunch-basket in hand, to take the train back to Byers, he was
surprised to find Jack Welsh there awaiting him.
"I didn't want t' go home early agin," Jack explained. "Mary 'd scent
somethin' wrong and 'd git th' whole story out o' me. I don't want her t'
be worrited about this business."
"About what business?" asked Allan.
"Oh, you know well enough. About Dan Nolan. He was here yistidday
arternoon. Some o' th' boys seen him over t' James's saloon. Jem Tuttle
says he seen him jump on second ninety-eight. I thought mebbe he might
'a' gone t' Byers."
"He did," said Allan, quietly. "I saw him."
"Ye did!" cried Jack. "I hope ye did fer him!"
"Why, Jack," protested Allan, "the poor fellow's nearly dead with
consumption. He's on his way to Parkersburg to look for work. He says he
wants a chance to earn an honest living."
"He told ye that, did he? An' was ye fool enough t' set there with your
mouth open an' gulp it all down? I give ye credit fer more sense than
that!"
Allan reflected that Nolan certainly had lied about his unwillingness to
steal a ride. And the figure he had seen that morning vanishing through
the door of the Byers station recurred to him.
"I _did_ believe it," he admitted finally. "He looked so sick and weak
that I couldn't help but pity him."
"Pity a toad!" said Jack, contemptuously. "Pity a snake! An' he's a
thousand times wuss 'n any snake! He's jest waitin' fer a good chance t'
bite!"
"Well, I'll take care he doesn't get the chance," Allan assured him, and
clambered aboard the train at the sharp "all aboard!" of the conductor.
The more he thought over the circumstances of Nolan's appearance the
night before, the more strongly was he inclined to believe that Jack's
warning was not without reason. Nolan, perhaps, hoped to put him off his
guard, to catch him napping, and then, in some underhanded way, to "get
even."
"Well, he sha'n't do that," murmured Allan to himself. "I'll keep my eyes
open. And if Mr. Nolan _is_ up to any such little game, I think he'll get
the worst of it."
With which comforting reflection, he leaned back in his seat and closed
his eyes, and took a little cat-nap until the junction was reached.
When he entered the little office, he found Nevins sitting listlessly at
the table, his head in his hands. He glanced up quickly as Allan entered,
with a kind of guilty start, and the boy noticed how pale and tired he
looked. Nevins nodded, in answer to his greeting, then got unsteadily to
his feet and stood drumming nervously with his fingers upon the table.
"You look regularly done up," said Allan. "Had a hard day?"
"Hard!" echoed Nevins, hoarsely. "I should say so--hard's no name for it!
They've been tryin' to send all the freight in the country through here.
And everybody snortin' mad, from the dispatchers down to the brakemen.
You heard how that smarty lit into me the first thing this mornin'. It's
enough to make a man throw up the job!"
Allan saw how overwrought he was and dropped into the chair without
replying, and began to look over the orders on the hook. Nevins watched
him, his face positively haggard. Just then the sounder clicked off a
rapid message, as the operator at Hamden reported the passage of a train
to the dispatcher at headquarters.
"Hello," said Allan; "there's a special coming west. Do you know what it
is?"
"It's the president's special," answered Nevins, moistening his lips
nervously. "A lot of the big guns are on it, on their way to attend a
meeting at Cincinnati. They've kept the wires hot all day--nothing but
thirty-nine, thirty-nine, thirty-nine. The other business had to take its
chance."
Thirty-nine, it may be explained in passing, is the signal used for
messages of the general officers, and indicates that such messages have
precedence over all other messages except train-orders.
Nevins paused a moment longer, gazing down at Allan's bent head, and
opened his mouth once or twice as though to speak; then, seizing his
coat and hat, fairly rushed from the place.
Allan hung up the order-hook again, and as he did so, he noticed that
Nevins's lunch-basket was standing on the floor near the window. Nevins
had evidently been so upset and nervous from the hard day's work that he
had forgotten it.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was 6.58. Hamden, which had
reported the passage of the special, was only eight miles away, so the
train would pass the junction within five or six minutes. Allan knew
that when a train carrying the high officials went over the road, the
way was kept clear for it, it was given the best engine and the nerviest
engineer, and every effort was made to break records. There was no order
for it at the junction, his signal would give it a clear track, and it
would sweep by without slackening speed.
As a matter of precaution, he went to the door to be sure the signal was
properly set, and stood there, looking down the track in the direction
whence the train was coming. He had a clear view for perhaps half a mile,
and sure enough, a minute later, he saw a headlight flash into view, and
the rails began to hum as they only do when a train is running a mile a
minute. A long whistle from the engine showed that the engineer had seen
the signal and knew that the track was clear.
Then suddenly, the boy's heart stood still, for down the track, toward
West Junction, he heard the chug-chug of an approaching freight!
Just what happened in the instant that followed Allan never clearly
remembered. His brain seemed paralyzed; his senses swam and the world
grew dark before him as though some one had struck him a heavy blow
upon the head. Then, instinctively, his hand flew to the lever which
controlled the train-signal and swung it over; but he had no hope that
the engineer of the special would note the change. He was too close upon
it, and besides he had assured himself that it showed an open track and
so would not look at it again.
An instant later, there was a report like a pistol-shot. Allan heard the
sharp shriek of applied brakes, the shrill blast from the whistle which
told of "Danger ahead!" He saw the special sweep past, shaken throughout
its entire length by the mighty effort made to stop it; then he sank
limply down on the threshold of the door, and buried his face in his
hands, not daring to see more.