When he went down to the levee an hour or two later, Elliott found no
boats preparing to sail, and a general lack of activity about the
steamer wharves. Sitting upon a stack of cotton-bales, he perceived a
young man of rather less than his own age, smoking with something of
the air of a busy man who finds a moment for relaxation. He was very
much tanned; he wore a flannel shirt and a black tie, and his clothes
were soiled with axle-grease and coal-dust. By these tokens Elliott
recognized that he had been for some time in contact with the
railways, but he did not look like a railway man, and his face wore a
bright alertness that distinguished it unmistakably from that of the
joyless hobo. Elliott took him for an amateur vagrant like himself.
“Seems to be nothing doing on the river. Do you know when there’s a
boat for St. Louis?” he asked, pausing beside the cotton-bales.
The lounger took stock of Elliott, keenly but with good nature.
“There ought to be one leaving about six o’clock, but I don’t see any
sign of her yet,” he responded. “Going down the river?”
“I thought I’d try it. Do you reckon the mate would take me on, even
if it was only to work my passage?”
“What do you want to do that for?” queried the other, with a sort of
astonished amusement.
“Why, I wanted to get to St. Louis, and after that up to Pittsburg or
Cincinnati.”
“If you want to get there easy, and get there alive, I don’t see why
you don’t swim,” remarked the stranger, dryly. “You don’t know much
about these river boats, do you? Man, they’re floating hells. The crew
is all niggers, and the toughest gang of pirates in America. They
knife a man for a chew of tobacco. The officers themselves don’t
hardly dare go down on the lower deck after dark,—but, Lord! they do
take it out of the black devils when they tie up at a wharf and start
to unload. If you can’t work for ten hours at a stretch toting a
hundred-pound crate in each hand, live on corn bread, and kill a man
every night, don’t try the boats. A white man wouldn’t last any longer
in that crowd than an icicle in hell.”
“The deuce!” said Elliott, disconcerted. “I’m very anxious to get to
Cincinnati, anyway, and the fact is I’m sort of strapped. I thought
I’d be all right when I got to the river.”
“Tried freights?”
“Yes, and they don’t suit me too well.”
“I’m going to St. Louis,” said the stranger, after a pause. “I’m going
to leave early in the morning, and I expect to get there in three
hours, and I don’t intend that it shall cost me a cent. To tell the
truth, I’m in something of the same fix as you are.”
“How’ll you manage it?” Elliott inquired, with much curiosity.
“Ride a passenger-train, on the top. I’ve just come from Seattle that
way,” he continued, after a meditative pause. “There’s no great amount
of fun in it, but I did it in six days.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed Elliott again. “Do you mean to say that you
came all the way from Seattle in six days, beating passenger-trains?”
“Every inch of it. I was in a hurry, and I’m in a hurry yet. Mostly I
rode the top, and sometimes the blind, and once I tried the trucks,
but next time I’ll walk first. The beast of a conductor found that I
was there, and poured ashes down between the cars.”
“You’re a genius,” said Elliott, looking at the audacious traveller
with admiration. “That’s beyond me.”
“Not a bit of it. I don’t do this sort of thing professionally, nor
you, either. Excuse me, I can see that you’re no more a bum than I am.
But a man ought to be able to do anything,—beat the hobo at his own
game if he’s driven to it. I simply had to get to Nashville, and I
hadn’t the money for a ticket. I did it, or I’ve nearly done it, and
you could have done it, too.
“Of course you could,” he went on, as Elliott looked doubtful. “Come
with me in the morning, if you’re game, and I’ll guarantee to land you
in St. Louis by eight o’clock.”
“Oh, I’m game all right,” cried Elliott, “if you’re sure I won’t be
troubling you.”
“Didn’t I say that I’m going, anyway. I mighty seldom let anybody
trouble me. Now look here: the fast train from Omaha gets here a
little before three, daylight. You meet me at the passenger depot at,
say, three o’clock. Better get as much sleep as you can before that,
for you sure won’t get any after it.”
He glanced at Elliott with a smile that had the effect of a challenge.
“Oh, I won’t back out,” Elliott assured him. “I’ll be there, sharp on
time. So long, till morning.”
Elliott went away a little puzzled by his new comrade, and not
altogether satisfied. The young fellow—he did not know his
name—evidently was in possession of an almost infernal degree of
energy. Plainly he was no “bum,” as he had said; it was equally plain
that he was, undeniably, not quite a gentleman; and, plainest of all,
that he was a man of much experience of the world and ability to take
care of himself in it. Elliott could not quite place him. He was a
little like a professional gambler down on his luck. It was quite
possible that he was a high-class crook escaping from the scene of his
latest exploit, and it was this consideration that roused Elliott’s
uneasiness. It was bad enough, he thought, to be obliged to dodge yard
watchmen and railway detectives without risking arrest for another
man’s safe-cracking.
Still, the association would last only for a few hours, and he went to
bed that night resolved to carry the agreement through. He was staying
at a cheap hotel, and there were times when he would have regarded its
appointments as impossible, but it struck him just now that he had
never known before what luxury was. It was four nights since he had
slept in a bed, and, as he stretched himself luxuriously between the
sheets, the idea of getting up at three o’clock seemed a fantastic
impossibility.
A thundering at the door made it real, however. He had left orders at
the desk to be called, and he pulled his watch from under the pillow.
There was no mistake; it was three o’clock, and, shivering and still
sleepy, he got up and lighted the gas.
Near the waterfront he found an all-night lunchroom, and hot coffee
and a sandwich effected a miraculous mental change. With increasing
cheerfulness he went on toward the depot through the deserted streets.
It was still dark and the stars were shining, but there was an
aromatic freshness in the air, and low in the east a tinge of faintest
pallor.
He found his prospective fellow traveller lounging about the
triangular walk that surrounds the depot, and saluted him with a
flourish of his pipestem. An almost imperceptible grayness was
beginning to fill the air, and sparrows chirped in the blackened trees
about the station.
“She’ll be along in a few minutes,” said the expert, referring to the
train. “By the way, my name’s Bennett; what’ll I call you? Any old
name’ll do.”
“Call me Elliott. That happens to be my real name, anyway. But say,
won’t it be a little too light soon for us to sit up in plain sight on
the roof of that train?”
“A little. But she doesn’t make any stop all the way to St. Louis, I
believe, and of course the people on board can’t see us. It’s easier
to climb up there by daylight, too, and—there she whistles.”
The few early passengers hurried out upon the platform. In half a
minute the train rolled into the station, its windows closely
curtained and the headlight glaring through the gray dawn. The
passengers went aboard; there was no demand for tickets at the car
steps, and Bennett and Elliott went straight to the smoker, where they
sat quietly till the train started again, after the briefest delay.
“Now come along,” muttered Bennett, and Elliott followed him across
the platforms and through the three day coaches full of dishevelled,
dozing passengers. The Pullmans came next, and luckily the juncture
was not vestibuled.
Without the slightest hesitation Bennett climbed upon the horizontal
brake-wheel, and put his hands on the roof of the sleeper. Then with a
vigorous spring he went up, crept to a more level portion of the roof,
and beckoned Elliott to follow him.
The train was now running fast, and the violent oscillation of the
cars made the feat look even more difficult and dangerous than it was.
But the idea that the conductor might come through and find him there
stimulated Elliott amazingly, and he clambered nervously upon the
wheel, and got his hands upon the grimy roof that was heaving like a
boat on a stormy sea. Securing a firm hold, he attempted to spring up,
but a violent lurch at that moment flung him aside, and he was left
dangling perilously till Bennett scrambled to his relief and by
strenuous efforts hauled him up to more security.
A furious blast of smoke and cinders struck his face. Before him
writhed the dark, reptilian back of the train, ending in the
locomotive, that was just then wreathed in a vivid glare from the
opened firebox. From that view-point the engine seemed to leap and
struggle like a frenzied horse, and all the cars plunged, rolling,
till it appeared miraculous that they did not leave the rails. Even as
he lay flat on the roof of the bucking car it was not easy to avoid
being pitched sideways. The cinders came in suffocating blasts with
the force of sleet, and presently, following Bennett’s example,
Elliott turned about with his head to the rear and lay with his face
buried in his arms. The roar of the air and of the train made speech
out of the question.
The position had its discomforts, but it seemed an excellent strategic
one. An hour went by, and it was now quite light. The fast express
continued to devour the miles with undiminished speed.
Little sleeping villages flashed by, as Elliott saw occasionally when
he ventured to raise his head Two hours; they were within forty miles
of St. Louis, when the train unexpectedly slackened speed and came to
a stop.
Elliott jumped to the conclusion that it had stopped for the sole
purpose of putting him off, but he observed immediately that it was to
take water. He glanced at Bennett, who was looking about with an air
of disgusted surprise.
There were men about the little station, and the trespassers flattened
themselves upon the car roof, hoping to escape notice, but some one
must have seen them. A gold-laced brakeman presently thrust his head
up from below, mounted upon the brake-wheel.
“Come now, get down out of that!” he commanded.
His conductor was looking on, and there was no possibility of coming
to an arrangement with him. Elliott slid down to the platform, much
crestfallen, followed by Bennett. Cinders fell in showers from their
clothing as they moved, and a number of passengers watched them with
unsympathetic curiosity as they walked away.
“By thunder, I hate to be ditched like that!” muttered Bennett,
glancing savagely about. “Let’s try the blind baggage, if there is
one. We’ll beat this train yet.”
Elliott doubted the wisdom of this second attempt, but they went
forward, looking for the little platform, usually “blind,” or
doorless, which is to be found at the front end of most baggage-cars.
It was there; none of the crew appeared to be looking that way, and
they scrambled aboard just as the train started.
It was a much more comfortable position than the top, for there were
iron rails to cling to and a platform to sit upon, while they were out
of the way of smoke and cinders. Immediately before them rose the
black iron hulk of the tender and it was not long before the fireman
discovered them as he shovelled coal, but he made no hostile
demonstration beyond playfully shaking his fist.
“We’re safe for St. Louis now. There won’t be another stop, and nobody
can see us or get at us while she’s moving,” remarked Bennett, with
satisfaction. He glanced over his shoulder, turned and looked again,
and his face suddenly fell. After a moment’s sober stare, he burst
into a fit of laughter.
“Done again! This ‘blind’ isn’t blind at all,” he cried, pointing to
the car-end.
It was hideously true. There was a narrow door which they had not
observed in the end of the car. Just then it was closed fast enough,
but there was no telling when it might be opened.
“Anyhow,” said Elliott, plucking up courage, “we’re making nearly
forty miles an hour, and every minute they leave us in peace means
almost another mile gained.”
“Yes, and there’s just a chance that nobody opens this door. I think
that if we stop again we’d better give this train up.”
They watched the door anxiously as the minutes and the miles went
past, but it remained unopened. The little stations flew
past—Clarksville, Annada, Winfield. It was not far to West Alton, and
that was practically St. Louis.
The end was almost in sight. But the door opened suddenly, and the
brakeman they had before encountered came out.
“I told you fellows to get off half an hour ago.”
“Now, look here,” said Bennett, persuasively. “We’re not doing this
train any harm at all. We’re not going inside; we’ll stay right here,
and we’ll jump the minute she slows for Alton. We’re no hobos. We’re
straight enough, only we’re playing in hard luck just now and we’ve
simply got to stay on this train. Now you go away, and just fancy you
never saw us, and you’ll be doing us a good turn.”
The brakeman reflected a moment, looked at them with an expression
more of sorrow than of anger, and returned to the car without saying
anything.
“He’s all right,” said Elliott.
“And every minute means a mile,” Bennett added.
But in less than a mile the brakeman returned, and the conductor came
with him.
“Come now, get off!” commanded the chief, crisply.
“We’ll get off if we have to,” said Bennett. “You must slow up for us,
though.”
“Slow hell!” returned the conductor. “I’ve lost time enough with you
bums. Hit the gravel, now!”
Elliott glanced down. The gravel was sliding past with such rapidity
that the roadway looked smooth as a slate.
“Great heavens, man, you wouldn’t throw us off with the train going a
mile a minute. It would be sure murder,” pleaded Bennett.
“I’ve no time to talk. Jump, or I’ll throw you off.” The conductor
advanced menacingly, with the brakeman at his shoulder.
Bennett lifted his arm with a gesture that the conductor mistook for
aggression. He whipped out his revolver and thrust it in Bennett’s
face. The adventurer, startled, stepped quickly back, clean off the
platform, and vanished.
A wave of rage choked Elliott’s throat, and he barely restrained
himself from flying at the throats of his uniformed tormentors.
“Now you’ve done it,” he said, finding speech with difficulty. “You’ve
killed the man.”
The conductor, looking conscience-stricken and anxious, leaned far out
and gazed back, and then pulled the bell-cord.
“He needn’t have jumped. I wouldn’t have thrown him off; never did
such a thing in my life,” he muttered.
“He didn’t jump. You assaulted him, when all he wanted was to get off
quietly. You pulled your gun on him, when neither of us was armed.
It’s murder, and you’ll be shown what that means.”
Elliott felt that he had the moral supremacy. The conductor made no
reply, and the train came to a stop.
“You’d better go back and look after your partner,” he said, in a
subdued manner. “I’m mighty sorry. I’d never have hurt him if he’d
stayed quiet. It’s only a couple of miles to Alton,” he added, as
Elliott jumped down, “and you can take him into St. Louis all right,
if he isn’t hurt bad. I’d wait and take you in myself if I wasn’t
eighteen minutes late already.”
The train was moving ahead again before Elliott had reached its rear.
He ran as fast as he could, and while still a great way off he was
relieved to see Bennett sitting up among the weeds near the fence
where he had been pitched by the fall. He was leaning on his arms and
spitting blood profusely.
“Are you hurt much, old man? I thought you’d be killed!” cried
Elliott, hurrying up.
Bennett looked at him in a daze. His face was terribly cut and bruised
with the gravel, and the blood had made a sort of paste with the
smoke-dust on his cheeks. His clothes were rent into great tatters.
“Don’t wait for me,” he muttered, thickly. “Go ahead. Don’t miss the
train. I’m—all right.”
But his head drooped helplessly, and he sank down. The ditch was full
of running water, and Elliott brought his hat full and bathed the
wounded man’s head and washed off the blood and grime. Bennett revived
at this, and looked up more intelligently.
Elliott examined him cursorily. His right arm was certainly broken,
and something appeared wrong with the shoulder-joint; it looked as if
it might be dislocated. There must be a rib broken as well, for
Bennett complained of intense pain in his chest, and continued to spit
blood.
“That conductor certainly ditched us, didn’t he?” he murmured. “Did he
throw you off too? I was a fool not to see that door.”
None of the injuries appeared fatal, or even very serious, with proper
medical care, and Elliott felt sure that the right thing was to get
his comrade into St. Louis and the hospital at once. But Bennett was
quite incapable of walking, and Elliott was not less unable to carry
him. He became feverish and semidelirious again; he talked vaguely of
war and shipwreck, but in his lucid moments he still adjured Elliott
to leave him.
Elliott remained beside him, though with increasing anxiety. After an
hour or two, however, he was relieved by the appearance of a gang of
section workers with their hand-car, to whom Elliott explained the
situation without reserve. They were sympathetic, and carried both
Elliott and Bennett into Alton on their car, where they waited for two
hours for a train to St. Louis.
Bennett was got into the smoker with some difficulty; he remained
almost unconscious all the way, and at the Union Station in St. Louis
there was more difficulty. Elliott was afraid to call a policeman and
ask for the ambulance, lest admission should be refused on the ground
that Bennett was an outsider. So, half-supporting and half-carrying
the injured man, he got him out of the station and a few yards along
the street. It was impossible to do more. A policeman came up, and
Elliott briefly explained that this man was badly hurt and would have
to go to the hospital at once. Then he hurried off, lest any questions
should be asked.