“Yes' sir, she'll be layin' jes' 'cross de platform. She knows we're
comin'. Sometimes she waits ten minutes--sometimes she don't; more times
I seen her pullin' out while we was pullin' in.”
Not very reassuring this. Only one statement was of value--the position
of the connecting train when we rolled into Bondville.
I formulated a plan: The porter would take one bag, I the other--we
would both stand on the lower step of the Pullman, then make a dash. If
she was pulling out as we pulled in, a goatlike spring on my part might
succeed; the bags being hurled after me to speed the animal's motion.
One hour later we took up our position.
“Dat's good!--Dar she is jes' movin' out: thank ye, sar. I got de
bag--dis way!”
There came a jolt, a Saturday-afternoon slide across the ice-covered
platform, an outstretched greasy hand held down from the step of the
moving train, followed by the chug of a bag that missed my knees by a
hand's breadth--and I was hauled on board.
The contrast between a warm, velvet-lined Pullman and a cane-seated car
with both doors opened every ten minutes was anything but agreeable;
but no discomfort should count when a lecturer is trying to make his
connection. That is what he is paid for and that he must do at all
hazards and at any cost, even to chartering a special train, the price
devouring his fee.
Once in my seat an account of stock was taken--two bags, an umbrella,
overcoat, two gum shoes (one off, one on), manuscript of lecture in bag,
eye-glasses in outside pocket of waistcoat. This over, I spread myself
upon the cane seat and took in the situation. It was four o'clock (the
lecture was at eight); Sheffield was two hours away; this would give
time to change my dress and get something to eat. The committee,
moreover, were to meet me at the depot with a carriage and drive me
to where I was “to spend the night and dine”--so the chairman's letter
read. The suppressed smile on the second conductor's face when he
punched my ticket and read the name of “Sheffield” sent my hand into my
pocket in search of this same letter. Yes--there was no mistake about
it,--“Our carriage,” it read, “will meet you,” etc., etc.
The confirmation brought with it a certain thrill; not a carriage picked
up out of the street, or a lumbering omnibus--a mere go-between from
station to hotels--but “our carriage!” Nothing like these lecture
associations, I thought,--nothing like these committees, for making
strangers comfortable. That was why it was often a real pleasure to
appear before them. This one would, no doubt, receive me in a big yellow
and white Colonial club-house built by the women of the town (I know of
a dozen just such structures), with dressing and lunch rooms, spacious
lecture hall, and janitor in gray edged with black.
This thought called up my own responsibility in the matter; I was glad
I had caught the train; it was a bad night to bring people out and then
disappoint them, even if most of them did come in their own carriages.
Then again, I had kept my word; none of my fault, of course, if I
hadn't--but I had!--that was a source of satisfaction. Now that I
thought of it, I had, in all my twenty years of lecturing, failed only
twice to reach the platform. In one instance a bridge was washed away,
and in the other my special train (the price I paid for that train still
keeps me hot against the Trusts) ran into a snowdrift and stayed there
until after midnight, instead of delivering me on time, as agreed. I had
arrived late, of course, many times, gone without my supper often, and
more than once had appeared without the proper habiliments--and I am
particular about my dress coat and white waistcoat--but only twice had
the gas been turned off and the people turned out. Another time I had--
“Sheffield! Shef-fie-l-d! All out for Shef-f-i-e-l-d!” yelled the
conductor.
The two bags once more, the conductor helping me on with my overcoat,
down the snow-blocked steps and out into the night.
“Step lively!--more'n an hour late now.”
I looked about me. I was the only passenger. Not a light of any
kind--not a building of any kind, sort, or description, except a box-car
of a station set up on end, pitch dark inside and out, and shut tight.
No carriage. No omnibus; nothing on runners; nothing on wheels. Only a
dreary waste of white, roofed by a vast expanse of black.
“Is this Sheffield?” I gasped.
“Yes,--all there is here; the balance is two miles over the hills.”
“The town?”
“Town?--no, the settlement;--ain't more's two dozen houses in it.”
“They were to send a carriage and--”
“Yes--that's an old yarn--better foot it for short.” Here he swung his
lantern to the engineer craning his head from the cab of the locomotive,
and sprang aboard. Then this fragment came whirling through the steam
and smoke:--“There's a farmhouse somewhere's over the hill,--follow the
fence and turn to--” the rest was lost in the roar of the on-speeding
train.
I am no longer young. Furthermore, I hate to carry things--bags
especially. One bag might be possible--a very small one; two bags, both
big, are an insult.
I deposited the two outside the box-car, tried the doors, inserted
my fingers under the sash of one window, looked at the chimney with a
half-formed Santa Claus idea of scaling the roof and sliding down to
some possible fireplace below; examined the wind-swept snow for carriage
tracks, peered into the gloom, and, as a last resort, leaned up against
the sheltered side of the box to think.
There was no question that if a vehicle of any kind had been sent to
meet me it had long since departed; the trackless roadway showed that.
It was equally evident that if one was coming, I had better meet it on
the way than stay where I was and freeze to death. The fence was still
visible--the near end--and there was a farmhouse somewhere--so the
conductor had said, and he seemed to be an honest, truthful man. Whether
to right or left of the invisible road, the noise of the train and the
howl of the wind had prevented my knowing--but _somewhere's_--That was a
consolation.
The bags were the most serious obstacles. If I carried one in each hand
the umbrella would have to be cached, for some future relief expedition
to find in the spring.
There _was_ a way, of course, to carry bags--any number of bags. All
that was needed was a leather strap with a buckle at each end; I had
helped to hang half a dozen bags across the shoulders of as many porters
meeting trains all over Europe. Of course, I didn't wear leather straps.
Suspenders were my stronghold. They might!--No, it was too cold to get
at them in that wind. And if I did they were of the springy, wabbly kind
that would seesaw the load from my hips to my calves.
The only thing was to press on. Some one had blundered, of course.
“Half a league, half a league--into the jaws,” etc.
“Theirs not to reason why--” But my duty was plain; the audience were
already assembling; the early ones in their seats by this time.
Then an inspiration surged through me. Why not slip the umbrella through
the handle of one bag, as Pat carries his shillalah and bundle of duds,
and grab the other in my free hand! Our carriage couldn't be far off.
The exercise would keep my blood active and my feet from freezing, and
as to the road, was there not the fence, its top rail making rabbit
jumps above the drifts?
So I trudged on, stumbling into holes, flopping into treacherous ruts,
halting in the steeper places to catch my breath, till I reached the top
of the hill. There I halted--stopped short, in fact: the fence had given
out! In its place was a treacherous line of bushes that faded into a
delusive clump of trees. Beyond, and on both sides, stretched a great
white silence--still as death.
Another council of war. I could retrace my steps, smash in the windows
of the station, and camp for the night, taking my chances of stopping
some east-bound train as it whizzed past, with a match and my
necktie--or I could stumble on, perhaps in a circle, and be found in
the morning by the early milk.