“That’s number eighteen, and the red,” said the croupier behind the
roulette-table, raking in the checks that the player had scattered
about the checkered layout. Round went the ball again with a whirr,
though there were no fresh stakes placed.
In fact, Elliott had no more to place. The stack of checks he had
purchased was exhausted, and he had no mind to buy more. He slid down
from the high stool and stepped back, and with the fever of the game
still throbbing in his blood, he watched the little ivory ball as it
spun. It slackened speed; in a moment it would jump; and Elliott
suddenly felt—he _knew_—what the result would be. He thrust his hand
into his pocket where a crumpled bill lingered, and it was on his lips
to say “Five dollars on the single zero, straight,” when the ball
tripped on a barrier and fell.
“That’s the single zero,” said the croupier, and spun the ball again.
Elliott turned away, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s enough for me
to-night,” he remarked, with an affectation of unconcern. He had no
luck; he could predict the combinations only when he did not stake.
The sleepy negro on guard drew the bolt for him to pass out, and he
went down the stairs to the precipitous St. Joseph streets, at that
hour, silent and deserted. It was a mild spring night, and the air
smelled sweet after the heavy atmosphere of the gaming-rooms. A full
moon dimmed the electric lights, and his steps echoed along the empty
street as he walked slowly toward the river-front, where the muddy
Missouri rolled yellow in the sparkling moonlight.
As the coolness quieted his nerves he was filled with sickening
disgust at his own folly and weakness. “Why had he done it?” he asked
himself. He had never been a gambler, in the usual sense of the word.
His ventures had always been staked upon larger and more vital events
than the turn of a card or of a wheel, but after finding that he had
come to St. Joseph upon a fruitless quest, after all, he had gone to
the gaming-rooms with one of the _Post’s_ reporters, who was showing
him the town. In his depression and weariness and curiosity he had
begun to stake small sums and to win. He remembered scarcely anything
more. He had won largely; then the luck changed. He had sat down at
the table with nearly seventy dollars. How much was left?
He had reached the bottom of the street, and, crossing the railway
tracks, he walked out upon the long pier that extends into the river
and sat down upon a pile of planks. A freight-train outbound for St.
Louis shattered the night as it banged over the noisy switches, and
then silence fell again upon the yellow river. In the unsleeping
railway-yards to the east there was an incessant flash and flicker of
swinging lanterns.
He turned out his pockets. There was the five-dollar bill that he had
saved from the wheel, and a quantity of loose silver,—eighty-five
cents. With a lively emotion of pleasure he discovered another folded
five-dollar bill in his pocketbook which he had not suspected. Ten
dollars and eighty-five cents was the total amount. It was all that
was left of his former capital, or it was the nucleus of his new
fortunes, as he should choose to consider it.
At the memory of the promises he had made scarcely a hundred hours ago
to Margaret Laurie, he shivered with shame and self-reproach, and in
his remorse he realized more clearly than ever the truth of her words.
He was wasting his life, his time, and his money; and already the
endless chase of the rainbow’s end began to seem no longer desirable.
In an access of gloom he foresaw years and years of such unprofitable
existence as he had already spent, alternations of impermanent success
and real disaster, of useless labour, of hardship that had lost its
romance and come to be as sordid as poverty, and for the sum of it
all, Failure. The fitful fever of such a life could have no place for
the quiet and graceful pleasures that he had almost forgotten, but
which seemed just then to lie at the basis of happiness and success;
and suddenly in his mind there arose a vision of the old city on the
Chesapeake Bay, its crooked and narrow streets named after long dead
colonial princes, its shady gardens, the Southern indolence, the
Southern quiet and perfume.
That was where Margaret was going, and there perhaps he had left what
he should have clung to; and, as he turned this matter over in his
mind, he remembered another fact of present importance. One of the men
with whom he had worked on the Baltimore _Mail_ had within the last
year become its city editor. He had written offering Elliott a
position should he want it, but Elliott had never seriously considered
the proposition.
Now, however, he jumped at it. “The West’s too young for me,” he
reflected. “I’d better get out of the game.” He would write to Grange
for the job that night, and he would be in Baltimore long before
Margaret would arrive there. No, he would start for the East that
night without writing,—and then he was chilled by the memory of his
reduced circumstances. A ticket to Baltimore would cost thirty-five
dollars at least.
But the Westerner’s first lesson is to regard distance with contempt.
Elliott had travelled without money before, but it was where he knew
obliging freight conductors who would give him a lift in the caboose,
while between the Mississippi and the Atlantic was new ground to him.
Nevertheless he was unable to bring himself to regard the thousand odd
miles as a real obstacle. He could walk to the Mississippi if he had
to; it would be no novelty. Once on the river he could get a cheap
deck passage to Pittsburg, or he might even work his passage.
Probably, however, he could get a temporary job in St. Louis which
would supply expenses for the journey. As for his baggage, it would go
by express C. O. D., and he could draw enough advance salary in
Baltimore to pay for it.
As he walked back to his hotel, he felt as if he were already in
Baltimore, regardless of the long and probably hard road that had
first to be travelled. That part of it, indeed, struck him rather in
the light of a joke. A few rough knocks were needed to seal his good
resolutions firmly this time, and the tramp to the Mississippi would
be a sort of penance, a pilgrimage.
He debated whether to write to Margaret, and decided that he had
better not. It would not be pleasant to confess; at least it would be
preferable to wait until he was launched upon the new and industrious
career which he had planned. He would write from Baltimore, not
before.
That night he laid out his roughest suit, and it was still early the
next morning when he tramped out of St. Joseph. His baggage was in the
hands of the express company, and he carried no load; despite his
penury he preferred to buy things than to “pack” them. He followed the
tracks of the Burlington Railroad with the idea that this would give
him a better and straighter route than the highway, as well as a
greater certainty of encountering villages at regular intervals. He
was unencumbered, strong, and hopeful, and he rejoiced, smoking his
pipe in the cool air, as he left the last streets behind, and saw the
steel rails running out infinitely between the brown corn-fields and
the orchards, straight into the shining West.
For a long time Elliott remembered that day as one of the most
enjoyable he ever spent. It was warm enough to be pleasant; the track,
ballasted heavily with clay, made a delightfully elastic footpath; on
either side were pleasant bits of woodland dividing the brown fields
where the last year’s cornstalks were scattered, and farmhouses and
orchards clustered on the rolling slopes. Where they lay beside the
track the air was full of the hoarse “booing” of doves; and, after the
rawness of the treeless plains, this seemed to Elliott a land of
ancient comfort, of long-founded homesteads, and all manner of
richness.
He had intended to ask for dinner at one of the farmhouses, where they
would charge him only a trifle, but he developed a nervous fear of
being taken for a tramp. Again and again he selected a house in the
distance where he resolved to make the essay; approached it
resolutely—and weakly passed by, finding some excuse for his
hesitation. It was too imposing, or too small; it looked as if dinner
were not ready, or as if it were already over; and all the time hunger
was growing more acute in his vitals. About one o’clock, however, he
came to a little village, just as his appetite was growing
uncontrollable. He cast economy to the dogs, went to the single hotel,
washed off the dust at the pump, and fell upon the hot country dinner
of coarse food supplied in unlimited quantity. It cost twenty-five
cents, but it was worth it; and after it was all over he strolled
slowly down the track, and finally sat down in the spring sun and
smoked till he softly fell asleep.
He was awakened by the roar of an express-train going eastward, and it
occurred to him that his baggage must be aboard that train, travelling
in ease while its owner plodded between the rails. It was after two
o’clock; he had rested long enough, and he returned to the track and
took up the trail again.
At sunset he reached Hamilton, and his time-table folder indicated
that he had travelled twenty-seven miles that day. At this rate he
would reach the Mississippi in less than a week, and he felt only an
ordinary sense of healthy fatigue and an extraordinary appetite.
He was charged a quarter for supper that evening at a farmhouse, and
before dark he had reached the next village. There was a bit of
woodland near by where he imagined that he could encamp, and as it had
been a warm day he thought a fire would be unnecessary. So in the
twilight he scraped together a heap of last year’s leaves, and spread
his coat blanket-wise over his shoulders. It reminded him of many
camps in the mountains, and he went to sleep almost at once, for he
was very tired.
A sensation of extreme cold awoke him. It was dark; the stars were
shining above the trees, and, looking at his watch by a match flare,
he learned that it was a quarter to twelve. But the cold was
unbearable; he lay and shivered miserably for half an hour, and then
got up to look for wood for a fire. In the darkness he could find
nothing, and, thoroughly awake by this time, he abandoned the camp and
went back through the gloom to the railway station, where half a dozen
empty box cars stood upon the siding. Clambering into one of these, it
appeared comparatively warm; it reminded him of Margaret and of the
hail upon Salt Lake,—things which already seemed very far away.
His rest that night was shattered at frequent intervals by the crash
of passing freight-trains. They stopped, backed, and shunted within
six feet of him with a clatter of metal like a collapsing foundry, a
noise of loud talking and swearing, and a swinging flash of lanterns.
Drowsily Elliott fancied that his car was likely to be attached to
some train and hauled away, perhaps to St. Louis, perhaps to St.
Joseph, but in the stupefaction of sleep he did not care where he
went; and, in fact, when he awoke he saw the little village still
visible through the open side door, looking strange and unfamiliar in
the gray dawn. Grass and fences were white with hoarfrost.
At five o’clock that afternoon Elliott was twenty-two miles nearer the
Mississippi. He had just passed a small station. His time-table told
him that there was another eight miles away, and he decided to reach
it and spend the night in one of its empty freight-cars, for he had
learned that camping without a fire was not practicable.
He reached the desired point just as it was growing dark. Point is the
word, for it was nothing else. There was no depot there, no houses, no
siding,—nothing whatever but a name painted on a mocking plank beside
the track. It was a crossroads flag-station. Elliott had failed to
notice the “f” opposite the name in the time-table.
The sun had set in clouds and a fine cold rain was beginning. The sky
looked black as iron. A camp in the rain was out of the question. The
next village was five miles away, but he would have to reach it.
It was a dark night, but it never grows entirely dark in the open air,
as house-dwellers imagine, and as he went on he could make out looming
masses of forest on either hand. The country seemed to be growing
marshy; he came to several long trestles, which he crossed in fear of
an inopportune train.
Presently the track plunged into a sort of swamp, where the trees came
close and black on both sides. The rain pattered in pools of water,
and through the wet air darted great fireflies in streaks of bluish
light. Their fading trails crossed among the rotting trees, and from
the depths of the marsh sounded such a chorus of frog voices as he had
never dreamed of, in piccolo, tenor, bass, screeching and thrumming.
In the deepest recesses some weird reptile emitted at regular
intervals a rattling Mephistophelean laugh. It impressed Elliott with
a kind of horror,—the blue witch-fires flashing through the rain, the
reptilian voices, and that ghastly laugh from the decaying woods; and
he hastened to leave it behind.
It proved a very long five miles to the next station, and he was wet
through and stumbling with weariness when he reached it. The village
was pitch-dark; not a light burned about the station except the steady
switch-lamps; not a freight-car stood upon the siding. There was not
even a roof over the platform, and, too tired to look for shelter,
Elliott dropped upon a pile of lumber by the track, and went heavily
to sleep in the rain.
The hideous clangour of a passing express-train awoke him; he was
growing accustomed to such awakenings. It was an hour from sunrise.
Close to him stood the little red station and a great water-tank. The
village was still asleep among the dripping trees. Not a smoke arose
from any chimney.
It had stopped raining, and the east was clearer. Elliott was wet
through, cold and stiff, and he found his feet sore and swollen. He
was not in training for so much pedestrian exercise, and he had
overdone it.
But the solitary hotel of the village awoke early, and Elliott did not
have to wait long for breakfast. Shortly after sunrise, strengthened
with hot coffee, he was renewing the march, finding every step
exquisitely painful. The romance of this sort of vagabondage was fast
evaporating, and the thought of the seventy dollars that he had wasted
in St. Joseph infuriated him.
When the sun rose high enough to dry his garments, he sat down,
removed his coat, and steamed gently. After this respite the pain in
his blistered soles was worse than ever, but he trudged stoically on.
After an hour it grew dulled till he scarcely noticed it, and about
noon he reached Redwood.
Near the station there was a small lunchroom, where Elliott satisfied
his appetite, and he returned to the railway, sat upon a pile of ties,
lighted his pipe, and reflected. The endless line of shining rails
running eternally eastward was loathsome to his eyes.
“I’ve overdone it at the start. I ought to lie up and rest for a day
or two,” he said to himself. But even walking appeared preferable to
idling in the scraggly village, and he suddenly determined that he
would neither idle nor yet walk, but nevertheless he would be in
Hannibal in two days.
He sat on the pile of ties for over an hour. A ponderous freight-train
dragged up to the station, went upon the siding and waited till the
fast express flashed past without stopping. Then the freight got
clumsily under way again with a tremendous clank and clamour. At it
rolled slowly past, Elliott saw a side door half-open. He ran after
it, swung himself up by his elbows, and tumbled head first into the
car.
The train went on, gradually gaining speed. There were loose handfuls
of corn scattered about the car from its last load. Elliott slid the
door almost shut and sat down on the floor, wondering if the crew had
seen him get aboard.
The train was attaining a considerable speed and the car was flung
over the rails with shattering jolts. Through the cranny of the door
Elliott saw trees and fields sweep by, and he was considering
pleasantly that he had already travelled an hour’s walk, when a heavy
trampling of feet sounded on the roof of the pitching car.
He listened with some uneasiness. The feet reached the end of the car;
he heard them coming down the iron ladder, and then a face, a grimed
but not unfriendly face, topped by a blue cap, appeared at the little
slide in the end.
“Hello!” called the brakeman, peering into the dark interior. “I know
you’re there. I seen you get in. I kin see you now.”
At this culminative address, Elliott came out of his dusky corner.
“Where you goin’?” demanded the brakeman.
“Why, I’d like to stay right with this train. It’s going my way,”
replied Elliott. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Dunno as I do,—but you can’t ride this train free.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” responded the trespasser. “I’m pretty short or
else I’d be on the cushions instead of here, but I don’t mind putting
up a quarter. Does that go?”
“I reckon,” said the brakeman, unhesitatingly. “This train don’t go
only to Brookfield; that’s the division point. Keep the door shet, an’
don’t let nobody see you.”
He went back to the top of the train. Elliott felt as if he had been
swindled, for Brookfield was only twenty-five miles away. However, he
hoped to catch another freight that afternoon and make as many more
miles before sunset, and he settled himself as comfortably as possible
on the jolting floor and lighted his pipe.
He had time to smoke many pipes before reaching Brookfield, for it was
nearly two hours before the heavy train rolled into the yards. Elliott
climbed out upon the side-ladder and swung to the ground before the
train stopped, to avoid a possible railway constable. Considerably to
his surprise, he saw half a dozen rusty-looking vagrants hanging to
the irons and jumping off at the same time. He had had more fellow
passengers than he had suspected, and it struck him that
freight-breaking must be rather a lucrative employment.
All the rest of that afternoon Elliott watched the freight-yards, but,
though some trains departed eastward, they appeared to contain no
empty cars. After supper he returned to the railroad, and remained
there till it grew dark. Trains came and went; there were engines
hissing and panting without cease; all the dozen tracks were crowded
with cars, and up and down the narrow alleys between them hastened men
with lanterns, talking and swearing loudly. The crash and jar of
coupling and shunting went on ceaselessly, and this activity did not
lessen, and the night passed, for Brookfield was one of the “division
points” on the main line of a great railroad.
It was nearly midnight when Elliott observed that a train was being
made up with the caboose on the western end. He walked its length; the
switchmen paid no attention to him, and he discovered an empty box car
about the middle of the train, and into it he climbed without delay.
For another half-hour, however, the manipulation of the cars
continued, with successive violent shocks as fresh cars were coupled
on. The whole train seemed to be broken and shuffled in the darkness,
and it was hauled up and down till Elliott began to doubt whether it
were going ahead at all. But at last he heard the welcome two blasts
from the locomotive ahead, and in another minute the long train was
labouring out.
This time he suffered no interference from any brakeman. The train was
a fast freight; it made no stop for nearly two hours, and then
continued after the briefest delay. The speed was high enough to make
the springless car most uncomfortable, till the jolts seemed to shake
the very bones loose in Elliott’s body. Every position he tried seemed
more uncomfortable than the last, but he was determined to stay with
the train as far as it went. After a few hours of being tossed about,
he became somewhat stupefied, and even dozed a little, and between
sleep and waking the night passed. In the first gray of morning the
train pulled up at the great water-tank at Palmyra Junction, fifteen
miles from Hannibal. He had travelled ninety miles that night.
The train went no farther. After waiting an hour or two for another,
Elliott decided to walk the rest of the way, and he left Palmyra at
nine o’clock, arriving in Hannibal, very tired and dusty, at a little
after three. At the bottom of the long street he caught a glimpse of
the broad Mississippi rolling yellow between its banked levees. The
first stage of the journey was accomplished; the next would be upon
the river.