Through the spring and the early summer Poquette Carry was an animated
theater of action. Woodsmen, went up and woodsmen came down, and mingled
with the busy railroad crews. All examined the progress of construction
with curiosity, and passed on, uttering picturesque comment. Strange
old men came paddling down West Branch from unknown wildernesses, and
trudged their moccasined way from end to end of the line, as if to
convince themselves that Colonel Gideon Ward really had been conquered
on his own ground. Newspaper reporters came from the nearest city, and
pressed Engineer Parker to make a statement “Gentlemen,” he said, with
a laugh, “not a word for print from me. I was sent here to build this
bit of a railroad quietly and unobtrusively. Circumstances have paraded
our affairs before the public in some measure. Now if you quote me, or
twist anything I may say into an interview, my employers will have good
reason to be disgusted with me, as well as with the situation here.
Furthermore, there are personal reasons why I do not wish to talk.”
Whether Parker's eager appeal had effect upon the reporters, or whether
the timber barons influenced the editors, the whole affair of the sunken
engine was lightly passed over as the prank of roistering woodsmen,
and Colonel Ward was left wholly undisturbed in his retreat. Even the
calamity that had befallen him was not mentioned except by word of mouth
among the woodsmen of the region.
With self-restraint that is rare in young men, Parker still refused to
talk about the matter even in Sunkhaze. When he first returned, a
sense of chagrin at his discomfiture along with reasons that have been
mentioned kept him silent, it is true, but now, with complete victory
in his hands, he was sincerely affected by the misfortune that had
overtaken his enemy.
The “Swamp Swogon,” now that it was running on its own rails and was
hauling building materials along the crooked railroad, was renicknamed
“The Stump Dodger.” Parker's chief pride in the road was necessarily
based on the fact that it had been constructed without exceeding the
appropriation, a fact that excused many curves.
Late in June the last rails were laid and the ballasting, such as it
was, was well under way.
The “terminal stations,” as the engineer jocosely called them, were neat
little structures of logs, and there was a log roundhouse, where the
Stump Dodger retired in smutty and smoky seclusion when its day's toil
was finished.
So the engineer prepared for the day of opening, and requested the state
railroad commissioners to make their final inspection of the road. The
three officials gravely travelled from end to end of the line in the
secondhand P. K. & R. coach, the only passenger-car of the road, and
after some jocular remarks, issued a certificate empowering the Poquette
Carry Road to convey passengers and collect fares. Then, after a
telegraphic conference with his employers, Parker announced the day for
the formal opening of the road.
At first he had not intended to make any event of this. His idea had
been that, after the commissioners authorized traffic, he would
merely arrange a time-table instead of the irregular service of the
construction days, and would start his trains, observing the care that
had been promised in seasons of drought.
But his foreman of construction--none other than Big Dan Connick, who
had chosen railroad work under Parker instead of the usual summer labor
on the drive--came to him at the head of a group of men.
“Mr. Parker,” he said, “we represent the men who have been building this
road. We represent also our old friends of the West Branch drivin' crew
of a hundred men, who are twenty miles up-river and are hankerin' for
a celebration. We represent all the guides between Sunkhaze and
Chamberlain, and every man of 'em is glad that this carry has been
opened up. The whole crowd respectfully insists that seein' as how this
is our first woods railroad up here, it's proper to have a celebration.
If ye don't have the official opening we shall take it as meanin' we
ain't worth noticin'.”
There was no denying such earnestness as that nor gainsaying the
propriety of the demand. Parker made his principals understand the
situation. And the result was that they themselves set the opening date,
and promised to be on hand with a party of friends.
The rolling-stock of the Poquette Railroad consisted of the Stump
Dodger, four flat cars designed especially for the transportation
of canoes and bateaux, three box cars for camp supplies and general
freight, and the coach transplanted from the P. K. & R. narrow-gage.
Parker announced that on the opening day no fares would be collected,
that the train would make hourly trips, and that all might ride who
could get aboard.
Not to be outdone in generosity, the crew through big Dan Connick,
declaring that they proposed to make all the preparations for the
celebration free of charge--that is, they would accept no wages for
their work.
They built benches on the platform cars and fitted up the box cars in
similar fashion. They trimmed the Stump Dodger with spruce fronds till
the locomotive looked like a moving wood-lot. Every flag in Sunkhaze was
borrowed for the decoration of the coach, and then, in a final burst of
enthusiasm, the men subscribed a sum sufficient to hire the best brass
band in that part of the state.
“It took us some little time to wake up enough to know how much we
needed a railroad acrost here,” said Dan, “but now that we're awake
we propose to let folks know it. Them whose hearin' is sensitive had
better take to the tall timber that day.”
Parker met his party at Sunkhaze station on the morning of the great
occasion. They came in the P. K. & R. president's private car, that was
run upon a siding to remain during the week the railroad men entertained
their friends at their new Kennemagon Lake camp.
“I expect,” said Parker, as the little steamer puffed across sunlit
Spinnaker toward Poquette, “that the men have arranged a rather rugged
celebration for to-day; but I know them well, gentlemen, and I want to
assure you that all they do is meant in the best spirit.”
As the steamer approached the wharf, tooting its whistle, there was an
explosion ashore that made the little craft appear to hop out of the
water. All the anvils of the construction crew had been stuffed with
powder, and all were fired simultaneously with a battery current!
With a yell the shore crowd rushed to the side of the steamer. Dan was
leading, his broad face glowing with good humor. Groups of cheering men
clutched the squirming, protesting railroad owners and their friends,
and bore them on sturdy shoulders to the waiting train. The band from
its station on a platform car boomed “Hail to the Chief,” the engine
whistle screaming an obligato.
Then the men swarmed upon the cars, crowding every corner, occupying
every foothold--but with the thoughtful deference of the woods not
venturing to encroach upon the privacy of the coach after they had
deposited their guests there.
On the “half-way horseback,” so-called, Parker ordered the train halted,
for he wished to show Mr. Jerrard an experiment in culvert construction,
in which he took an originator's pride. The band kept on playing and the
men roared choruses.
After the young engineer had bellowed his explanation in Jerrard's ear,
and Jerrard had howled back some warm compliments, striving to make
himself heard above the uproar, the two climbed the embankment and
approached the coach. The band was quiet now.
“Speech!” cried some one, as Jerrard mounted the steps. He smiled and
shook his head.
“Speech! Speech!” The manager turned to enter his car, still smiling,
tolerant but disregarding. At a sudden command from Connick, men
reached out on both sides of the train and clutched the branches of
sturdy undergrowth that the haste of the construction work had not
permitted the crews to clear entirely away.
“Hang on, my hearties!” shouted Dan.
Parker, when he mounted the steps, had given the signal to start, but
when the engineer opened his throttle, the wheels of the little engine
whirled in a vain attempt at progress. With a grade, a heavy load, and
the determined grip of all these brawny hands to contend against, the
panting Stump Dodger was beaten. Sparks streamed and the smokestack
quivered, but the train did not start.
“Speech! Speech!” the men howled. “We won't let go till we hear a
speech.”
Entreaties had no effect. First Jerrard, then Whittaker, then Parker,
and after them all the guests were compelled to come out on the car
platform and satisfy the truly American passion for a speech. And not
until the last man had responded did the woodsmen release their hold on
the trees.
“Who ever heard of a railroad being formally opened and dedicated
without speeches?” cried Connick, as he gave the word to let go. “We
know the style, an' we want everything.”
The guides served a lunch at the West Branch end of the line that
afternoon, and while the railroad party was lounging in happy
restfulness awaiting the repast, a big bateau came sweeping down the
river, driven by a half dozen oarsmen. Several passengers disembarked
at the end of the carry road, and were received respectfully yet
uproariously by the woodsmen who had just arrived in a fresh train-load
from the Spinnaker end.
Connick came elbowing through the press that surrounded them.
“Mr. Shayne,” he cried, “she's come, after all, hasn't she? Are you and
your friends goin' to ride back on her across the carry? I tell you she
beats a buckboard!”
The man whom he addressed smiled with some constraint, and exchanged
glances with his companions.
“I guess we'll stick to our own tote-team as usual, Connick,” said
another in the party, jerking his thumb at the muddy buckboard that was
waiting.
“Oh say, now, ye've got to meet these here railroad fellers. They're
your style--all business!” bawled Connick. “We ain't fit to entertain
'em up here, but you rich fellers are. Just come along. They'll be glad
to see you. Bring 'em along, boys.”
The crowd obediently hustled the new arrivals toward Whittaker and his
friends, disregarding the surly protests.
“Here's some of the kings of the spruce country, gentlemen!” big Dan
cried, by way of introduction. “Here's Mr. Shayne, the great timber
operator on the Seboois waters. Here's Mr. Barber of the Upper
Chamberlain, an'--”
Several of the new arrivals began to deprecate this unceremonious manner
of introduction, but the railroad men, recognizing their peers in the
business world in these sturdy land barons, came forward with a hearty
welcome.
Ten minutes later the timber kings were eating lunch, although with some
embarrassment. Occasionally they eyed the railroad men, wondering if
the memory of the stubborn legislative battle still lingered. But the
railroad men constantly grew more affable.
“Gentlemen,” said Whittaker, at last, “we are not affected in this case
by any interstate commerce regulations. Therefore, on behalf of myself
and my associates, I should like to tender you annual passes over our
new road. Of course the courtesy is a trifling one, but it will indicate
that we shall appreciate your cooperation in turning your freight
business our way. We'll save you at least two-thirds of the expense on
the haul across Poquette.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN--THE PACT THAT OPENED RODNEY PARKER'S PROFESSIONAL
FUTURE
When one understood all that had gone before, the moment was an electric
one for the future of the Poquette region.
In this apparently trivial offer the railroad king had formally offered
the olive branch. He gazed at the lumber barons eagerly yet shrewdly.
It was evident that they had silently fixed on Shayne to reply.
After a moment Shayne began his answer, and as he had glanced from one
to another of his companions, he evidently understood from their eyes
that he had permission to speak for all. “Mr. Whittaker,” he said, with
hearty frankness, “on behalf of myself and my associates I am going to
make an earnest apology to you for the obstacles we threw in your way
at the outset of this enterprise. But you must take into account the
isolation of our lumbering interests and the jealousy we felt at the
intrusion of outside men and capital. We feared what it might lead
to. We have been doing business as our fathers did it, and we probably
needed this awakening that the new railroad has given us. For now that
it is built, we, as business men, see that the advantages it will afford
us are desirable in every way. I speak for my friends here when I say
that we are heartily glad you have beaten us.”
His tone was jocose yet sincere.
The men of business--railroad officials and lumber kings--broke out into
a hearty laugh, the laugh of amity and comradeship. Shayne went on, more
at his ease after that:
“Now we are going to afford you a proof that we mean what we say.
We--this party right here--control fifty miles or more of timber
country, reaching from here up to the West Branch on both sides, and
extending as far inland. The river is broken by rapids and falls along
this stretch. Our drives from up-country are sometimes held up a whole
season when a bad jam forms in dry times. Every year in dynamiting these
jams thousands of feet of logs are shattered. More are split on the
ledges. We have agreed that we need a railroad. Considering our losses,
we can afford to pay well for having our logs hauled to the smooth
water. If you and your friends will finance and build such a road, we'll
give you free right of way, turn over to you annually twenty million
feet of timber for your log trains, and give you the haul of all our
crews and camp supplies. Further than that, with spur tracks to lots now
inaccessible by water, you can quadruple the value of our holdings and
your own business at the same time. And this will be only the first link
of a railroad system that we need all through the region. The thing
has come to us in its right light at last, and we're ready to meet
you half-way in everything.” He smiled. “We want the right sort of men
behind the scheme, and you have plainly showed us that you _are_ the
right sort of men.”
President Whittaker thought a little.
“Gentlemen,” he said, at last, “I cannot give you a conclusive answer
to-day, of course, but I can guarantee that no such offer as that is
going to be refused by my associates and myself. Bring forward your
proposition in writing. We'll come half-way, too, and be glad of the
chance. If men and money can accomplish it, a standard gage road will be
ready for your season's haul next year.”
He turned and touched Parker's shoulder.
“This young man,” he said, “will be our representative, with full powers
to treat with you. Parker, are you ready for two years more in the
wilderness? It's a big project, and your financial encouragement will be
correspondingly big. I haven't said yet how thoroughly I appreciate
your energy and loyalty and self-reliance in the matter of this little
plaything of the past winter. I do not need to say anything, do I,
except to urge you to take this new responsibility, and to add that your
acceptance will encourage me to go ahead at once?”
Parker reached out his brown hand to meet the one extended to him.
“We also want to say to Mr. Parker,” went on Shayne, “that on our part
we'll do more to assist him than we'd do for any other man you could
place here. We have a little explanation to make to him and--”
“No explanations for me--if it's along the lines I apprehend, Mr.
Shayne!” cried the young man, jokingly yet meaningly. He bent a
significant look on the lumber king as he went forward to take his hand.
“Hush!” he murmured. “I keep my own counsels in business matters when I
can do so without betraying the interests of my employers, and when they
don't want to be bothered by my personal affairs.”
Shayne gave the engineer a long stare of honest admiration.
“Parker,” he gasped, “you never said a word? You're a---- Here, give me
you hand again!”
[Illustration: Parker give me your hand again 254-286]
A half hour later the lumbermen went across the Poquette Carry in a
train made up of the engine and the coach--“the first real special train
over the road,” Parker said.
Before the young engineer left for his summer vacation, he made a
long canoe journey up into the Moxie section, ostensibly on a fishing
expedition. He was gone ten days, a longer period than he had predicted
to his assistant manager.
When he came down the West Branch one afternoon he helped Joshua Ward
to lift a crippled man out of their canoe, and he carefully directed the
helpers who carried the unfortunate person to the coach.
“I'm afraid the trip across the carry in a buckboard after the old
manner would have been too rough for you, Colonel Ward,” remarked
Parker, as the train clanked along under the big trees. “I think I was
never more glad to offer modern conveniences to any traveller across
this carry. You understand how deep my sincerity is in this, I am
positive.”
“I understand everything better than I did, Parker,” returned Colonel
Ward, feelingly, turning away wet eyes.
The astonishment in Sunkhaze settlement when the doughty ex-tyrant was
borne through to the “down-country” train, accompanied by Parker and
Joshua, was so intense that only the postmaster recovered himself in
season to put a few leading questions. After the train had gone he
announced the results of his findings to the crowd that clustered about
him on the station platform.
“Near's I can find out,” he said, “that young Parker has been way up
into the Moxie region an' found old Gid, and spent a week gettin' round
him and coaxin' him to go 'long with him and Josh to the city, and be
fitted to new hands and feet, that, so they tell me, is so ingenious a
fellow can walk round and cut his own victuals and all that. Well, that
will help old Gid a little. If the blamed old sanup could only be fitted
out with a new disposition at the same time, we folks round here would
be more pleased to see him, come back.”
“Postmaster,” cried Dan Connick, who had been one of those who bore
the colonel from the landing in a chair, “don't you ever worry any more
about a new disposition for Gid Ward. Those things come from the hand of
God, and Colonel Gid has already been fitted out with the heart and soul
of a man!”
“Then,” declared Dodge, gazing to where the smoke wreaths from the
departing locomotive hung above the distant treetops, “I reckon we've
just seen in bodily shape the passin' of the old in this section as well
as the comin' of the new.”