A GLIMPSE OF A NEW WORLD
But Tommy’s sorrow did not endure long. How could it in face of the
wonders to be seen every minute through the window? For a time the
old familiar mountains closed in the view, but they assumed strange
and unaccustomed shapes as they whirled backward past him, with the
foreground all blurred and the more distant peaks turning in stately
line, like mammoth soldiers. A hand on his shoulder brought him from
the window.
“Let’s have your ticket, sonny,” said the conductor.
Tommy produced it from the inside pocket of his coat. The conductor
took it, unfolded it, and then glanced in surprise from it to the
boyish face.
“You’re going a good ways, ain’t you?” he remarked pleasantly.
“You’ll have to change cars at Washington. We get there at three
thirty-nine this afternoon. I’ll get somebody there to look out
after you.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Tommy. It was good to find that friendly
and helpful people lived out in the big world.
“That’s all right,” and the conductor punched his ticket and handed
it back to him. “You haven’t got a thing to do now but to sit here
and look out the window. Got anything to eat?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tommy, and pointed to a box which his mother had
filled for him.
“All right. You’ll find drinking water up there at the end of the
car. Mind you don’t try to leave the car or get off when we stop, or
you’ll be left.” And with this final warning, he passed on to his
other duties.
But Tommy had no desire whatever to move from his seat. The train
flew on past miners’ cabins and scattered hamlets, till at last the
mines were left behind, and the mountains began to fall back from
the river which they had crowded so closely. The great white inn at
Clifton Forge, with its stately court and playing fountains, gave
him a glimpse of fairyland. Soon he was looking out miles and miles
across a wide valley, dotted like a great chess-board with fields of
corn and barley, and with the white farm-houses here and there
peeping through their sheltering groves of oaks and chestnuts. It
seemed a peaceful, happy, contented country, and Tommy’s eyes dwelt
upon it wistfully. Wide, level fields were something new to his
experience, and he longed to have a good run across them. The
mountains fell farther and farther away, until at last not one
remained to mar the line where the sky stooped to the horizon.
At Charlottesville Tommy caught his first glimpse of what a great
city may be. Now Charlottesville is not by any means a great city,
but the crowds which thronged the long platform and eddied away into
the streets drew from him a gasp of astonishment. And then the
houses, built one against another in long rows that seemed to have
no end! He had not thought that people could live so close together.
The train hurried on over historic ground, if Tommy had only known
it,—Gordonsville, Culpeper, Manassas,—where thirty-five years before
every house and fence and clump of trees had been contested
stubbornly and bloodily by blue and gray. Another historic place
they touched, Alexandria, where the church George Washington
attended and the very pew he sat in still remain. Then along the
bank of the Potomac, whose two miles or more of width made the boy
gasp again, across a long bridge, and in a moment Tommy found
himself looking out at a tall, massive shaft of stone that resembled
nothing so much as a gigantic chimney, and beyond it great
buildings, and still other great buildings, as far as the eye could
reach.
“Washington!” yelled the brakeman, slamming back the door. “All out
fo’ Washington!”
Tommy grasped his box convulsively,—it was the only part of his
baggage that had been left to his care, for his trunk was ahead in
the baggage-car,—and looked anxiously around for his friend the
conductor. That blue-coated official had not forgotten him, and in a
moment Tommy saw him coming.
“Now you stay right where you are,” he said, “till I get all the
other passengers off, and then I’ll come back after you.”
“All right, sir,” answered Tommy, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’ll
be right here, sir.”
The crowds at Charlottesville were nothing to those that hurried
past him now, and he sat watching them, fascinated, until he heard
the conductor calling from the door.
“Step lively, sonny,” he called, and as they jumped down together to
the platform, he saw that Tommy was carrying the unopened box in
which his dinner was. “Why, look here,” he said, “didn’t you eat
anything?”
Tommy looked down at the box, and hesitated a moment in the effort
at recollection.
“I don’t believe I did,” he said at last. “I forgot about it. I
wasn’t hungry.”
“I’ll bet it’s the first time you ever forgot your dinner,” chuckled
the conductor. “Here, now,” he added, as they entered the great
waiting-room, “you sit down in this seat and wait for me. I have to
go and make my report, but it won’t take me long.”
Tommy sat down obediently, and watched the crowds surging back and
forth through the station and out upon the long stone platforms. It
seemed to him that all the residents of Washington must be either
leaving the trains or crowding into them. He wondered why so many
people should have to travel, but before he could make any progress
toward solving the question, the conductor was back again, bringing
another official with him.
“This is the boy, Jim,” he said. “By the way, what’s your name,
sonny?”
“Tommy—Tommy Remington.”
“Well, Tommy, Jim here is one of the callers. He’ll have to take the
four-fifty for Trenton, Jim. Don’t let him miss it.”
“I won’t. I’ll look out for him.”
“All right. Good-by, Tommy.”
“Good-by, sir,” and Tommy placed his hand in the great paw that the
good-natured official held out to him. “And thank you again, sir.”
“You’re welcome”; and he gave Tommy’s hand a squeeze that made him
wince. “Wait a minute,” he added suddenly, turning to Jim. “An hour
and a half is a long time for the boy to wait. Can’t he see some of
the sights?”
“We might put him on the street-car,” said Jim, “and let him ride
out to Georgetown and back. That’ll give him enough to think about
for a week.”
“All right.” And the conductor slipped a dime into the other’s hand.
“Here, you pay the car conductor and tell him to look out after the
boy. I’ve sort o’ taken a liking to him,” he added shamefacedly, and
hurried away toward the home where his wife and another little chap,
not half so large as Tommy, were waiting to welcome him.
Jim went back to Tommy.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re going to take a street-car ride along
the most famous street in the country. Here, give me the box. I’ll
take care of it till you get back.”
Tommy handed over the box, and followed him to the entrance, where
queer open cars, such as he had never seen before, were dashing up
and departing every minute. Jim said a few words to the conductor of
one of these, and gave him the dime.
“Jump up there on the front seat,” he said to Tommy, “and don’t get
off the car till you get back here.”
Tommy scrambled up beside the motorman, who had been watching the
proceeding with kindly interest, and in a moment the car turned out
into Pennsylvania Avenue.
To those who visit Washington straight from the stately
thoroughfares of Boston, New York, or Philadelphia, this famous
street may at first prove something of a disappointment, although
its beauty improves on closer acquaintance; but to this boy, coming
straight from the West Virginia mountains, it seemed a very vision
of loveliness, and he gazed at it with dazzled eyes. The broad
avenue, thronged with handsome equipages and hurrying people,
stretched straight before him, bathed in the brilliant afternoon
sunshine.
“That’s the Post-office,” remarked the motorman, as they whirled
past a great structure of gray granite. “This big building right
ahead here is the United States Treasury. That’s where they keep all
the money.”
Tommy gazed at it with respectful eyes as the car turned the corner
and continued on past the building to the next block. There was
another sharp turn, and in a moment they were passing what seemed to
Tommy a great flower-garden, with a beautiful white mansion showing
through the trees.
“That’s the White House,” said the motorman. “That’s where the
President lives.”
As they passed in front of it, the trees opened into a wide vista,
and the boy saw the stately portico with the wings on either side.
Beyond the west wing extended a long glass structure which seemed
crowded with flowers and whose use Tommy could not imagine. He had
read somewhere that people who live in glass houses should not throw
stones, but he had very much doubted if any one really lived in a
glass house. Yet here was unmistakably a glass house, so perhaps
people did live in them, after all. But they were past before he
could reason this out any farther, and another tremendous stone
building loomed ahead.
“That’s the War Department and the Navy,” said the motorman. “It’s
the largest office building in the world.”
Tommy looked, and with beating heart saw two cannon frowning at him.
But he had only a glimpse of them and the car had whirled by. There
were no more great buildings after this, but the avenue grew
lovelier, with its lines of graceful shade-trees, and behind them
the beautiful residences nestling amid broad lawns. They circled
about a little park with a statue in the center, a man on
horseback,—Washington, the motorman said,—and then on down the
street again. The car crossed a little creek which marked the
boundary between Washington and Georgetown, and at the end of a few
minutes ran into a building where several other cars were waiting
their turn to be sent back over the line.
Five minutes later they started back again, over the same route by
which they had come. Tommy was careful this time to get a better
look at the cannon and the big anchor in front of the War and Navy
Building, and at the White House through the vista of trees that
stretched in front of it. As the car swung around the corner of the
Treasury Building, he saw for the first time the full sweep of the
avenue. Away at the end, high up against the sky, stood a fairy
dome, gilded by the last rays of the declining sun. He had no need
to ask what it was, for he had seen it pictured too often. It was
the dome of the Capitol. He kept his eyes fixed on it until the car
turned into the side street and stopped again at the station.
Jim was on the lookout for him, and led him back into the
waiting-room.
“Well,” he asked, “what do you think of Washington?”
Tommy looked up at him, his eyes dark with excitement.
“Oh,” he began, “oh!” and sank speechless into a seat.
“Kind o’ knocked you out, hey?” And Jim laughed. “Well, I don’t
wonder. Here’s your box. Your train will be ready pretty soon. You
wait here till I come for you.”
For the first time that day, Tommy felt the pangs of hunger,—his
body demanded sustenance after all this excitement,—and he opened
his box and did full justice to the chicken sandwiches and cakes and
cheese he found within. He was wrapping up the remains of the lunch
when Jim called him.
“Come on, Tommy; here’s your train,” he said, and Tommy hurried out
upon the platform, where a long train stood ready for its trip to
New York. He entered the coach, bade Jim good-by, and sat down in
one of the seats. Through the window he could see the crowd hurrying
to and fro along the platform. A train puffed in on the adjoining
track and disgorged its living freight. Great trucks, piled high
with baggage, were wheeled by. Then came the far-away voice of the
conductor, a scurrying of belated passengers, and the train glided
slowly out of the station. Evening had come, and along the streets
the electric lamps sprang suddenly alight. Great crowds of men and
women were leaving the government buildings, with one more day’s
labor accomplished. It was all new and strange; but even as he
looked, a great weariness crept upon him,—the weariness which
follows unaccustomed excitement,—his head fell back against the
seat, and he was sound asleep. He was vaguely conscious of the
conductor getting his ticket from him, but he knew no more until he
felt some one roughly shaking him.
“Wake up, youngster,” called a voice in his ear. “We’ll be at
Trenton in a minute. You have to get off there.”
Tommy sat up and rubbed his eyes. The bright lights in the coach
dazzled him, but he was pulled to his feet and led toward the door.
“Wait a minute, now,” said the voice.
Then came the little shock that told that the brakes had been
applied, and the train stopped.
“Now mind the steps,” said the voice, and Tommy was hustled down to
the platform. “There you are.” And before he quite realized it, the
train was speeding away again through the darkness. He looked about
him. Back of him extended what seemed to be a long shed. The station
was on the other side of the tracks, as he could see by the gleaming
lights, but there seemed no way to get to it, for two high fences
had been built to prevent passengers crossing.
“Where are you bound for, youngster?” asked a voice.
“Lawrenceville,” answered Tommy; and rubbing his eyes desperately,
he finally managed to make out another man in blue uniform.
“This your baggage?” and the man picked up Tommy’s little trunk and
threw it on his shoulder.
“Yes, sir; that’s mine.”
“All right. You’ve got to take the stage over here; it’s a six-mile
drive. Come on.” And the man led the way down a steep flight of
stone steps, along a tunnel which ran under the tracks, and up
another flight of steps on the other side. “Here, Bill,” he called
to a man who, whip in hand, was standing on the platform; “here’s a
passenger fer you.”
The man with the whip hurried toward them.
“Is your name Thomas Remington?” he asked the boy.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then. They told me t’ look out fer you. Here’s th’
stage, out here.”
He led the way through the waiting-room to the street beyond, where
the stage stood, the horses hitched to a convenient lamp-post. Tommy
clambered sleepily aboard.
“Where’s your trunk-check?” asked the driver.
Tommy fumbled in his pocket and finally produced it.
The driver took it and went back into the station. Presently the boy
saw him come out again, bearing the trunk on his shoulder. He placed
it in the back part of the stage, unhitched his horses, and climbed
up beside his passenger.
“Now we’re all right,” he said cheerily, and clucked to his horses.
“What time is it?” asked Tommy, for it seemed to him that he must
have been traveling all night, and that the dawn could not be far
distant.
“Nearly ten o’clock,” said the driver. “You’ll be at Lawrenceville
in half an hour.”
By a supreme effort, Tommy kept his eyes open until they had left
the town behind and were rumbling briskly along a wide, level road.
Then his head fell back again, and he wakened only at the journey’s
end.
“The boy’s been traveling all day,” said some one, “and is nearly
dead for sleep. Take him up to twenty-one, Mr. Dean.” And he was led
tottering away to bed.