Urquhart's heavy train go rumbling by.
ADVENTURE XLVIII.
MUCKLE ALICK SEES THE DISTANT SIGNAL STAND AT CLEAR.
Alick rushed out without waiting to put on his cap. He glanced up at
the signal box. It seemed dim and dusky. "James Cannon has let his lamp
go low!" muttered Alick to himself.
At that moment he heard first one warning whistle, and then two. He was
not quite sure about the last, for the wind was shrieking its loudest,
and it was not easy to be certain about anything.
He looked up and down the line, shading his eyes from the rain with his
hand.
Great God of heaven! The goods train was not yet off the single line.
Both signals were standing at clear, and the points were not shifted.
The Boat express was thundering down the hill from Port Andrew at the
rate of sixty miles an hour, and would be through the Junction in a
minute. And there upon the single metals right ahead would be Duncan
Urquhart with his heavy goods train.
Muckle Alick snatched up a huge bar of metal, which was used in forcing
round the cranks when they reversed the engines on the turn-table by
the engine house, the same which little Hugh had almost spent his life
in trying to observe more nearly.
With this ponderous tool in his hand Muckle Alick rushed along to the
facing points, whence Duncan Urquhart's goods train might possibly be
guided upon the proper metals ere the express rushed past. As he ran
he saw Duncan's headlights coming, and the thunder of the express was
also in his ears. He shouted with all his power, but the wind whirled
away Muckle Alick's cries as though they had been baby Gavin's.
On came the goods train, laden with heavy merchandise and coals,
beating up slowly against the westerly wind. At that moment the rending
screech of the express pierced to his heart. Another moment and it must
dash into the train driven by Duncan Urquhart.
Muckle Alick found the points open. Throwing his great crowbar forward
he inserted it beneath the length of rail, and with the strength of
Samson, he moved the whole section over to the other side. He could
not lock the points, of course, as the signal-man could have done.
But Alick held them tight with his lever, while the heavy goods train
bumped along, passing over the improperly joined points with a terrible
jolting which almost dislocated his arms. But still Muckle Alick held
on. For he knew that the lives of a hundred men and women depended upon
the sureness of his hand.
The goods train was a long one and it jolted slowly past. It was not
till he saw the hind light of the guard's van passing him with a
swing, that Muckle Alick's heart gave a joyful leap. But just as the
last van went past, with a roar and a rush of fire-lighted smoke the
express leaped by. A moment before the released points had flown back
to their place. The way was clear. But something, it is thought the
iron framework of the catcher on the postal car, caught Muckle Alick
and jerked him thirty yards from where he had been standing. Without so
much as a quiver, the express flew out again into the dark, her whistle
screaming a death-knell and the back tempest hurtling behind her.
No one had seen Muckle Alick. None knew of his deed of heroism, save
only Duncan Urquhart, who, unconscious of danger, had cried cheerfully
as he passed, "What are ye hanging on to a post there for, Alick?"
It was fully a quarter of an hour later that Urquhart went to look for
Muckle Alick. He thought he would walk the first part of his way home
with him. It was always wholesome and always cheery to walk with Muckle
Alick, even when he was going home from a long spell of overtime.
At that moment the station master woke up with a start. _It was twenty
minutes past ten. The Express——!_
He rushed out. The signal box was quite dark. Duncan Urquhart was
coming up the platform alone with his coat over his arm. He called out
to the station master:
"Is your signal-man deid, or only sleepin'?"
A few moments after James Cannon awoke from a pleasant dream of the
Ross Lighthouse.
"Get up, man!" cried the station master, standing over him with a
lantern, "God kens how many lives ye hae lost through your ill deeds!"
Dazed and bewildered, James Cannon arose to the damning fact that the
boat train was past, and he knew well that he had never altered the
signals or set the points.
Five minutes later Duncan Urquhart found Muckle Alick. He was lying
half on and half over the embankment of the cattle shipping bank, where
the express had tossed him like a feather.
"Oh, what's wrang, what's wrang, Alick?" cried Duncan Urquhart in
terror.
"It's a' richt, Duncan," said Muckle Alick, slowly but very distinctly.
"I gripped the points and held them till ye won by!"
"Can ye bide a minute, Alick?" said Duncan tenderly.
"Ow, aye," said the wounded man, "dinna fash yoursel'. There's nae
hurry—Mirren wasna' expectin' me!"
Faster far than his own train had passed the points, Duncan Urquhart
sped back to the station.
"Alick's lying killed doon on the cattle bank!" he cried. "Help us wi'
that board!"
And, rushing into the empty waiting-room, he laid hold of a
newly-erected partition which had recently been set up to keep the
draughts from the passengers.
It resisted his strength, but with the station master to help him, and
a "One, Two, Three," it yielded, and the men tore down the platform
with it.
With the help of poor, dazed James Cannon and another, they laid the
giant tenderly upon it. But they had to wait for other two, hastily
summoned from the nearest railway houses, before they dared try to lift
Muckle Alick.
"Does it hurt, Alick?" asked Duncan of Inverness, gently, like a
Highland man.
"It's no that sair," said Alick, as quietly, "but juist try no to be
ower lang wi' me!"
They carried him to the left-luggage office, into which, a few weeks
before, he had taken the children whom, at the peril of his life, he
had saved from death. They were going to lay down the partition with
its load upon the table on which he had been arranging the parcels half
an hour before.
"Pit me on the bench," said Alick, calmly, "dinna meddle the parcels.
They are a' ready to gang oot wi' the first delivery the morn."
So, even as he bade them, on the bench they laid Alick down. What like
he was I know, but I am not going to tell. His wife, Mirren, might
chance to read it.
There were tears running down Duncan Urquhart's face. The station
master had already run for a doctor.
"Dinna greet, Duncan," said Alick. "The boat train won by a' richt, and
I manned to haud the points for ye."
But Duncan Urquhart could answer him no word. In the corner sat James
Cannon with his head on his hands, rocking himself to and fro in
speechless agony of soul.
"Oh, I wuss it had been me," he wailed. "I wuss it had been me!"
"Hoot na, James," said Alick. "It's better as it is—ye hae a young
family."
Then, as if he had been thinking it over—
"Duncan," he said, "Duncan, promise me this—ye'll no let Mirren see me.
Mind ye, Mirren is no to see me. I dinna want her to think o' me like
this.
"She was aye sae taen up aboot me, ye see," he added apologetically,
after a little pause.
The doctor came. He bent over Alick. He moved him tenderly, this way
and that. Then he ordered all out of the left-luggage office, except
Duncan Urquhart and the station master's wife, a quiet motherly woman.
Then, while the doctor did his duty, Alick sank into a kind of stupor.
Presently he woke from it with a little start.
"Doctor, is this you?" he said; "this is terrible kind o' ye. But it's
a cauld nicht for you to be oot o' your bed so late—and you wi' a
hoast!"
"Wheesht, Alick!" said the doctor. And said no more for a little. For,
like every one else, he loved the soft-hearted giant.
Then Alick beckoned the station master to him from the door of the
left-luggage office, where he stood nervously clasping and unclasping
his hands. The station master came and bent his head.
"The boat train," whispered Muckle Alick, "ye'll hae to enter her
in the shedule five meenites late. But ye can say that she passed
Netherby wi' the signals standing at clear."
He was silent a moment. Then he looked up again.
"Mind ye, there's to be nocht said aboot it in the papers. You'll see
to that, will ye no? It's my wish. An' if the company likes to do
aught, it'll aye be a help to Mirren."
There was a sound of sobbing at the door, and the station master shoved
the youngest porter out on the platform with his foot.
"Has—ony—body gaen to tell Mirren?" asked Alick in a little.
The doctor nodded. He had, in fact, sent his own coachman to
Sandyknowes with a gig.
"Puir Mirren," said Alick again, "I'm some dootsome that she'll tak'
this hard. She was na looking for it, like."
He looked about apologetically again.
"She was that sair set on me, ye see—maybe wi' us haein' nae bairns, ye
ken."
He was silent a little while, and then he said, more brightly, "There's
three comed noo, though. Maybe they'll be a blessin' to her. The Lord
sent them to her, I'm thinkin'. He wad ken o' this aforehand, nae doot!"
Suddenly he held up his hand, and there was a light shining like a lamp
in his eyes.
"Hearken! that's the whistle!" he cried. "Are the signals clear?"
There was no train in the station nor near it.
Muckle Alick went on. He lifted his head and looked through the open
door as one looks ahead under his hand when the sun is strong.
"I can see the distant signal. It is standing at clear!" he said, and
sank back.
And thus the soul of Muckle Alick passed out of the station—with the
distant signal standing at clear.
They brought the little wife in to him a quarter of an hour after.
Already her face seemed to have shrunk to half its size and was paler
than Alick's own. The doctor had him wrapped delicately and reverently
in the station master's wife's fairest linen. The face was untouched
and beautiful, and as composed as it was on Sacrament Sabbaths when he
carried in the elements at the head of the session, as it is the custom
for the elders to do in the Cameronian Kirk.
His wife went up to him quietly and laid her hand on his broad white
brow. "My man—my ain man!" she said. And she bent down and touched it,
not with her lips but with her cheek.
She looked up at the station master's wife.
"He aye liked me to do that!" she said, smiling a little, as it were,
bashfully.
And in all the room, where now stood ministers and doctors, men and
women that loved him well, hers were the only dry eyes that dark
midnight.
"I wad like to get him hame the nicht, if it's nae great trouble till
ye," she said; "I think I wad be mair composed gin I had him hame to me
the nicht!"
So they took her dead home to her to quiet Sandyknowes. They carried
him through between the beds of dusky flowers and laid him in his own
chamber. Then they left her alone. For so she desired it. The wandering
children, Hugh and Gavin, were asleep in the next room. So Mirren
watched her man all that night, and never took her eyes off the broad
noble brow, save once when little Gavin woke and cried. Then she rose
calmly and prepared him a bottle of milk, mixing it with especial care.
As she did so she raised her eyes and looked out into the dark. And
there on the brae face was the light of the distant signal shining like
a star in the midst of the brightening sky of morn.
ADVENTURE XLIX.
CLEG COLLECTS TICKETS.
Cleg Kelly had long finished the tarring of the hut at the Summit.
Poet Jock had not come home, though it was after ten at night. Auld
Chairlie wandered to and fro in front of the house and out on the muir
at the back, waiting upon him and complaining that the supper would be
spoiled. Cleg busied himself with "reddin' up" till it grew too dark to
see. That is, he carried all the old mouldy boots to a moss-hole and
sank them out of sight. Then he arranged all the useful articles each
upon its own shelf round the walls, and the bunks were never so well
made before nor the stove so bright.
But not that night, nor yet for three nights did Poet Jock return. It
was seven o'clock on the evening of the third day when he arrived. He
came walking up the Big Cutting with his head sunk on his breast, and
he did not even look up when Cleg called to him. He came in slowly,
and instead either of explaining, inquiring heartily for supper, or
sniffing as usual at the fragrant steam of the frying pan, he threw
himself down on the wooden shelf which constituted his bed.
"What has happened to ye, Poet Jock? Where hae ye been? Ye'll be
reported, as sure as daith," said Auld Chairlie, after silent
contemplation of this marvel for full five minutes. "Hae ye been fu',
or has she gi'en you up?"
The last was a question prompted by the fleeting nature of Poet Jock's
loves, and the ever recurring crisis through which his muse had to pass
before he could settle upon a worthy successor to the late faithless
fair.
But Poet Jock lay still and made no answer.
"Are ye no for ony supper?" said Cleg, practically, who was now as
familiar and free of the little cabin of the Summit as if he had been
the poet's twin brother—a little more so, in fact, for Jock was not
on speaking terms with his brother. To tell the truth, his brother
and he had had a fight on Monday fortnight at the level crossing—the
subject of contention being the minister's sermon the Sabbath before.
The theology of Poet Jock prevailed. His logic was most convincing. He
"downed" his brother three times. But though his brother owned that he
had had enough of theology, he had not since visited at the hut on the
Summit. But for all that they continued to sit side by side on Sabbaths
in the kirk, and to look on the family psalm-book, taking it as usual
in turns to find the places and shutting the book unanimously when a
paraphrase was given out.
It was now the fourth day of Cleg's sojourn at the hut. Every day
he had gone up to the top of the craigs that looked towards Loch
Spellanderie. And each day his resolve never to go near the place again
because of the faithlessness of woman, sensibly weakened.
But he had something else to think about now. For since he came
into the domains of the kindly surfacemen, Cleg had seen nothing so
mysterious as the obstinate refusal of the Poet to take any supper.
Auld Chairlie tried again.
"Look you here," he said, "either you tell's what is the maitter wi'
ye, or I'll send doon wi' the late passenger for the doctor to come up
the first thing the morn's mornin'!"
Poor Jock groaned, but said nothing for some minutes.
"Chaps," he said at last, "I may as weel tell ye. Muckle Alick at
Netherby was killed hauding the points to let by the boat train. And
his wee bit wife's a widow the nicht! I hae been at Netherby lettin' a
man off to fill his place."
Auld Chairlie dropped the tin platter which was in his hand.
"O Lord," he said, "could ye no hae ta'en ony o' the lave o' us? It
wadna hae made so verra muckle differ—But Alick——"
He stood still contemplating the gap that there was in the world.
"That's what they hae been crying at me off the engine the last twa
days, but I'm gettin' that deaf I couldna hear!"
But Cleg was prompt in action as ever.
"Guidnicht, lads," he said, "I'm gaun doon to Netherby to see gin I can
be ony use."
Poet Jock started up from his bunk, instinctively guarding his head
from the roof even in the midst of his distress of mind.
"What hae ye to do wi' it?" he cried, his voice sounding angry, though
he was not angry.
"The twa bairns I telled ye aboot are in Muckle Alick's hoose. He saved
their lives, and I'm gaun doon the noo to see what I can do for them."
"Ye canna gang that gate, man. Ye hae nae claes fittin' for a funeral!"
said Chairlie. "Ye hae nocht but that auld sack!"
"I'm no carin'," stoutly asserted Cleg, "I'm gaun doon to see if I can
help. It's no the funeral I'm carin' for, it's what's to come after."
Poet Jock got up and began cautiously to forage on all the shelves.
"A' my things are awesome big across," he said, "but maybe there will
be eneuch amang us to fit ye oot."
Cleg's wardrobe had dwindled to a shirt and a pair of trousers. He had
lost his cap in Loch Spellanderie.
But Auld Chairlie found him a pair of socks and a pair of boots—which,
though they were not "marrows" or neighbours, were yet wearable enough.
Cleg treated himself to a sleeved waistcoat, which, by merely shifting
the buttons, became a highly useful garment. It had been exposed for
some time to the weather, and when Cleg saw it, it was mounted upon two
sticks, out in the little patch of cornland which Poet Jock had sown at
the back of the cabin, upon a quarter acre of ground which the company
had included within its wire fence with some idea of constructing a
siding some day, when the traffic increased.
"Where gat ye that braw waistcoat?" queried Poet Jock when he came in,
looking admiringly at the remarkable change in Cleg's appearance.
"O I juist changed claes wi' the craw-bogle!" replied Cleg with a quiet
complacency, which became him like his new garment.
"Dod," said Auld Chairlie, "it's a maist remarkable improvement, I
declare."
Poet Jock gave Cleg a grey woollen shirt with a collar attached which
had washed too small for him, but which still reached nearly to Cleg's
feet. He added a red-and-green tie of striking beauty (guaranteed to
kill up to sixty yards), and an old railway cap, which had been a
castaway of some former occupant of the cabin.
"There, noo," he said, when Cleg was finally arrayed. "Ye are nane
so ill put on! Ye micht e'en gang to the funeral. I hae seen mair
unfaceable folk mony a time. I'll get ye on the late express, that is,
if it is no Sulky Jamie that's in chairge o' her."
Sulky Jamie was the name of a guard who withheld his hand from any work
of mercy, if it involved the least irregularity. He was an incomparably
faithful servant to the railway company of Port Andrew. But he could
not be said to be popular among his fellow servants along the line.
So Poet Jock, seeing that Cleg was bent upon his quest, withstood him
no more, but walked all the long way down the incline with him to
Dunnure station, and there waited to pick up a "chance of a ride" on
the night passenger. For no one in the cabin had a farthing of money.
Poet Jock, indeed, never had any four days after pay day, and Auld
Chairlie always sent his down to be banked, saving only what had to be
paid monthly to Sanders Bee, the shopkeeper at the Dunnure huts, for
their provisions.
"I canna trust mysel' when there's siller in the hoose!" said Auld
Chairlie, who knew himself to be a brand plucked from the burning, and
still glowing a little below the surface.
But it was with great good hope that Poet Jock walked with Cleg to
Dunnure, in order to arrange a free passage for him down to Netherby.
The last "stopping" passenger before the boat train was late, and they
had a good while to wait in the ill-lighted station.
But it came at last, and lo! Sulky Jamie was in charge.
Poet Jock went boldly up to his van and tackled him. He stated the case
with eloquence and lucidity. He argued with him, as Sulky Jamie moved
to and fro, swinging his lantern and never looking at him.
But the guard was incorruptible, as indeed he ought to have been. No
tramp should come on his train so long as he was the guard of it.
Whereupon Poet Jock, stung to the quick, told Sulky Jamie his opinion
of him. He said that when it came his time to leave the line, there
would be a hurrah which would run along the metals from Port Andrew to
Netherby. He further informed him that there was one testimonial which
would be subscribed with enthusiasm among his mates—a coffin for Sulky
Jamie. But even that only on condition that he would promptly engage
to occupy it. Poet Jock ended by offering to prepare him for burial on
the spot, and was in the act of declaring that he would put all these
things into rhyme when the guard blew his whistle.
Cleg was nowhere to be seen, but Sulky Jamie had had his eyes wide
open while he listened to the poet. He blew his whistle again, waved
the lamp, and stopped the train as it was moving out of the station.
He plunged into the forward van, which was sacred to the "through"
luggage. In a moment Cleg came out with a fling which sent him head
first upon the platform. A white-haired military-looking man looking
out of the next carriage laughed loudly, and clapped his hands with
glee.
This act of Sulky Jamie's aroused Poet Jock to fury.
"Wait," he cried, "wait till the fast day an' I'll settle wi' ye, ye
muckle swine, pitchin' oot the bit boy like that."
But Sulky Jamie was unmoved.
"I'll be pleased to see ye on the fast day or ony ither day. But I'll
hae nae tramps on my train!" said he, as he swung himself on board.
But, had he known it, he was carrying one at that moment. For it so
happened that a Pullman carriage had been invalided from the morning
boat train owing to a heated axle and an injury to the grease box. Now
the resources of the Port Andrew fitting shop, though adequate for all
ordinary purposes, were not sufficient to deal with the constitution of
such a delicate and high-bred work of art as a bogie Pullman.
So Cleg waited till he saw the guard at Dunnure station raise his hand
to blow his whistle. Then he darted sideways, in and out among the
carriages, and before the train was properly in motion he was lying at
full length on the framework of the bogie part of the Pullman.
With a growl and a roar the train started. Cleg's heart beat quickly.
He was jolted this way and that. The dust and small stones swept up
by the draught under the train nearly blinded him. But Cleg hung on
desperately. He had determined at all hazards to travel upon Sulky
Jamie's train. So the boy clutched the bars tighter and twined his feet
more firmly round the bogie, determined to win his passage to Netherby
in spite of all the ill-natured guards in the world.
Indeed, the jarring laugh of the man with the white moustache when
he was thrown out at Dunnure station, rankled much more in his small
heathen heart than the hard heart of Sulky Jamie.
"What was his business wi' it?" Cleg demanded of himself half a dozen
times, during that interminable period before they came to the next
station.
The train stopped at last, and Cleg dashed the wet locks off his brow
and cuddled his beam closer. He could stand it out now, he thought. He
was congratulating himself on being in Netherby in a few minutes, when
he heard the military voice above him.
"Guard," it said, "the boy you threw out of the train at Dunnure got
in below the empty Pullman. I think he is in there now."
Then Sulky Jamie swore loudly and emphatically. Cleg could hear him
swinging himself down from the platform upon the line.
The reflection of the lantern showed him the bars and wheels of the
forward bogie.
But Cleg did not wait for the arrival of Sulky Jamie. He dropped down
and sped out at the dark side of the station, with bitter anger in his
heart against the interfering military man. As he looked down from
the wire paling he saw the deserted platform of Newton Edward, and a
vengeful thought struck him. He ran quickly round the stern light of
the train and climbed upon the platform. A lantern was sitting on a
barrow. The station master was talking to the engine driver far away at
the end, for the late train was always long. The guard was routing out
tramps beneath the Pullman.
With sudden determination Cleg pulled the stem of his cap over his
eyes, and buttoned the sleeved waistcoat of railway velveteen closer
about him. Then he took the lantern in hand. He was going to pay his
debts to that evil-conditioned military man with the white moustache.
He could see him now, sitting at his ease, and trying to read his paper
by the light of the miserable oil lamp, fed with scanty drains of
dirty, half-melted oil, which to this day is supplied as an illuminant
by the Port Andrew Railway Company.
Cleg opened the door smartly.
"Ticket, sir!" he said briskly.
The military man put his hand in his side pocket, and handed out his
ticket without looking up, with the ease and freedom of a well-seasoned
traveller. He never took his eyes off his paper.
"Netherby—right, sir!" said Cleg Kelly, ticket collector.
Then Cleg went to the nearest compartment and promptly jumped in. It
was half full of sleepy commercial travellers, who took little notice
of the curiously attired boy.
Cleg could hear the tramp of his enemy as he came up from routing below
the Pullman. It sounded sulkier than ever upon the platform.
"Did not you nab him?" cried the voice of the military man from his
carriage window.