PILING UP STORIES
CHRISTIE had other travelling companions who interested her very much.
At the first stopping place a lady with a little fellow hardly out
of babyhood came and took the seat just behind her. She had to twist
herself around to get a view of the baby as he sat in a corner of the
seat, but he was so pretty that she could hardly keep her eyes away
from him. He had wonderful large blue eyes, and a laughing face, and he
kept bobbing up and down, and making pretty little sounds out of his
rosebud mouth, and once he smiled on her, as though he hadn't the least
objection in the world to being better acquainted.
But Christie did not dare to go near him, for he was beautifully
dressed, and his mamma looked as though she might be very particular
about his friends. So the little girl who had left a baby at home
looked the other way and tried very hard to forget how much she wanted
to kiss the baby behind her.
The cars were quite full, but Christie thought that most of the people
looked as though they had been obliged to get up too early and had not
had a good breakfast.
"They feel cross," she said to herself, "or else they feel afraid. I
wonder if there is anything to be afraid of."
Thinking which, she looked over at Wells Burton, the boy who went on
the train every morning to the city. He surely ought to know by this
time whether there was any cause for fear. He had his hands in his
pockets, and was looking out of the window and whistling. He did not
look in the least afraid, neither did he look cross.
What a thing it would be to know him, and have him tell about all the
wonders that he saw in the city every day! He had been to the State
House she had heard, and Karl said the stage-driver said that the
Governor was a friend of Mr. Burton, and had been out to see him.
How much Christie would like to hear something about the Governor
from one who had actually heard him talk. She knew quite a good deal
concerning this Governor. Her father admired him very much, and said he
was one of the grandest temperance men in the State. And once when he
went to the city to see about selling his corn, he had a story to tell
about having seen the Governor standing in the door of his home, and a
fine-looking man her father said he was.
Christie had a burning desire to see a real governor; or, failing in
that—as of course she expected—to hear things about him: how he acted,
and what he said, and all those nice pleasant things which she believed
she could tell about people if she ever had any chances.
But she must not grumble on this morning of all others in her life, she
told herself, letting the sober look go out of her face, and bringing
back the happy one. Here were plenty of chances. What a long story she
could tell Karl about these people in the cars. And there was that baby
cooing and jumping, and—why, yes, the darling was actually throwing
kisses at her.
The train stopped again. It was a very accommodating train; it seemed
to stop every few minutes to pick up passengers along the road when
there was no station in sight. Some junction was yelled out, but the
brakeman talked in Choctaw, and of course Christie did not understand
him.
A gentleman came in, glanced up and down the well-filled car, then
dropped into the seat beside Christie. "I suppose you will let me sit
with you?" he said.
His voice was very pleasant she thought and his face was bright with
smiles.
Christie made haste to say, "Yes, sir."
Then he began to talk with her, or rather to her, for Christie said
very little. He pointed out a log cabin as they flew past it, and told
her the queerest little history about its being built there by a boy
less than sixteen years old, for his mother. And how he worked day and
night, and earned money enough to send away to Maine for her, and how
he supported her. And how they lived in a nice pleasant house, and had
cows and horses, and the mother made butter, and sold it at the highest
price in market, and how she said,—
"It can't help but be good butter, I have such a dear good boy."
Christie listened and exclaimed and enjoyed. What a thing to tell
father and mother and Karl! She felt that she was piling up stories to
last all the rest of the winter evenings. She was very sorry when her
pleasant friend arose at the very next station only a mile away, and
bade her good morning as politely as though she had been a grown-up
lady. She wished so much that she knew his name. It would be awkward to
be always calling him "the gentleman with bright eyes that looked right
through you." That seemed to be the only way she could describe him.
She noticed that he stopped at Wells Burton's seat and shook hands with
him. It was quite likely that Wells knew who he was.
"Now, if I only knew Wells Burton," she told herself, "I might ask him,
but then I don't, and it isn't likely that I ever shall."
The pretty baby had gone to sleep; she could not amuse herself with
him, and so she turned to the window again just as they were passing a
country road down which was flying a coach filled with a merry party,
who realizing that the train was beating them, all swung their hats
and cheered them on. That was fun for a little time, and then as they
whizzed along, she spied a comical sight that entertained her still
more. But as the on-flying train left all these interesting scenes in
the rear, Christie at last thought of her father's advice, and she
began to see if she could learn to make a car.
She twisted her head about, and looked up and down and around her in
so many ways that at last, the sad-faced young man began to watch her.
She was studying the long rope that ran through the top of the car,
wondering what it was for, when he spoke to her.
"That rope is to be pulled to stop the train. If you should chance to
want it stopped for any reason, all you would have to do would be to
give that a violent pull. But I earnestly hope you won't do it, for it
seems to me that we stop quite often enough."
"I am 'sure' I won't," Christie said, laughing a little, though really
she felt somewhat startled at the bare idea of "her" stopping a train.
Not ten minutes after that it stopped again. What for? Nobody seemed
to know. There was no station, not even so much as a shed; there was
nobody to get on or off, yet there that ridiculous train stood, as
though it had reached the end of its journey and did not care how soon
the passengers hopped out in the snow. Then you should have heard the
people grumble. Christie was astonished; she did not know that grown
people were ever so cross. It made her laugh to see the watches bob
out, while the faces which looked at them seemed to grow crosser every
minute.
"What in the world are we stopping here for?" asked the pale-faced
young man with such anxiety in his face that Christie felt very sorry
for him. "What is the matter, sir?" This question he asked of a
gentleman who had been out on the platform looking about him.
"Don't know, sir; can't find out. If the officials know, they mean to
keep it to themselves. Still, I guess we are going on soon; I saw signs
of moving."
However, they did not move. The next person who thought it was his duty
to attend to matters was Wells Burton. How he happened to sit still for
so long, I'm sure I don't know. He sauntered out and looked about him.
Christie turned herself in her seat to get a view from the door. What
a long level stretch of road lay behind them! How queerly the track
looked! Two long black snakes surrounded on every side by snow.
She wished she could get a nearer view. She had been charged not to
step off the train, and on no account to put her head out of the
window. But what was to hinder her stepping down to that closed door,
and getting a nearer view of the snakes? She slipped quietly from her
seat and went. It looked fully as queer as she thought it would. Wells
Burton stood on the lower step of the car, also gazing about him, not
at the track, but at the train-men, who seemed to be trying to decide
whether it was worth while to go on. Suddenly they concluded that they
would.
The engine gave a snort to express its approval of the plan, several
passengers who had been standing on the track jumped back again on the
car, and came in to see about their seats. Then the wheels began to
turn slowly round. Still Wells Burton stood on that lowest step with
his hands in his pockets. Christie looked at him, and a little shiver
ran through her while she thought if that were Karl, she should surely
be tempted to reach out and pull at his coat. How "could" the boy be so
foolish? Why did not his mother make him promise not to do so?
He was coming in now; and it was quite time, for the train was well
under way. How did it happen? Nobody knew. Wells Burton least of all.
And Christie, who stood looking on all the while, could never give a
clear account of that part of it. She only knew that the boy she was
watching with such anxiety, turned carelessly on his heel, hands still
in his pockets, and the next instant was lying a dreadful heap on the
ground and the train was scudding on, and nobody but she, Christie
Tucker, knew anything about it. She had just one thought in her
mind—What if it were Karl?
She gave one little squeal, which the engine swallowed so that nobody
heard, and the next second she did what made all the people in the car
think that the quiet-faced, well-behaved little girl had suddenly gone
crazy. She gave a quick little hop, very much as she had done many a
time to reach the lowest bough of the apple tree, and caught that rope
whose use she had just learned, and never surely was harder pull given
to it than her stout little body managed at that moment.
In an instant the car was full of excitement.
"What—what—what does that mean?" asked the fat man who had been the
last to enter the train.
The handsome old gentleman looked at her gravely through his gold
spectacles, and the pale-faced man who had taught her about the rope
said hastily:
"Why, my child, you ought not to have done that. What in the world do
you want?"
All this happened, of course, in a few seconds.
And before Christie could catch her frightened breath to explain, in
came the conductor looking like a summer thunder-cloud. "What does all
this mean?" he asked gruffly. "Who pulled that rope?"
Christie took time to be glad that the train was actually stopping,
before she explained in a quick, frightened voice, "Oh, sir, he fell
just as he was stepping on the train again, and he lies in the road. Do
you think it killed him?"
"Who fell? What are you talking about?" said the conductor, his quick
eye roving over the car in search of missing passengers. "Was it the
boy who sat in that seat?"
But before Christie could think of stammering out a "Yes, sir," he had
turned from her and rushed out of the car, and the train which had
almost stopped, began to move slowly backward.
I'm sure you can imagine better than I can tell you how they all acted
then. How they crowded around that end door, and all tried to see out
from a space that would accommodate only two; and there was nothing to
see! How they crowded around Christie, and asked questions!
"How did it happen?" Christie did not know; she was still trembling
over the thought that it "had" happened. "What was he out there for?"
Christie did not know. In her heart she believed it was because he was
a very foolish boy, but that she did not like to say. "Was he hurt
much?" Christie did not know; she wished very much that she did.
"Is he your brother, my child?" This the handsome faced old gentleman
asked her.
"No, sir," said Christie; she knew so much, at least. Then she told who
he was.
"Ah, indeed!" the gentleman said. "A son of Warren H. Burton," he
supposed. He had heard of him.
Then there was a sudden bustle, and a scurrying to get out of the way,
and a turning over of car seats to make a bed; for they were bringing
the poor fellow in. Christie was relieved to find, as they passed her
seat, that his eyes were wide-open, and that though he looked very
pale, he gazed about him like one who was curious to see what the
people thought of all this, and seemed just a little vexed over their
curiosity.
"Oh, no; he isn't badly hurt," the conductor said, as having fixed the
boy into a seat, and made him as comfortable as possible, he came down
the aisle on his way out. "He has a sprained ankle that will shut him
up for a few weeks, and a bruise or two, nothing serious, I think. How
he escaped so easily is more than I can imagine. I thought of course he
was killed. It is a bad habit, this standing on the car steps; I wonder
his father doesn't forbid it."
"That is just what I wonder," thought Christie; and she ventured to
glance in the direction of the turned seat.
Wells Burton was looking right at her, and—why! was it possible he was
motioning to her?
Her cheeks began to grow pink. What if she should walk over there to
him, and he should stare at her and say, "What do 'you' want, little
girl?" and it should turn out that he had not thought of such a thing
as motioning her. If anything of this kind should happen, Christie felt
that she must certainly sink through the floor.
But he kept looking at her, and she felt almost sure that he was
nodding his head at her.
Poor Christie! It had not begun to take so much courage to pull that
bell rope, as it did to think of walking down the aisle and stopping
to see if that boy possibly wanted her. In fact, she had pulled the
bell without thinking about it at all. But this was different; and her
cheeks began to grow very hot, and she wondered whether mother would
be ashamed of her for going, or for not going. What would all the
passengers think of her for marching down there to talk to a boy whom
she had told them she never spoke to in her life?
"I 'won't' go," she told herself, not a step. "Why would he be
motioning to me? Of course he isn't."
And having settled this to her satisfaction, what did Christie do in
the course of the next two minutes, but walk meekly down that aisle,
and stand before the turned seats.
"I thought you motioned to me," she said gently. "Is there anything I
can do to help you?"
"I should say you have done considerable in that line already," he
answered heartily. "How came you to think of anything so sensible as
stopping the train? Most any girl I know would have yelled like a
screech owl, and danced up and down a few times, and then finished
up by fainting dead away, before anybody had found out what was the
matter. How came you to act so differently from the usual style?"
"I didn't know that was the way to do," Christie said, a little glimmer
of a laugh in her grey eyes. "Are you much hurt?"
"Not so very. My ankle is sprained, they say, and I feel somewhat
as though I was a hundred and fifty years old, and had enjoyed the
rheumatism for about half a century. Sit down here, and let us talk
about it."
So Christie sat down on the extreme edge of the farther seat.
"I wish I could do something to help the pain," she said. "If your
ankle is broken, it ought to be set, and I almost think that the man
who sits in the seat right before mine, is a doctor."
"The ankle will keep until we get to the city. We are half-way there by
this time, though we seem to have plenty of hindrances this morning. I
say, how many trains of cars have you stopped in your life?"
"I never did such a thing before," Christie said, her eyes dancing now,
"and I had just promised that I wouldn't stop this one, but you see
there wasn't anything else to do."
"Well, I'll tell you what 'I' think: I think it was about as plucky
a thing to do as I ever heard of in my life. Hallo, we are stopping
again! This train has got so used to stopping that it can't go more
than a mile without trying it. Can this be the junction? Just take a
look out, will you, and report?"
"There are four rows of tracks instead of two," said Christie, "and
they go criss-cross."
"Then it is the switch!" Wells exclaimed, and there was such a peculiar
sound to his voice, that Christie turned from the window to look at him.
"The switch!" she repeated. "What does that mean?"
"It means that the express train passes us here, and that just about
now she is rushing over those rails where I lay a few minutes ago. Here
she comes!"