if. o -W-. # ® IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) («) ^j 1.0 1.1 11.25 U|21 121 |50 ^^~ ■■■ liiilii^ HiotDgraphic Sciences COTporation 23 'VF9T (vMIN STielT V.'t»ifn,N.Y. 14SM (716) •73-4S03 '^ i ) K^ n^^ ^ ^ m CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. • CIHM/iCIVIH Collection de microfiches. « Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiquos Technical and Bibliographic Notaa/Notas tachniquas at bibliographiquaa The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. 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Las diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 BY THE SAME AUTHOR Each, latno, $1.25 The White Mail : A Railroad Novel Frontier Stories The Express Messenger, and Other Tales of the Rail Tales of an Engineer, with Rhymes OF the Rail SHORT RAILS BY CY WARMAN NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1900 Copyri};ht, 1900 By Charles Scribnur's Sons f UNIVKRSITY I'RESS • JOHN WILSON AND SON . CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. CONTENTS PACE The Nkw Ticket Acknt Jack Farlky's Flyin<; Switch ,« Out on the Road The KNdiNEER's White Hair 7. A Running Switch g A Perpendicular Railroad ,0, The Wrix'k at Rouhideau ,,7 The Black Fliers ,27 The Fighting Manager ,^7 Tiii, Passing of McIvor ,(j| A Sympathy Strike ,-. A Railway Emergency jgg Railroading in France 207 'Ar' Ye Woth It?" .... ,-, A Roumanian Romance .... --- • • ■ • 227 Opening ok the Alpine Tunnel 249 On the B1.ACK-LIST 2 eg The First Train over the Bridge .... 287 Fanny and the Fireman 30, t^t il^etD Stcbrt 0gent THE NEW TICKET AGENT (( 'TTOW unspeakably dreary ! " eyclaimed the ^ ^ new man, walking aboi . the little station and gazing, bewildered, out over the quiet coun- try town. The agent whom he had come up to relieve was talking with a flat-figured, sinewy young farmer, who had come to town to have his plough sharpened. A man with one suspen- der driving a cow down the street, shouted to the agent : « Hello, Jim ! " and the agent waved his hand. '' Come out an' see us 'fore ye go an' we 'II cut a punkin." Jim smiled and nodded. The man laughed loud and pushed his cow into an alley. " What a crude, vulgar lot of yaps inhabit this earth," mused the new man, marking the folk of the village. He had been all his life in the city THE NEW TICKET AGENT V I His father was president of a little railroad down East. It had taken him just fifty years of hard work to reach that exalted post, and that was his chief reason for sending this beardless boy of his into the throbbing West to learn the business. The ordinary public school, the high school, and a course at a business college was all he got, and at twenty he was " finished," after the idea of the president, who, in his youth, had not fared nearly so well. A single letter to a superintendent in the west was the boy's introduction. He had mastered the mystery of the key in a little while. Railroad work of all sorts seemed to come as naturally to him as thirst comes to an Indian, but he had a let to learn about men and things. It is not enough for a man to be able to ** do ' ' business ; he must know first of all how to get business. Having grown weary of waiting, the new man approached the agent with the hope that that placid individual might see in him a lot of energy going to waste, and so cut short his visit with the lank young farmer. " Charley," said the agent, stepping back as the new man approached and waving his hand THE NEW TICKET AGENT with the air and ease of a farmer showing a horse at a county fair, "this is Mr. Cutter, your new agent. Mr. Cutter, Mr. Johnson." Mr. Johnson, stepping from his wagon to the high platform, removed his glove, about to shake hands. Mr. Cutter bowed, smiled, and then stared at the farmer's big feet, not even noticing the almost outstretched hand. It is a pretty well established fact that nothing is more disconcerting to a man than to have an- other person stare at his feet. Pretty women often resort to this expedient when being crushed under the gaze of handsome, vulgar men. And so, seeing the agent staring at his feet, the far- mer blushed beneath his tan, stepped back into his wagon, and drove away. There was milk on one of his boots. Now the eye of the agent, trained to see many things at one and the same time, saw all this ; saw the look of disappointment upon the hand- some face of his youthful successor as he sur- veyed the scene, his impatience at the agent's delay, his disgust with the agent's familiarity with the coarse people of the place, and pitied THE NEW TICKET AGENT him, for, with his own departure, he saw the business of the village going to the opposition line that touched at the other side of the town. "Can you show me about a little, now?" asked the new man. The agent made no reply, but turned to walk back to the wooden station. " This is all new to me, you know," the new man remarked. "I'm not very long in the business. I 've lived in the city, too, all my life, and I dare say I shal) be awkward here. I 'm not long in the west.'^ " You behave as though you had n't been on earth more than a couple o' hours," said the agent, carelessly shaking out his keys. The new man turned sharply. At that moment a couple of unusually pretty girls came romping down the platform. The new man, standing at the end of the building, could not be seen by the girls, as they came skipping along holding hands, their big straw hats waving like the wide wings of snow- white gulls. " Come on ! Come on ! " they were saying to the agent. " We 're going to the post-ofifice." THE NEW TICKET AGENT " I can't. This is my busy day," said the agent, smiling. The girls failed to see anything unusual in his smile. They were as wild and gay as the birds — as fresh and sweet as the flowers on that spring morning. " Aw — come on, Jim," said the brunette, im- pulsively, pulling the agent's arm. " Come, go a piece with us, anyway." " No, no," said the agent, squeezing her hand, and nodding toward the station where the new man stood waiting. " O-o-o-o ! " exclaimed the blonde, blushing as her big blue eyes fell upon the handsome young man. The brunette flashed her black eyes upon the stranger, who now turned modestly away. " Kind of uppish, is n't he ? " she said. "Good-by, Jim," and the two girls romped away. The new man watched them until they jumped from the far end of the platform and galloped off up the narrow board walk that ran from the station along one side of the one street to the post-office. ''Now, there," said the new man to the 8 THE NEIV TICKET AGENT agent, " there 's where I should like to be in- troduced." " Well, I Ml introduce you to the office if you '11 promise not to freeze it," said the agent, coldly. The new man flushed the least bit, but followed into the station. The agent started to explain the use of the electric signals to be displayed when he had orders for a train, or an order to hold a train for orders, when the young man broke in with an impatient, "Yes, yes, I know that." " Oh ! you do ? Well, I 'm glad for your sake that you know something. There 's such a lot to learn, and life is so short." The young man glared at the agent, but that self-contained individual did not take the trouble to notice it. When he had shown and explained the ticket rack, he broke an item of news to the new man. " Always, just thirty minutes before the mail train is due, neither earlier nor later, I go to the post-office for the mail." "Whose mail?" " Well, anybody's mail that happens to be in the bag. Then, when the train arrives I take the I i THE NEW TICKET AGENT pouch that is kicked off and tote it over to the office." " I carry the mail ? Do you expect me to be agent and porter too ? " " I don't expect anything. My instructions were to show you what 1 did and how I did it. There is really nothing to do. If it could be condensed a man could do the day's work in two hours." " What time do you come on duty?" "Seven." " And what time does the night man relieve you?" " Never. This is no night office." " And what time do you close up ? " " Oh — when I think there is nothing more to do. I usually go to my supper when the last through passenger train goes do-.vn, and then come back and look after my lights. Sometimes I sit in the office and read or write until nine or ten o'clock and then go away for the night. There are no ' hours ;' I simply do what I have to do in my own way and nobody ever bothers me. Now and then a man comes from the auditor's office, checks me up, looks me over, swings into i !. lO T/fE NEW^ TICKET AGENT the next train that passes, and that 's all. Here," said the agent, strolling into the freight room, " I keep my lamps. Here are my supplies, — oil and waste to clean the lamps with. Not many roads furnish nice white waste for common station agents." " Who cleans the lamps? " " I do. The most important lamps are the switch lights throughout the yard. I usually stroll down among the switches after a local crew has been switching, and again just before going home at night, to see that the switches are all up and locked. Man left the switch open before I came, put a fast freight ia on the grain track, wrecked the engine and burned the eleva* tor : that *s why I 'm careful, I presume." " Who sweeps out ? " « I do." " Office, station, and all? " " Everything. I always try to do that of a morning before anybody comes around." *'And in winter do you fetch the coal and empty the ashes?" " Oh, yes. I *m the whole show. This is the truck I handle my freight on." ; f THE NEW TICKET AGENT I-I Nov; all this was not what Lancing Cutter, Jr., had figured on. He had dreamed that he could wear stylish clothes, spotless linen, and look like a peach all the time. He had calculated that his principal and most arduous duty would be waiting for the pay car. Now the two girls came skipping by from the post-office. The dark one put her head in at the open window, and said "Ahem!" The agent waved them away. " I won't," said she. "Come on," said the fair one, stealing a glance at the handsome new man over the shoulder of her friend. The agent went on explaining things to his successor, and when the girls had grown weary of teasing him they strolled out of the little village and down the dusty lane. n Nothing can be more glorious than the dewy dawn of a springtime morning. Freda Johnson was abroad when it broke, and now stood under a cherry-tree watching the sun swing up out of i ' 1 if I' I 12 THE NEW TICKET AGENT the east. An early robin, fluttering above her, shook a shower of cherry blossoms down over her head. Some of them lodged and lay like snowflakes upon her golden hair. Of all the fair flowers in nature's spring apparel there was not one fairer than Freda. She seemed to har- monize with everything. The pink ribbon at her throat, the pink in her cheeks and the pink in the petals of the cherry blossoms, the golden sunlight on her golden hair, — the blue of her eyes was the hue of the skies. She was as fresh, as fair and rosy as the rosy morn. High over her head a lark sang, circling, soaring, mounting to meet the rising sun, and ever calling back to the low-born birds still hiding in the hedges to rise and wing to the ethereal fields and view the wonders of the waking world. Across the lane now came the tree-toad trill with which girls call each other. Freda, smiling, put up her pretty head, and from her pink throat there rippled an answering call, as clear and musical as the lark's song. The hedge grew high between them, but these wingless birds heard and answered each other, and then romped back to their respective homes. ^}l .>a.- ■ i;- i^-i\ THE NEW TICKET AGENT n At nine o'clock, in that quiet hour that in- tervenes between breakfast and dinner on a well-regulated farm, they always went to the post-office. Thij had been their habit for some time. Now it became a necessity. Every morning they stood at the little window, and every morning the new man, who had already learned to look for them going and coming, saw them creeping up the platform, the dark one reading, the fair one listening to whatever the reader cared to read aloud. He had seen the dark one kiss the agent good-by when the agent went away, and now he knew that these daily letters came from th? happy lover whose place he had taken at the station. He could not, if he would, take the old agent's place in the heart of the vivacious bnmette, who invari- ably lifted her dark eyes from the letter to shoot a passing glance at the new man, but he felt that with the love of the fair one, even this dusty, desolate country village, with its fatiguing monotony, would become an Eden. But that he could scarcely hope for. He had not even a nodding acquaintance with her. He had been introduced to her brother, and had almost I If ^ L\ ! ^ I b M r/^^- JV£tV TICKET AGENT laughed in his face. But how was he to know that that gaunt individual with a " busted " under lip and milk on his boot was brother to an angel. The farmer and the new man had met once since, — only once. The agent had smiled and said " good-morning." The farmer, wearing a natty spring suit, had given him a cold-storage stare and asked for a round trip to Chicago. The fair one had looked at the new man on the morning of his arrival, not once, but twice or thrice ; he had caught her at it and it pleased his vanity, but now she never lifted her big blue eyes from the hot pine boards of the depot platform as she strolled past. Manifestly she had seen her brother. And so the days went by. To-day, precisely like yesterday, and to-morrow the same as to- day. Of a morning he had ham and eggs, at noon, in the one-chair barber shop, he viewed the pictures in the " Police Gazette," and at evening heard the village band "practising" in the village park. Ife THE NEW TICKET AGENT 15 in As early as seven in the morning the farmer folk began to arrive in carriages, carry-alls, in lumber wagons, afoot, abike, and on horseback. They were coming into the village to take the excursion train for Devil's Lake, where they were going to read the Declaration of Independence, and sing the praises of the land of Yankee- Doodledom. According to the notion of the farmer folk there was but one train ; the agent, however, knew better, and tried to tell them, but they would not understand. At eight o'clock a long train, drawn by two locomotives, slowed for the cross- ing and then steamed up to the station, but to the amazement of the multitude, steamed on without stopping. Before the people recovered from their surprise another train showed up. As it approached, the waiting, impatient people lined up near the edge of the platform. The engineer, fearing that those in the rear might push the others off, opened his cylinder cocks and sprayed the crimp all out of the bangs of i6 THE NEW TICKET AGENT ' h 11 the country maidens in the front row. When the steam had blown away the train was gone. Every car was loaded, and there were one or two bare heads at each window. Now the farmer folk began to get angry. They had been told by the local paper, by people from Chicago, by big bills on barns and fences, and by the agent, that the road would run a grand excursion to the Devil's Lake, on the Fourth. They had come to town to take the train, and the train had not stopped for them. They were " hot." Presently another train whistled, slowed for the crossing, pulled up and stopped at the station. The agent, coming out with the mail pouch, saw the people " squatting to jump," and began to tell them that this was not an excur- sion train. A man with red hair told the agent to go to the devil ; they were going to the lake, he said. Before the train had come to a stop the people began to pile on, and the train- men began to explain that this was the fast mail, that excursion tickets would not be honored there ; but the people did not hear. They kept on coming, and the trainmen, assisted by the agent, began to push and pull them off. The t -I THE NEW TICKET AGENT 17 agent caught the tail of a gosling-green duster and hauled its wearer down the steps. The man slipped, his chin hit one of the car steps, and as soon as he could get to his feet he hit the agent, hard by the left eye. To be sure, the agent was only doing his duty, but there was a good deal of excitement, and the farmer folk were confused. They felt by this time that their town was being purposely ignored by the railro.id com- pany, and so they fought enthusiastically with the company's agents. They had not been to the Fourth for a year. They nad given up good money, and were willing to fight to boot, if it were necessary, to secure a ride for which they had already paid the rate demanded by the railroad. In the midst of the mix-up the old agent stepped from the train. He had been planning that he would have a talk with the new man. He had learned that the business was going to the opposition road. He had even hoped to find an excuse for introducing the new man to Fred:'. Johnson. Being happy himself, he wanted to help the stranger on. But now, to i8 THE NEIV TICKET AGENT I I li ■' \ . i 5.1 I his disappointment, he found the agent scrap- ping with the dark girl's father. Personally that would make no difference. He had often noticed that his prospective father-in-law needed it, but it might make a difference with the girls. Fortunately the giris were not there. The old agent and the trainmen succeeded in prying the two men apart, and in explaining a good deal of the unpleasantness away ; but they could not explain the dark shading away from the new man's eye. But how these guileless farmer folk did joy to see the face of the ex- agent ! He was a messiah to them. He would not allow any more trains to go by. Finally the people, being druvvn from the train by the fight, were persuaded to stay off; and, after losing seven minutes, his necktie, and his temper, the conductor of the regular signed to the engineer, and the train pulled out. Now the new man, looking as if he had just goLLen out from under a harrow, entered his little office. He wanted to wash his face ; but the people, ne\/ly arrived, were pounding on the ticket window v/ith their horny hands, with canes and umbrellas, and calling lustily for H ■A f ( •A- I THE NEW TICKET AGENT 19 USt his but on with for tickets to the Devil's Lake. Not one of the vast concourse showed a dollar, or made the slightest move toward their trousers' pockets. They simply opened their chimneys and asked for information. When what had been the agent — the natty, nobby agent — appeared at the window, the crowd fliiled to show the re- spect due the company's representative. Some of them would not believe it. Ten minutes earlier he had caused die coy country maidens to clap their fat little hands to their left sides as they waited for change. He was the identi- cal youth they had seen in th ir dreams, but he was no dream when the farmer got through with him. He was more in the way of a nightmare. His football hair was mussed, and there were crimson spots upon his shirt-front made by his rich young blood. A commercial tourist had the Jiudacity to laugh through the window at the wounded man. A half-dozen excited citizens asked, as with one voice, " What 's the fare to Devil's Lake?" Another half-dozen called for a ticket to Devil's Lake. As many more asked in the same breath when the excursion would go. ** Sakes alive ! " exclaimed a motherly ma- ' I I ( pi ^ I' I ' I 20 THE NEl^^ TICKET AGENT tron, looking the agent over, "has they been a wreck ?" All the while the commercial traveller, waving the exact change over the heads of those in front of him, called for a ticket to St. Paul by the limited. The red-haired man rushed in, shook his fist toward the window, and yelled the intelligence that the train that had just passed and which had refused passengers "was agoin' to the Devil's Lake," and produced a map to prove that the lake was on the main line. " St Paul by the limited," yelled the drummer lustily and with monotonous regularity. A perspiring German, leanin'^ on one crutch, pounded the floor with the other and wanted to know "phydi devil di Devil's Lake train don't come yet already ? " " How the devil do I know ? " said the agent. That was the first time he had spoken, and even then not more than a dozen people heard him. " Limited, St. Paul — limited — to St. Paul. " " You 've got ten minutes yet," said the agent. Finally the wounded staUon-master persuaded those nearest the window to find their money, M V i A THE NEW TICKET AGENT 21 put it through the cat-hole, and get their tickets. The old agent kindly offered to assist the young man, and in a few moments had elbowed that sorry-looking, though well-meaning individual from the window, and fed tickets to the multi- tude, as a farmer might feed nubbins through a fence crack to a flock of sheep. The commer- cial tourist had insisted upon being served out of his turn, urging the fact that he was the only first- class inan in the crowd. For that he was invited out by the red-haired man, and talked at by the lame Dutchman in a way that made him regret what he had said. At last he had his ticket and started for the door, but at that moment another section of the excursion train came in sight and the traveller changed his mind, rushed back, threw his limited ticket at the agent and asked for an excursion ticket instead. He got the ticket, but before the agent could count out the change — the difference in the price of the two tickets — the traveller had darted from the station and boarded the train, which, being loaded to the roof, did not stop. Still they came, — from Clinton and Caledonia, from Janesville and Evansville, Afton and Beloit ; ' H 22 THE NEPy TICKET AGENT II I i I % if I ifiii if* w l» It I; |f ), : i! from Jefferson and Waukesha, and even as far down as Racine and Kenosha, on the Milwaukee bow. All these trains flowed in on the main line at Madison, where whatever space was left was soon taken. In time the overflow at the state capital was ex- hausted, and trains began to stop for the farmer folk. Presently there was a sharp rap on the outer window, and the old agent, looking over his shoulder, saw the dark eyes of his betrothed peering in at him, and her pretty head jerking back toward the train. With a hasty good-by to his friend in distress, he hurried out, joined the smiling, saucy bru- nette, and stepped aboard the excursion. When the train had pulled out they learned from Freda's mother that Freda had gone back to get a forgotten fan, and had failed to make the train, but she would surely be along on the next section. " But this is the last train of the excursion," exclaimed the ex-agent. Then there was excitement. Charley, Freda's THE NEIV TICKET AGENT 23 brother, was up in the smoker, trying to quiet the farmer in the gosling green. No doubt he could suggest some way to help the poor girl who was in a fair way to miss the fun. But he could not be reached, and the train rolled on. IV The green flags had barely disappeared around the long curve west of the station when the blonde, flushed and excited, entered the depot. The young man was washing his face. She rapped upon the closed window with her fan, but the agent was busy. She rapped again and again. The agent was putting on a clean collar. Finally he threw the window up and stepped back. He trembled and looked very pale. The girl was going to ask about the train, when the agent put his hand to his forehead and fell heavily to the floor. The girl gave a little scream, but nobody heard her. Nobody was near enough. Nearly all the people in the place had gone to the pic- nic. For a moment she felt like running away, but changed her mind. She could see that the II J ( r I 24 THE NEW TICKET AGENT ■I th 1 young man was ill. He had been hurt. She had seen blood stains on his shirt front. He had fainted, and she would help liim just as she would have any other sensible girl help Charley if he were ill and alone. She tried the door that opened into the little ticket office, remembering the spring lock that she had seen the old agent unlock often. Fortanately the ex-agent, in leaving the office, had slammed the door as he hurried out and the lock had failed to catch. A moment later the agent opened his eyes to see the beautiful face of Freda bending over him, and Freda's soft hands tenderly putting his hair back as she bathed his head with her own handkerchief which she had been dipping into the water cooler. It would be difficult to say which of the two showed the greater embarrassment as the agent regained consciousness. In his anxiety to get to his feet and help her to forget that he had fainted he stumbled and fell again, but not in a faint. " Are you ill ? " she asked, and the gentleness of her voice added a new charm to her. II THE NEW TICKET AGENT 25 " I had trouble with some of the passengers," he said. " They wanted to get into a regular train, and of course it was my duty to tell them not to do it. In my anxiety to prevent their making a mistake, I pulled one man from the car, and he struck me, and then the others joined in the scuffle, and I was hurt in a fall — and — it 's awfully stuffy in here — '^ He rose and staggered from the room, the watchful, sympathetic ;jirl keeping close by his side as he passed out into the waiting-room. When he could talk better he asked the girl how she happened to get left. She told him, and asked when the train would be along. When she learned that all the excur- sion trains had gone she seemed greatly disap- pointed. " You can take the limited and pass them," said the agent, brightening at the prospect of helping her out of her trouble. She glanced at the excursion ticket that she had taken from her glove. She was about to say that would not go on the limited, but he in- terrupted. " I '11 fix that/' he said, taking the ticket and 1 ! I- 1 26 THE NEW TICKET AGENT walking unsteadily back into the ticket office. The limited ticket that the commercial man had paid for lay upon the narrow desk. This he gave to Freda, keeping the excursion ticket, to make his record clear. A moment later the limited whistled for the crossing, the agent showed a flag, and it stopped and carried Freda and the agent's heart away. :1 «f , iJ if ■ Two American flags fluttered at the shoulders of the big black flyer that pulled the Northwest- ern Limited out that glorious Fourth of July morning ; and miniature flags were in the caps of the enginemen. Tiny bits of * glory ' were pinned to the coat lapels of the conductor and brakemen. The mail agent and messenger, the porter and the barber, all showed their patriotism in a similar way. As Freda entered the drawing-room, the pas- sengers, men and women, dropped their books and papers and looked up. The girl hesitated, glanced back, as though afraid of the grandeur of the car and the company. Instinctively the :! r Ii.i THE NEIV TICKET AGENT 27 people in the car felt that she was alone, but so fair a woman need have no fear of being lonely long. An elderly gentleman rose and offered his seat, which happened to be next the door. The porter, smiling, was coming back through the car. The conductor, following her in, had touched her arm and nodded toward the seat gallantly surrendered by the elderly gentleman. A sweet-faced lady, whose wavy brown hair, frosted by the touch of time, showed that she was approaching the autumn of life, smiled up at the beautiful girl, and put a gloved hand upon a vacant chair beside her. Freda returned the smile, bowed slightly to the elderly gentleman, thanked him in a whisper, and took the seat near the sweet-fsced lady. Freda was one of those rare creatures who are always beautiful. She had seemed a little pale when she entered the car, but the girlish distress — the momentary embarrassment — became her. She was radiant now. For a moment she stole shy glances at the rich furnishings of the car, at the-well-dressed men and women, and out at the fields and farms that were racing back toward Chicago under her window. As she looked . I 28 THE NEW TICKET AGENT the earth began to circle, the far horizon whirl- ing forward, — the near fields running back. It made her dizzy. She withdrew her glance, and saw to her confusion that half the people were looking at her. Now the sweet-faced lady began to talk with her. The lady's home was at Normal, where Freda had attended school, so they were good friends — almost old acquaintances — at once. But spite of the interesting lady and the gran- deur that surrounded her, Freda's mind would wander back to the little station, — to the agent. She could not forget that she had held his head on her knee, brushed back his brown, luxuriant hair, and bathed his forehead with her hands. She had known all along that he was handsome, but she did not know until now that he was so unlike other men. She would gladly forego the day and its pleasure to return to the deserted village and bathe his fevered forehead and hear his voice again. When she could endure her secret no longer, Freda, glancing about, nestled yet a little nearer and told the lady, in an artless, impulsive way, of her experience at the station, of her momen- If 'i' ' i; ' Vi. if. ; THE NEW TICKET AGENT 29 tary embarrassment, and finally how she had bathed the young man's forehead with her lace handkerchief — the one her mother's mother had brought from far-off Sweden — and asked the lady if she had done wrong. Now Freda had told, parenthetically, with little smiles and blushes, a great deal more than she had intended to tell, more, perhaps, than she knew herself ; but the sympathetic lady had been through it all. She understood. This had been the first meeting. It would not be the last. Spite of the smile upon the gentle face there were tears and a look of sadness in ihe soft brown eyes as she pressed the girl's hand that rested upon the arm of the chair. ** No, my dear," she said, "you did not do wrong." As she looked upon the sad, yet happy girl, so full of her sweet distress, these lines of Field's came to her : You are too young to know it now, But some day you shall know." 30 THE NEW TICKET AGENT 1 VI I i i That was a long, long day for Freda Johnson. About four of the eight hours she put in telling her mother, her brother, and her intimate friends of the agent's misfortune and of her part in it. In vain did the country swain and the village shopkeeper strive to entertain her. She had never seemed so silent and thoughtful. It had been raining the day before. The woods were clean washed, the grass and flowers fresh and sweet. The day was perfect, but Freda Johnson was not singing with the singing birds. When asked to waltz she said it was too warm. A moment later she declared, almost pettishly, that it was too cold to eat ice-cream. When at last the shadows began to lengthen, she began to talk of home. She wanted to take the first train, but her companions laughed her out of it. Wher the second section pulled down to load, she stepped aboard, and her friends followed. By this time the people round about the vil- lage were beginning to feel sorry for the new THE NEW TICKET AGENT 3' vil- new agent. After all he had but done his duty, and had saved them a lot of trouble — the old agent, in whom they put their trust, had said so — and for this the new man had been insulted, beaten, and walked upon. Even the dark girl's father began to speak of the agent without swearing. If the agent would apologize the farmer would forgive, seeing the fault was his, and not the agent's. When the train put down the excursionists at the vil! ge, the agent was immediately sur- rounded by a sympathetic crowd. Among the first to express his sympathy was Charley John- son, who took occasion to thank the young man for his kindness to Freda. He wanted to pay the difference between the price of the excursion ticket that she had left and the limited ticket, but the agent said there was nothing to pay. "You bet there will be the devil to pay," whispered the old agent. " That travelling man wanted to board the limited when she passed us, and to ride on the excursion ticket, and when the conductor put him off they had a fight, and when the train crew got through with the drum- mer he limped back to the excursion train, vow- 32 THE NEW TICKET AGENT \\% \i ing that he would sue the company. So I think you had better let Mr. Johnson pay for the ticket, and report the whole incident, and I '11 speak to the superintendent in the morning, so we '11 have the bulge on the drummer, beside being proper on the books." Freda's mother came forward now and shook hands with the agent, who bared his head as he talked with her. Freda, standing apart from the rest, saw this and it pleased her. It was so different from the way of the good, plain country folk. But how pale he looked ! She sighed. The dar!. girl, feeling that she ought to say something, came forward and offered a free, fill apology from her father. She would tell her father all about it later. " Father 's very sorry," she said, " and hopes you will forgive his rashness and come out and take tea with us and — " The agent was beginning to smile. " But I have not had the pleasure of meeting your father," he began. ** Well, you 've met him all right," the old agent chimed in. " He was in that long duster that you dragged from the train." \ n 1^ b ij ill THE NEIV TICKET AGENT 31 The agent should plainly his embarrassment. That your -father? Oh, I 'm so soriy. This IS most unfor;^unate, Miss " "Miss Bennett, Mr. Cutter," said the ex- agent. "Oh, it is n't your fault at all, and you are not and-"""'^''' P^P» is, so come along with us "I can't tell you how much I thank you, - all of you," he said, and his eyes wandered to Freda. Young Johnson saw this and beckoned to his sister, who came forward shyly. The agent, removing his hat agam, thanked her m the presence of all the witnesses, and it made her happier than she had ever been before. Now the country people got into their wagons carnages, and :arryalls and drove away. Freda glanced back once and saw him stiil standmg there, alone in the gathering twilight. When he saw that she was looking he lifted his hat. 3 li 34 THE NEW TICKET AGENT VII /. i 6: •' |.^ .1 .. All this happened years ago, when the road was not so important as it is to-day, — before they put the limited on the night shift to save the time, and little reading lamps in the berths to save the eyes of the passengers. As might have been expected, the tirelei'! energy of the old agent has been rewardeu. He 's a G. M. now. He manages his Rocky Mountain road well, but no better than the black-eyed girl manages their home. Not long ago the manager sat watching the steel race out from under his private car. Opposite sat a middle-aged man with a full dark beard, well kept and pointed at the chin. " Say," began the general manager, glancing across at his companion, " did that brother-in- law of yours ever forgive you for laughing at his feet?" " I 'm afraid not," said the general passenger agent. " To all appearances we art the best of friends. His wife visits my wife once a year, rV ■ I THE NEW TICKET AGENT 35 and my wife returns her visits, but - 1 don^t know." "Why?" " Well, I sent him a pass the first of the year and he sent it back. Now, that is not natural* tor a congressman." fl if !'!; S V Iri aatk SfwAtn'e mnint S>iaitti I i ▼• i I J I 1' I 111 I III' V h { , \ ^f"*"" J JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH T^ICK HAYES introduced me to Farley ^ "Jack," said he, "this is my friend i be good to him, and God will be good to you." Farley turned a kindly, sunny face upon me, and made me welcome to the town. Hayes had a mam line passenger run. Farley was run- nmg freight over the hill where a road had just been opened. Farley was fairly drunk. I„ those days the company had to do the best it could to get freight over the road. Presently he caller came into the hotel and. Jack signed the call-book, where he was put down for second 21, which was to leave at six-twenty. It was then five-thirty. / i was " Will he be sober in fifty minutes ? " I asked when Jack had steamed into the dining-room' to have supper. i . f ■■^ !! r III U SI it 40 /A CAT FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH " No," said Dick ; " he won't be plum sober in fifty years, but he '11 go out and come in on time." " Can he run a train with a load like that ? " " Well, he can take the train orders to the engineer. Scott's ahead of him an' Scoville's behind him, — they '11 check, and register him at the junction points, and the engineers will get over the division." After supper my friend and I stood watching the men make up the trains. The first section had pulled out, and the second section stood waiting orders at the station. Presently Farley came from the telegraph office with the orders, handed two copies to the head brakeman to take over to the two engineers in front, passed a copy to the driver of the pusher, to which the caboose was coupled, and said cheerily, " All right ; let 'er go ! " Turning, he saw me, and asked impulsively if I would like to take a ride over the mountain. I thought the man was joking, but ?:a the train moved off Hayes pushed me towards the caboose, saying, *' Sure, get on," and before I could realize what it all meant I was standing on the rear platform of the way-car. « H JACK FARLEY'S FLYhVG SWITCH 41 )) It I Icar. When Farley had fooled with his way-bills for a few moments (it was all through freight) he called me into the cupola. When the big en- gine began to climb the hill I began to realize that this was to be an interesting trip, and as we climbed, and darkness settled over the world, I could see the electric lights of the little moun- tain town sinking slowly in the narrow valley as we mounted to the clouds. There were three sections of 21 that night, with three engines each. Nine engines, all wide open, sending nine almost solid streams of fire from their barking stacks. As we were turning the toe of a horse-shoe curve the first section was passing out at the heel, and the head-lights of the third section shining on our caboose. It was a glorious summer night, star-lit and still, and now the engineers began playing tunes with their whistles, a thing that the driver of a passen- ger engine would not think of doing. The effect of all this, the continuous flashes from the open- ing furnace-doors, the flood of fire that, falling in the deep gorges, showed how deep and dark they were, the crowing, hooting, crying, scream- ing, and wailing sounds of locomotives that If 11 llli ,• > I ( i '■ I; i] 42 /AC/C FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH were poking their pointed pilots into the very clouds, was bewildering and strangely fascinating to me. As we rounded the countless curves the head-light of the following section shone full upon the flushed face of Farley as he lounged, bare-headed, in the open window, as happy and apparently guileless as a town boy on a load of hay. Presently Farley began to talk, and as we climbed the hill he told me the wildest, strang- est stories of runaways, wrecks, and ghost trains that I had ever heard. Subsequently I learned from Hayes that these were only romances of the rail ; for Jack Farley, in addition to being a great drunkard, was one of the most resourceful, cheerful, and entertaining liars that it has been my good fortune to fall in with. At the top of the hill, while the conductors were getting orders, the firemen putting out their signal lights, and the engineers oiling round, I came from the little caboose to have a look about. Now the flare of the torches of the en- ginemen and air inspectors, the green and white lights, and the glare of the head-lights, the smoke in the snow-shed, the burr of running in- JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH 43 jectors, the blowers and " pops," and the clang- ing of bells as the pushers were switched round to the front so bewildered me that I lost my place. I asked an engineer where Farley's caboose was, and he pointed into the darkness and yelled — something. Presently I saw Jack standing in the blaze of a head-light wearing a little chip of a straw hat, no coat, and perspiring like a prize-fighter, while I stood shivering in a fall overcoat. A few moments later we had tipped over the crest of the continent and were falling down the hill. We were nine sections now, — six light engines and three with trains, — and to see these black, wild horses of the hills plunge with a shriek into a dark shed, only to burst out at the other end as a projectile leaps from the mouth of a cannon, was an event in the life of a novice. There were six engines running light, the driver of each being his own conductor now, looking out for himself; then came the three engines with trains, each man holding fifteen loads down the mountain with a little levera . )"L as big and not much longer than a man's finger. At intervals along the tops of the three trains I I u \^ 44 /ACfC FAX LEV'S FLYING SIVITCH I , i 'A t ' j I i i ( r, ! )■ 1 1 .■ ■1li ■I' I I' sat twelve brakemen bunched like owls, ready to grab the brake-wheels if the air should give out, and in each of the cupolas sat the captain of the crew overlooking all. Only in my caboose I sat alone. As we tipped over the hill Farley threw him- self upon a locker and fell asleep. Presently he sat up, took off his boots, and lay down again. The engines, going down the hill, made very little noise. I heard a creaking, squealing sound occasionally, as the wheels of the loaded cars ground on the curves, the loud breathing of the air-pump on the engine over ahead, and Farley snoring on the locker below. Suddenly Jack leaped from his couch and yelled, "Look out there ! look out ! " I looked out, both sides, forward and back, but saw nothing wrong. Then I heard a scuffle below, looked down, and in the dim light of the bracket-lamp saw Farley fighting his way toward the rear door. As I climbed from the cupola he opened the door, closed it again, turned, and glared about. The eyes that had been laughing constantly now flashed fire, while the sunny, childlike face grew dark and terrible. Before I I' JACK FAR I. FA" S FLYING Sn'ITCn 45 had succeeded in pulling myself together he lay down and became quiet again. Now, thought I, if he will only stay there un- til we get to the bottom of this apparently bot- tomless hill I 'm all right, for I guessed that the man had jim-jams. I had heard of the dis- order, but had never seen a man with the fit on. Inside of five minutes he was at it again. He woke with a scream that was unearthly, — wild and awful, — and as suddenly grew quiet again. Now he began to talk in a natural tone of voice. " Look at the little tin soldiers," said he, " one on each bedpost. That duck with his cady cross the track must be Napoleon," he went on; "watch me swat 'im." Then he reached cau- tiously for one of his boots and fired it at the soldier, and fell asleep again, only to wake a moment later and leap from the locker. "Who did that?" he shouted. "Who put that snake in my bed? Dick Hayes told you to do that, the white-livered Missourian." It began to dawn upon me now that he was talking at me, and in order to justify myself and to try and quiet the unfortunate conductor I climbed down the steps and stood before him. 4\ i x\ f ! 1 46 /^C/r FARLEY'S FLYING i.^ITCH The walls of the way-car were papered with pictures of prize-fighters and play-jictresses in scanty apparel, and just over the little desk hung a rusty old sabre. "Jack," said I. In- stantly he took his eyes from the front door, where they seemed to be held by some strange spell, and glared at me. " Why, damn you ! " said he deliberately, " I thought I put you off at Shawana." That was what he had been doing, in his mind, at the back door. Now he came toward me, lowering his head like a bull going to war. Ho came by short, shuffling steps, and as he advanced 1 retreated toward the front door, hoping to make my escape in that way io the top of the train. When Farley had reached the middle of the car he made a lunge for the old sabre, and I, divin- ing his move, turned and seized the handlr: of the door, only to find that it was fastened by a spring lock, the mechanism of which I could not make out at once. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the mad conductor swing the sabre and advance. I was never much of a fighter, and somehow, I dreaded ^ Hi In -I i:: JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH 47 :ar lOt ad ed and pitied this man more than I feared him, or had feared him up to that time. I regarded him with something of that vague horror with which an able Indian looks upon another who has been scalped. But now I had my choice to fight or fly, and I flew. Ducking under his uplifted arm, I passed by him and ran up the steep steps to the cupola, the wild conductor hacking at me as I climb :d. As I passed Farley in the car I gave a yell that echoed in the hills, and that yell was my sal- vation. The rear brakeman heard it and came leaping over the tops of the cavorting cars just as I reached the roof of the way-car, with the wild conductor at my heels. Now I could no more make time over the top of that train than I could fly to the summit of the highest moun- tain range, and I knew it. I could not walk, under ordinary circumstances, on the top of a moving train, but what was I to do ? Farley was after me. I leaped to the top of the last load and lit all right, but at that mon :nt we hit a curve, and to save myself I drop'.-ed to the roof and grabbed the foot-path that runs along the tops of freight-cars. Just here the conductor 1^ I h u If: i it Mi M' 48 /AC/C FA H LEV'S FLYING SWITCH and the rear brakeman met, and seeing Farley flourishing the sabre the brakeman engaged him, much to my relief. All over the top of that car and back to the cupola of the way-car they fought like fiends, while I lay hugging the toe-path referred to above. Presently I could see Farley, with superhuman strength, working the brakeman toward the edge of the car roof. Clearly it was my duty to go to the assistance of the brakeman, but as I got to my feet we found another curve, and I was slammed down dangerously near the margin of my car. I tried again and again to get to my feet, but in vain. Now the two men were strug- gling at the very edge of the way-car, and if they went down they would fall, the Lord knows how far, before they would find the bottom of the gorge. Putting forth his utmost strength, the big brakeman succeeded in freeing himself from the conductor. Farley lifted the sabre, which he still held, but before he could strike the brake- man's big fist was between his eyes, and the conductor lay at full length on the top of the car. . . . , When the brakeman had lowered him to the JACK FARLFA'S FLYING SWITCH 49 floor of the caboose he came over and picked me from my perch and helped me back. Farley lay quiet now, in a sort of drunken stupor. At the foot of the hill the rear brakeman, who always is second in command, wired the train- master's office that Farley was sick, and received orders to run the crew back to the end of the division from which we had started at six-twenty the previous evening. On the way back the new conductor told me about Farley. " He 's an awful lusher," said he. " Nobody knows why, an' nobody '11 ask why, but the old man thinks more of Farley than he thinks of any man on the mountains, if it came to puUin' the pin on Jack oi lat brass-bound kid o' his that 's on passenger, ht d let the kid go and give Farley the punch, lie 's just wrapped up in Jack Farley. Train-master 's fired him twice an' the old man 's put him back — but this '11 cook his goose." The " old man " was, of course, the Superin- tendent. He was what managers call a hustler, and he liked Farley because Farley could hustle and get over the road without " scrapping " with the engineers. 4 . i TTT I:' i 50 JACK FARLEY'S FLYING S IV ITCH X -.1 lin;| M' The next day Farley went to the hospital and remained there for many weeks. When he came out he was nervous and very pale. The first time he went down in tht yards he entered his old way-car, opened a little private cupboard that the carpenters had made for him, and took out a jug. A few minutes later Jack entered the office of the old man. Anybody but Jack Far- ley would have asked an audience, but Farley filed past the astonished clerks and entered the Superintendent's private office. " Mr. High- way," said Farley, "here's a jug of bully good whiskey. I want to make you a present of it." The Superintendent was amazed at the man's audacity. He knew that Farley drank whiskey, but he had kept him because he knew more railroad drunk than most men knew sober, and because at that time there was no one to take his place. " Where did you get that?" " Out of my caboos'' — or, rather, the caboose that used to be mine.'' " You know, then, that you 're discharged ? " " No, I have n't heard so, but I should think so. It 's about time." .^( JACK FARLEY\^ FLYING SWITCH 51 ik " Yes," assented the Superintendent. " I 'm sorry," said Jack. "So 'ml." *' I *d rather begin at the bottom again here," said Farley, looking down toward the round- house, where a half-dozen black locomotives stood waiting to take 21 out, "than to take a train on another road." " Well, if you begin where you are, you *11 begin at the bottom, for you are about as near the bottom as the carpet is to the floor." " May I begin, then ? " " Yes, in just a hundred years from to-day." *' But you understand I Ve quit, don't you } " « Quit what ? " ** Rambooze." " Huh ! " and the Superintendent wrote rap- idly, pretending to forget Jack and his jug, and all else but the pay-roll that he was signing. " Good-by, Mr. Highway," said Farley, mov- ing toward the door. " Good-by, Jack — here ! you Ve forgetting something." " No," said Jack, " I Ve quit," and he passed out, looking very pale and sad. :iJ» 52 JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH M \ Long before the end of the one hundred years Farley was braking on the hill again. Three years from the day he gave the old man the juf he was running the old man's car. For th. first time (and the only time, so far as I know) the Superintendent had taken his two little girls out with him. He was a worker, and used his private car for the company and never for himself, but, being a kind, affectionate father, though a terror to trainmen generally, he had concluded to give the children a little excursion at the other end of the line. As they came down the hill that day they met and passed a freight-train on a siding. The rear engine had been cut off and set in on the opposite side, so as to clear the main line, but the men on the head end did not know this. In going in on the siding the pusher had in- jured her pilot, so now she could not push. She would have to change places with the head engine. The conductor signalled the head engines ; they each blew three short blasts, the pusher answered, and the train began to back away. The moment the head engines began to back ^■ 11 1 i , f 1 1 r ■ i;: 1 4. J JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH ^7^ out the conductor realized that he had made a mistake — that the men ahead did not know that the pusher was detached. Immediately he scrambled to the top of the train and made another mistake. Instead of giving them a slow signal he gave them a stop signal. They shut off, but the rear end of the train had been pushed back beyond the level track that lay in front of the little way-station. Five loads snapped off and went roaring dovvri the moun- tain behind the Superintendent's train. The one brakeman was almost immediately thrown from the train as it dodged round a sharp curve, and now the cars were running wild. The engineer on the special saw the runaway cars coming, and instantly let off the air and began to fall out of the way. Nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of every thousand would have done the same thing. It is of a piece with the rule that says when your train has parted keep going (keep out of the way) until you are suie that the detached portion of the train has stopped. The other man would have stopped at once, unloaded his passengers, scrambled out of the right of way, and let them I J ^T 54 JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH H' t i hit. But that is not according to the book of rules nor in keeping with the instinct of an engineer. His first thought is of his people, his train, his engine, — to remain in the cab and die, if need be, and he usually does it. The man on the special, being full of the book rules, kept going, but a car loaded will outrun a locomotive with her links and rods and all her machinery to hold her bac.c. Anyway, a car will run faster than any sane man would dare run down a two-hundred-foot grade, and in a very few moments the special crew saw that if they all held the rail the loads would soon be on the top of them. The old man, who had never known fear before, put an arm affection- ately about the slender waist of each of his help- less children. The speed of the special was something frightful, but the cars were gaining on them. Farley, standing on the rear platform, turned and looked into the car. He saw the strong, rough man, who had always appeared as dry of tears as one of the rocks that made these moun- tains, bending over his weeping children, weeping like a woman. I :i !i JACK FARLEY'S FLYING SWITCH 55 For two or three seconds (seconds are like hours in the face of death) he had been con- templating a move that would result in his im- mediate death or the salvation of the special. Now the sight of this strong man in tears settled the matter ; he would make the effort. A few miles below the point where the freight- train parted there was a short siding in a sag. When the special car passed the switch-target, Farley stepped off just as he would drop from a train at twenty miles an hour, but the special was making forty or more. The old man saw him jump. "Ah, well," thought he, " the poor devil is only trying to save his life. I don't blame him." When Farley stopped rolling he scrambled to his feet near the east end of the siding. In his torn and bleeding right hand he held the switch- key, that he had taken from his pocket before mak- ing the frightful jump. Staggering to his feet, he found the lock, thrust the key in, and swung back on the target ; but at that instant the wheels struck the ends of the rails, the car leaped into the air and glanced off into the side of the shallow cut, while the other cars came piling up in a heap. !5« JACK FARLEV^S FLYING SWITCH \ l< * .1 ^ n f Presently, when the driver, looking back, saw nothing following, he began to slow down and stopped. The Superintendent sent the fireman back, and flagged slowly to the scene of the wreck. When he had come upon the heap of splintered cars he jumped from the train and ran back to look for Farley, who had jumped off near the other end of the siding. As he passed the wreck he glanced back and saw that the switch, now broken down, had been unlocked. Look- ing closely, he found the big brass lock with Farley's switch-key sticking in the key-hole. Now he saw what had been done, but where was Farley? They searched, and soon found him under the de'bris. When the broken freight had been removed the old man bent over the dead conductor and wept as no man on the mountain had believed him capable of weeping ; for this man had saved his life, and had died doing it. Not long ago I passed over the road, and the conductor pointed out the place. "There," said he, — " there 's where poor Jack Farley made his flying switch." ^nt on the Uoao * ( MU >nii m\ OUT ON THE ROAD ti ^T^OOTOOT ! " -*■ It was a black night. The black porter, in response to the push bell had just come back with the cigars, and at the sound of the two short blasts of the whistle he shot a scared look at his master. Mine host, the general manager, looked the man in the eye for a moment, and then, as the speed of the train did not slacken, said curtly, waving him away: * Bridge watchman!" A moment later our train sucked through a deep cut, roared across a long bridge, and swept up the slope to the west. " Notice how that porter shied when the engi- neer answered the watchman's flag?" asked the manager. "We had an experience, years ago, with train robbers, and this porter has never been able to ll t i?' 1 1 TT-y- 60 OUT ON THE ROAD ^.i I! 1. I )' ; J' * live it down. I was on the Hannibal and St. Joe at che time," he went on, dividing his glance be- tween me, his cigar, and the speed recorder over the back window. He pressed the button again and the porter responded instantly. The manager moved his thumb slightly and the porier pulled the blinds. The veracity of the speed recorder had been questioned, and we had been holding our watches on it between stations, but I now lost all interest in the speed of the train or the reliability of the indicator. When one of these interesting soldiers of the rail who has begun the battle as water boy and who ends as president of the road he has helped to grade becomes reminiscent I always listen, for he has lived volumes of thrilling stories. " This thing happened on a Sunday evening," resumed the manager, when the porter had tee- tered softly down the side aisle that led to the other end of the car. " About eight o'clock I heard a sharp rap, rap on the front door, i knew that the servant had just gone out, so I stepped to answer the knock. As I reached for the handle the rap, rap was repeat'^^d with added OUT ON THE ROAD 6l earnestness. I was annoyed, for I had gone to some expense to have a system of bells put in the house, rather a rare thing in St. Joe at that time ; but now to my amazement the knob turned, the door opened slightly, and a man dodged in. " * Excuse me, Mr. Blank,' said he ; ' I want to get in out of the glare of that street lamp, and I was not sure that any one heard, — pull that shade, please,' he said parenthetically. " ' Now, ' thought I, ' here 's an innocent sort of crank,' so I pulled the shade on the parlor window. Still my visitor appeared uneasy. '■'■ ' Would you mind stepping into a room a little further back ? * he asked, earnestly. " ' Certainly not,' said I. ' Come right this way.' " My wife was in the sitting-room with the children, and not wishing to disturb them I took my visitor into the dining-room where the gas was still burning low. ''As I turned on the light my visitor shrank back into the hall. " • Pull that shade,' he said, and when I had drawn the blinds he stepped into the well-lighted room. * ' i.T'. - O w ■ » ii [ i> n- « i » t t ^m m m atf^mtttmrn k I. > 1 i \ : i ! 1 i . \ 1 1 i 62 CC/r OA'' r//£" ROAD " For a moment he waited, as one waits listen- ing for expected footsteps. " Presendy he looked me full in the face and said, frankly : * I 'm a robber. ' '*'Yes?' " ' Yes, I 'm aiobber. We are going out to Roy's Branch to hold up No. 3 to-night. We went out last Friday night, but we mistook No. 3 for 17. Seventeen was late that night. When we had discovered our mistake it was too late, in fact the engine had already passed us before we realized that it was not the freight.' *' In those days," explained the general man- ager, *' and for years previous, we were con- stantly being steered out against fake robbers. We would learn that a certain train was to be lield up at a certain time and place. We would ar- range to have detectives on the train, post the engineer, and in nearly every case it would prove to be a false alarm. Plenty of hold-ups there had been on other roads, but on the Hannibal and St. Joe, none. " " And how do you account for that ? " I asked, my interest veering for the moment. " Oil, " said the manager, with a slight wave of OUT ON THE ROAD 63 his hand, as though the matter were scarcely worth explaining, " Mrs. Samuels always had an annual over our road ; she was Jesse James's mother, you know. We knew that the St. Joe was safe so far as the old gang — " ** Excuse me, " said I, breaking in again (for I meant to steal the story) " is that true ? " "What?" *' About the pass.'* " Sure." " On what account?" *' Oh, complimen«-ary, same as yours." *' Go ahead, — gang," said I. — *' was concerned, and so, of course, I doubted the story of my wild- eyed visitor. I began to question him. He declared that he was the son of a respectable shopkeeper, in the town, whom I knew, and asked me to tell his parents the whole truth, and not to shield him. He said that the thought of what he was about to do, and to be — to rob and so become a murderer, if murder be- came necessary, had so preyed upon him day and night that he was almost insane. At times he had planned suicide. Now, as the appointed hour for the gang to meet drew near he had been ' '«MSi»*.#f«v*kwi*ii,M«« i,ki*.miVfr%9mvx^9^AXMii»J:*:^-X-tx : i? U ! I :^i)! 64 O:/?' OJV THE ROAD running about like a chicken in a storm. He had gone home to bid his parents good-by, but had not the courage to face them. Hurrying down the street he saw my house, and acting upoxi the impulse of the moment had come to tell me, for his father liked me, he said. " I tried to show him that if what he told me were true I should be on the train with armed officers to kill or capture the robbers, and that in all probability he would be killed. " * Yes/ he said, he knew that ; " but the gang had taken an oath to kill any man who * peached-' ' d if he failed to show up on time at the rendezvous they would go after him and they would surely kill hini, for most of them had murdered men before. " * Well,' he said, presently, ' I must be off,' and he held out his hand, saying good-by. " I put him out with a faint suspicion that he was crazy, but it was my duty to look after the company's interests, and so I concluded to call the Chief of Police and tell him the story, and at least get his advice. As I put the receiver to my ear I noticed that some one was talking over a tangled wire that touched mine at some point. s OUT ON THE ROAD 6S " * What? * demanded a voice, and it sounded as if talking directly to me, and then came the reply : ' Will 1 7 be ahead of No. 3 to-night ? ' " I dropped the 'phone, stood back and stared at it until my wife, who had heard the wild story of the bold young robber, stepped to my side, peered into my face, and asked the cause of my agitation. That brought me 'round. I lied, mercifully, hurriedly to her, called Central and asked who had been talking. The middle yards, she said. I asked to be connected. The man at the 'phone said he didn't know who had called him. Somebody wanted to know if 17 would be ahead of No. 3 to-night. I asked what answer he had given, for I had dropped the re- ceiver vi'hen the voice from the grave — this shade of Jesse — had broken upon my ear. Well, he said he had answered no, ad ling the information that 17, the fast freight, which, ac- cording to the schedule, should leave ahead of No. 3, was late. "Now this talk of the telephone seemed strangely coincident with the tale of the robber, so I called the Chief of Police, asking him to meet me at a certain corner a few minutes later. I • ^t**. 0} -ttM^.'V*/^ tof^^M ^ya. if-^ 4 J 66 OUT ON THE ROAD I then called the Sheriff, and told him to go to the station, but to keep out of sight and to board the first train pulling out through the yards. My next move was to tell the despatcher to hold all outgoing tr .ins until I arrived. I then instructed the yard master to make up a dummy No. 3, and sailed out to meet the Chief of Police. " My wife was frantic at my leaving, and fin- ally I was forced to promise to return to the house when I had succeeded in starting my little army out to fight a hidden foe. " Into the empty express car we put an empty piano box for the sharpshooters to hide behind, lighted the lamps dimly in the day coaches save in the last car. This car we left dark to resem- ble a sleeper, and in it the Sheriff, whom I now put in command, hid the bulk of his hastily or- ganized posse. A deputy sheriff and a fearless locomotive engineer, off duty, were stationed in the express car with rifles. " The Sheriff and the Chief had been laugh- ing at my expense, but now as the train was about to pull out, and I began to give final instructions to the trainmen, it dawned upon OUT ON THE ROAD 67 them that I was not to be numbered with the slain. " I was simply pointing the way and pushing them out to do or die, or both. Now they be- gan to chaff me. I was general superintendent, getting good pay. It was my duty to protect the property of the company and the lives of its patrons. I was willing to send the poor em- ployees out to fight robbers, and then return to the quiet of my hearth. Well, altogether, the picture was not one that I liked, though drawn half in jest. " All the while, during the half-hour in which we made up the train and arranged the details, I noticed this faithful porter following me like a shadow. I wanted him to go to the house and throw a little dust in the tear-wet eyes of my distracted wife, but he was nowhere to be seen. Well, I would not go back, so I gave a signal and stepped aboard. " We had scarcely crossed the last switch when in sneaked my shadow, the porter, with an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading shot-gun. The train ran slowly along for a little while and the men in the car began to laugh at me again, and i : \. !| '*-#>^»^*«^.*'.*'^i ..*,-•..* ♦ f- « ■• ' • *_•*'»•' • A' * • »^ %. 68 OUT ON THE ROAD 11 ^1 J (J I; I?'' l) at each other, at the porter with the long shot- gun, and the general job that some wag had put up on us. Presently we heard the engineer an- swer a flag, ' Tootoot.' " Instantly the car grew as silent as the grave. As the wheels ground sand and the train began to slow down the Sheriff whispered to the men to keep cool, and not to fire until they were sure of what they were shooting at. Now the train stopped. The silence was deathlike, save for the heavy breathing of my shadow. For at least a minute we waited breathlessly, and then a voice out in the darkness said, * Open up.' ' Open up,' the voice repeated, but there was no an- swer that we could hear. ' Open up,' and they began to beat upon the door of the express car with the butts of their guns. Still the men in- side were silent. ' Open up, or we'll blow this car to pieces ; we Ve got dynamite on the door sill.' " By this time we were all afoot in the dark- ened car, waiting developments. Now the two men in the express car, preferring a fight to dy- namite, slid the door open and dodged back behind the empty piano box, expecting the a-^,^--,----JS' T^-% •V^^-^i^^ VlK^ ^ ' jrsiX^ iyW^ ^^S^^ ~^ - M t r^ 'Sjr' v^t'^^i OUT ON THE ROAD 69 lie robbers to jump into the car. At that moment the stillness was disturbed by what was probably the accidental discharge of a rifle outside. The Sheriff and a few of his followers dropped to the ground to deploy in the darkness. A deputy peeped out at the front end of the last car, still dark, and immediately became a target for the robbers, who could see him outlined against the sky, while they remained in the darkness below. I peeped out at the rear end just in time to see a man near the steps aiming at the deputy on the front of the car. A shot from another rob- ber caused me to dodge back. Running through the dark car I told the deputy where the man was hiding, and just at that moment a bullet cut an upper half crop from the officer's ear. I tip- toed back, caught a glimpse of the man, and banged away at him through the window. Being anxious to know whether I had hit him I put my face to the window and peered into the night. Suddenly I heard a scuffle among the coach seats, felt a strong man seize me from behind and crush me to the floor. I could not turn my gun upon my assailant, for it was a rifle. * Bang,' went the robber's gun again, and the window I «rw>- «-'•«>'».> »« <***^«i»5«^*>»»»tM>*r*AJ»»JW.8il.t." nrr It- ■ '; 'I '» .■ hi 70 £?£rr (9A^ THE ROAD was shattered. As I went down I heard the voice of my captor, right at my ear : ' Po' de Lawd sakes, Mistah Blank, keep away from dat windeh, for dat robber blow yo* head clean off wif dat cannon o' his.' "That was the voice of the porter, and he had pulled me from the window in time to save my life. "By this time the firing grew pretty general. In the confusion, and while I held the attention of the robber's rear guard, the deputy with the smarting ear crawled under the car, and when the robber stood up to shoot at me the G-puty located him and the two men fought it out un- der the window. In a few seconds the robber lay dead. Now only two of the gang kept up the fight. Seeing that they were surrounded and hemmed in against the train they called out to the Sheriff and surrendered. " The batde had lasted probably not more than five minutes, but it had been a lifetime to my family, who could hear every shot distinctly. " I gave orders to pick up the dead and ./ounded, and with our three prisoners hastily backed into town. • ♦ ***■■* "». •* »^ •». •■•-^ftr ».JT»»f » •» w-».>'>^-r-i i«>>» « # 'i i i:» '»»»fy ») ni w*i ^#ew»<-*«»t*.*t»4aaf»^ >v< »«i*-u . >4»iCJfi«--.<^ . tfte engineer'0 OTjite :\ir ■ii . i I' 'i j " «^'«»,,ftiuyi(.aid the Virginian, whose accent must now be imai;ined, " 1 went home to rest until my hand would heal. Our place h THE ENGINEER'S WHITE HAIR 79 was a long way from the railroad, and when I left the train I hired a saddle horse and started out to the plantation. It was a dark, rainy night. The result of the battle of Gettysburg had sad- dened me, but now the thought of seeing the folks and friends at home gave me pleasure that could not be marred even by the sad news of the death of one of our neighbors. " This man — this dead man — and I had been playmates and fast friends in boyhood days ; but as we grew older, we fell, or rather ' grew ' in love with the same girl. I can't say that I blamed him for that, — any man with eyes would do it, — but when I went away to war and saw him standing by her side upon the station platform, it didn't seenj quite an even break. He was to stay there and listen to the music of her voice while I heard the roar of cannon. He would sit by her side in the suu^mtr twilight, while I slept out in the rain and helped make history, and the thought of it put a hardness in my heart that had softened only at the news of his death. It was pleasant, however, to refit-ct that I had faced the enemy, — had walked ' in the shadow of the shell ' and lived to come home ? 1 .1 1 I i ' 1 i ; ) I I T ui 80 T///; ENGINEER'S WHITE HAIR to her, while he had been kicked by a mule and died. " To-morrow he would be planted, and I should be there to see how she took it and console her, as he had done when I answered my country's call. " It must have been nearly midnight when I entered a lonely lane that led past the principal burying-ground in the neighborhood. Looking over the high stone fence, I saw a new-made grave and doubted not that it was for my neighbor. "The rain had ceased. The moon shone dimly behind the clouds. Suddenly my horse stopped with his head high, gazing over into the graveyard. I spurred him and he started for- ward, but stopped again, raised his head and snorted. " I listened, but heard nothing ; looked and saw nothing but the white slabs gleaming, ghost- like, in the night. I spurred and whipped my horse, but with another wild snort he whirled round and headed the other way. Putting him about, I looked over the low wall and saw some- thing white rise and fall. The scared horse f ! r - i«W li | »g |i ^l( THE ENGINEER'S iriflTE HAIR 8l trembled under me, but I urged him on to where he had stopped first. Now the white object rose again. My God ! it was from the open grave — his grave, too, I made no doubt. For the first time in my Hfe my blood ran cold. I sat like one paralyzed in the saddle, and saw the white thing rise and fall. Again I urged my frightened horse, but as often as I brought him up to the scratch he whirled, snorted, and dashed away down the muddy lane. I could not go round, and he would not go past the frightful object. In this way we worked forward and back, churning the mud, but getting no nearer home. At last, discouraged and disgusted, I determined to pull down the high fence on my right and pass through the field. " As I reined my horse toward the fence he refused to go or to take his eyes from the grave. With a wild, unearthly cry, such as I had never heard from a horse, the poor animal sank trem- bling to the earth. I cut him with my riding whip, brought him to his feet, and swung into the saddle again. Looking over the wall, I saw this thing come right up out of the grave. There could be no mistake now, for the moon was 6 '\ 82 THE ENGINEER'S WHITE HAIR t ■i'l V : i shining almost full. I saw it put out its hands upon either side as though it were trying to lift itself up. The white arms seemed to beckon to me in the moonlight, and then it sank back into the grave again. " I was never superstitious. I had never seen, up to this time, anything on earth that I would not approach. But this was too much for me. It was not of this earth, — it was unearthly, and I was sick at heart. Now I began to wonder how this story would sound when I should go home and tell it. " I, who had faced death upon the battle-field, day and night, for weeks and months, must say that I had seen a ghost in a graveyard. The very thought of it made me angry, and I swore then and there that I would solve this mystery or die. " Life, at best, was not a grand, sweet song to the people of the South at that time, and that thought, perhaps, helped me to be a little mite reckless. Taking firm hold of what was left of my once ample stock of courage, I dismounted and made my horse fast to the high fence. Crossing the road, I looked over the wall, but nothing could be seen. I\ S THE ENGINEER'S irfllTE HAIR 83 " I had never been afraid of this man in tlic flesh, then why should I fear his ghost, or wliat- ever or whoever was doing duty at his open grave ? I was now aware that I was shaking with cold. " I took a drink. A friend had given me a botde of brandy in the town, but I had for- gotten it until now. Presently I felt warmer and waited for the ghost. I began to hope that the thing had taken water at my display of courage. I could see my horse over against the fence, resting quietly. A graveyard rabbit darted past, rolling the leaves and causing me to start. " I took another drink. " Putting my hands upon the rough stone, I leaped lightly to the other side. I felt another chill, but when my ghost remained out of sight I took courage and started for the grave. From mere force of habit I took out my pistol and held it in my hand as I went forward. " Unfortunately for me, a big cloud swept be- tween me and the moon, and I paused, a hun- dred feet from the grave, to let it pass. Now up came the ghost again, and right there is where I got this hair. Not before or since have I ever :1 I 'li T i| 84 THE ENGLWEER'S WHITE HAIR VI i known a moment like that. 1 was not warm, and yet I was perspiring freely. "I took another drink, but this time I could not taste it ; yet I could feel the three drinks now getting together and giving me new courage. " Suddenly all sense of fear left me. ' Hi, there ! ' I yelled. * Come out and show your- self ! ' and instantly up came the ghost ; but in- stead of frightening me it made me laugh, and I laughed loud, there in the lonely place, and heard the echo come back from the hill across the run. I had a vague feeling that I was in- sane, and yet I knew that I was not, though I could not understand why I was not afraid. " I wanted to get hold of that ghost and have it out with the thing, and dared it to come out and make a fight. I fired my pistol to show that I was brave. There was a sound from the lane of breaking rails, the snap of a hitching strap, and I saw my poor horse galloping away. " I was in for it now, sure enough, and deter- mined to give a good account of myself. Right here I took another drink, and to my surprise the bottle was empty. I also took a shot at the grave, for it occurred to me now for the first I ■rHE ENGINEERS inuTE „AIR ,,, time that someone might l,c having f„n „ith .ne As the s.noke of the pistol dcarcl away 1 saw the white thing lift itself to the edge of the open grave. It had wings, r couhl hear then,, and see them beating wildly against the sides of the sepidchre. " • Come out of that,' I crie.l. ' You 've got a pair of wings, why don't you get up and rty?' ' 1 here was no reply from the ghost, and it seen,ed to me that I must end the suspense or go mad. Rushing up to the grave, I laid hold of the thmg, dragged it forth, raised it high above my head, an' slammed it upon the earth It gave a ' squawk.' " ;' What was it? " gasped the New Englander. It was an ol' white gandah, sah." I. I vJsw* ***•-• A RUNNING SWITCH J [3 n I \ ifl 5 roared with laughter and was glad he had permitted O'Giady to ride. So the story of O'Grady's getting off reached the ears of the local crew on the following day, and while Mc- Cormick was still laughing O'Grady came down the track. He had his tank full and a flutter in the stack as he slowed down and faced the engineer. " Phat way are yez feelin* th* day, McCor- mick?" he began. " Come, ax me pardon and I '11 furgiv' yez." " Ah, go ahn ! " said McCormick, suppressing bis mirth, for his mind would run on the mud- puddle and the pup. O'Grady gazed at the engineer for a moment with a look of deep disgust, and then, lifting the basket of eggs that he had left on the end of a tie, trailed back to the way-car. " Keep off the grass, O'Grady," said McCor- mick, but the brick-maker ignored him. It was the day before Christmas, and O Grady would have eggnog always on Christmas eve. The conductor signalled all right, and McCor- mick pulled out. Ht had a long string of empty flats for a stone-man, an empty box A RU.WWtXG Str/TC// 97 for O'Grady's spur, and various other cars, and freight for all the Hag stations on the division. " O'Grady 's aboard/' he shouted, as he snatched a copy of the running orders from the conductor, and the conductor, recalling the story of O'Grady and the bull pup, smiled up at the engineer, but said nothing. The big mogul had picked them ; . , so that by the time the way-car came along they were making twenty posts, and it ws as i.iuch as the con- ductor could do to get aboani. The brakeman and the brick-maker were having an animated argument as to the right of small shippers to travel on the company's trains without paying fare, when the conductor came in. " Now, you old mud dauber," began the cap- tain of the train, " I give you notice that this is the last time you ride on the local. What do you suppose the company runs varnished cars for but to carry capitalists to and from their places of business ? " " A-h-h- go t' th' divil." " That *s where we 're headed, and if we were not going to stop there anyway, I 'd ditch you right here." *«.- ■•.w-o^ V ♦ »>v ••—<-«»• ■¥-'*"r» *•*»■•*♦ ♦♦•'• "<* t- •'*■•»' i«r.«Mfc- 98 A RUNNING SWITCH ■: ! •I I f << ' ! I, r♦ •••»" *• ♦•». *««,^.-.^ MiiitMMaMiaMk n > .**■.. -.^ r a; 1 i; ! H I H'il a laerpmDtcular Hailroao V I j-« r-mw ^ *•■*« ■*•-•* r--..,*fc^^^ ur i! .v— '^ ■j'f,'^'-- f' . A PERPENDICULAR RAILROAD WHEN the Calumet Branch was built it was not with the hope of increasing the earnings of the passenger department, but merely to bring the ore down from the iron mines that were up there. In fact, when the road was opened trains were not allowed to carry passengers at all. About two hundred and twenty feet to the mile is the maximum grade of the mountain railways of this country. A steeper road is neither profitable nor safe. The Calumet Branch ascends four hundred and eight feet to the mile, and if they carried passengers the gross earnings would not pay for the people they would kill. If the reader can imagine himself in a bucket going down a well after the rope has parted, he can form a very good idea of the action of a locomotive let loose on a four hundred and i I r 1 06 A PERPENDICULAR RAILROAD \\ Is ! eight foot grade. George Russ let the 409 get away from him one day, and from a dead standstill she was able to get up speed enough to throw her from the track before she passed the second telegraph pole. They found her at the bottom of a deep gulch and drew her mangled remains up with blocks and falls and locomotives. More than one engineer, after making his maiden trip over the Calumet Branch, has asked for a change. The writer of this sketch belonged to that class. Old " King " Cole kept the run a whole summer and never had an accident. The Branch was always closed in winter the same as a bathing resort. When spring came again, and the old man was called for the Calumet, he refused to sign the book. Of course there was not a man on the divi- sion who was not willing to face death, but there were other runs, longer, to be sure, but more desirable. Whenever a new man was employed from an Eastern road — " Prearie sailors," we used to call them — the Calumet run was offered him. " Here 's a short run," De Remer the foreman ) ,■■■ \L -.'■ ■'r A*-* ^-i^t -*7-« "r"— ■=-' fcr.t— ",•■;*— »»^ * . «_^^__^^;» . » ^ W » -^ ^?. \«, -^^F^-iJW» Wr*^ •rr .W* - A PERPENDICULAR RAILROAD 107 would say; "ten miles, one trip a day, pays four dollars. You can go up in an hour, and come down — " then the foreman would sup- press a grin and glance about for expert testimony. " How fast can he come down, Cole?" "Fast as he wants to," says the old man, sliding off the "loafing bench." " Yo' in big luck if yo' don't come down in a wooden ovahcoat, sah," says Mclvor, oiling the 270. Mclvor always had that playful way with strangers. Mr. Lee, the travelling engineer, would go out with the new man the first day, and the next day the new man would go out alone — looking for a raikoad that was not so high at the other end. Mclvor took a cruel delight in taunting the tenderfeet who tried the steep run and found it too swift, and the master mechanic determined to take it out of the Virginia gentleman, and ordered him out on the Calumet. Mclvor went along like a little soldier, but when they came for him the second day he refused to sign the book. '1 , ( 1 \ i I I IJ\ r \ ' n 108 A PERPEKDICULAR RAILROAD "What's the matter with this run?" de- manded the master mechanic. " Well, there 's nothin' the matlah with the run, Mistah Jones, only it 's that infu'nal pu'pindic- ulah I can't find a place to set my dinnah pail." It began to look as though they would have to promote a reckless fireman to get an engineer for the Calumet Branch, when Abe Leonard rame, unexpectedly, to the company's rescue. '* Hardluck " Leonard, as he was called, had worked less than six months in two whole years. He had gotten lost in the mountains while deer- hunting and had his feet severely frozen. Be- fore he was able to work he allowed himself to get hemmed in ''n the hallelujah corner of a negro revival in Leadville. A dusky damsel, roaring with rapture, tipped the stove over, set the church on fire, and Leonard got burned. When he had been discharged from the Hos- pital at Salida, he went down to Denver to get a clearance from Chief Surgeon O'Connor in order to collect his accident insurance. Leonard went into a drug-store to stop his thirst, the soda-foun- tain blew up, and Hardluck went out through the roof and then back to the Hospital. . ♦.», (.wvvii^ »• • .♦.'y ; , *. •• * '^ ' '*^T. A PERPEXniCULAR RAILROAD 109 It was after Iiis fall witli tlic soda-fountain tliat Leonard alarmed tlie master mechanic: l)y asking for the Cahimet run. " He 's cou'tin' death," said Mclvor; and for once he had no advice or discouragement to offer. He had been over the road. " Oh, Abe ! wliy do you take that run ? " asked Mrs. Leonard, with blanched face. " It 's safer *n Sunday-school,*' said Leonard, glancing at his hand that had been caught in the burning church. " Gi 'me the death run an' the all-night saloon, but keep me away from camp-meetin' an' sody-fountains." Mrs. Leonard wiped the tears from her tired eyes and Abe went up the road with his pilot fourteen inches higher than his tank, and a gage- cock in the top of his boiler. The engineer was the least h.c nervous the first day, but, when his associates undertook to poke fun at him, he declared that he had seen worse things than the Calumet run. The air is delightful up there, eight or ten thousand feet above the sea, and Leonard continued to go up and down the hill until the middle of the I l.v"*iT' I >4 no A PERPENDICULAR RAILROAD summer without an accident. The first mishap was the kiUing of "Whiskey," the famous rail- road dog, whose story will be told at another time. The Branch had been running so smoothly that the officials had ceased to worry about it, and the train and engine crew grew almost careless of danger. That 's when the Indians come — when nobody's looking. The train used to go up about ten o'clock in the morning and come down in the middle of the afternoon. One day, in the latter part of September, it snowed on the Calumet, and when the train started down, the rail was wet and slippery, for the snow was melting as it fell. Leonard knew the danger of a greasy rail and was proceeding very cautiously. The locomotive at times would hold herself, on sand, and help to hold the train with what is known as the " water-brake,'' but presently the sand gave out or the pipes got stopped up at the bottom with the wet snow, the engine slipped and lurched and broke away from the train. Of course that parted the air hose and released the brakes. The conductor and the three brakemen were on top of the '•! *s»i^..,^«..*.«w*r-imT-*'?^fi»-rf.'t^'?f^^,^v.-^-* -f r;"*,* p.^-!f*T^*_^-*T;T *^SJB;'*.?;*TT"','~.S"t':*.'^~ "'^t" t A PERPENDICULAR RAILROAD I T T train (a man to each car an'l the brake set on the caboose), but before they could tighten up the hand-brakes the heavy ore cars hit the floundering locomotive and sent her down tlie track, hke a sled on a slide. The force of the collision, while it gave the engine a fearful start, helped to check the speed of the train. Each of the trainmen carried a club, which they now put into the brake wheels and cinched them up until all the wheels were sliding. The whirling wheels of the locomotive (whirling back- wards) dried the rail so . lat the train soon came to a dead stop. The fireman, who had been standing in the gangway, was thrown off by the force of the col- lision, and Leonard was left alone with the help- less locomotive. In order to appreciate the helplessness of the engine the reader should un- derstand that the power of the water-brake does n't come from the water, which is flowing from a small pipe into the cylinders, but from the fact that the engine is in the back motion, the action of the pistons creating a vacuum in the cylinders, and that 's what holds the locomotive back on a steep hill. The water is only a lubricant to pre- i ■'-'K^S ¥ 1 1\ ii' ] Ml i ^iii 112 A PERPENDICULAR RAILROAD vent the cylinders frop' becoming heated and injuring the metal. When there is too much water there can be no vacuum and no resistance. Instinctively, the engineer opened the throttle, the boiler was well filled with water (as it must be, going down a steep grade, to protect the flues and crown-sheet), the water rushed into the cylinders, destroyed the holding power, and the engine ran away. If he jumped off on his side, he would go down to the bottom of the rocky gulch. If he were able to cross over to the fireman's side he must expect to be slammed up against a solid stone wall, so he stayed where he was. They had been almost down to the bot- tom of the hill when the trouble began, and now the runaway engine was nearing the junction with the main line, which ran, at right angles to the branch line, along the banks of the Arkansas River. Beyond the river the walls of Brown's canon rose abruptly hundreds of feet, and there, Leonard reasoned, the race must end. In a second he had fashioned to himself how the engine kvould look after she had gone against the rock wall at full speed. Now, he began to wonder whether she would I . ► •■, -rtV\> t r{,.*-.,; 'iT.^'f:t.'% ir:^' ;v,*. ii8 Tf/E IVRECK A T ROUBIDEA U came screaming up among the curves that wind away from the Utah Desert to that dark and dan- gerous crevice called the Black Canon. Andy Began, a " Q " man, who had come to Colorado with a good letter and one lung, had the first section of No. 8, an express, mail, and baggage car, out of Grand Junction that night forty min- utes late. What the Mormon had lost climbing Soldier Summit Degan was expected to make up going down Cero Hill. Down there in the canon he was striving only to lose no more time, for he was a new man running for a reputation. Like all the old Burlington men, he was an ex- pert driver, and took hazard cheerfully, realizing, it would seem, that he had, at best, only a few years to live. He had, this night, what was called a Rockaway engine, a high, short, com- pact locomotive, built for the kinks, so numerous in the first rough draft of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. The night was still and starlit, the earth was dry, and the silvery river on his right rippled away over the rocks, clear as crys- tal. The Rockaway made easy work of the three light cars, steamed like the Sprudel Brunn at Carlsbad, and ran like a deer. When the ' { T THE IVRECK A T ROUBIDEA U 119 fireman was not fooling around the furnace door, he hung over the arm-rest and watched the world go by. Degan, gaunt-faced and silent, sat at the open window trying the water and whisding for curves. Uncle Sam's servant in the mail car was shuffling letters and newspapers. He had finished the Ouray bag, which he would leave at Montrose, the Crested Buttcs and Ruby Camp bags to be dropped at Gunnison, and was now making ' the Leadville pouch for Salida. Over in the express car the messenger, hung about with six-shooters and stretched upon a canvas cot billed to the agent at Sapanero, was stealing a little sleep. Degan, being east bound, had the right of way, and looked at his watch only occa- sionally to figure where No. 7 would meet him. His orders ran him thirty minutes late and made it the business of No. 7 to fix and make the passing point. The first section of No. 8 was probably making forty miles an hour when Degan whistled for Roubideau tunnel. A moment later it was swinging around the curve where the dark river lay in the shadow of the hill. While Degan, leaning out of his window, strained his eyes to get a glimpse of the bridge, the Rockaway I 1 I' I 1 20 THE WRECK AT ROUBIDEAU I ^f > if I I. I , 1 ( turned sharply to the right and headed straight for the open river. Below the tunnel it had been a silvery, starlit stream ; here it was a roar- ing river, running bank-full of black water. For an instant Degan thought the engine had left the track, but feeling the rails still beneath her wheels, he realized a second later that the bridge was gone. The fireman saw the break in the track and leaped out of the cab as the engine plunged into the boiling flood. Degan, at the first scent of danger, closed the throttle and ap- plied the air. As the engine dropped over the bank she turned on her side, releasing the patent coupling, and at the same time parting the air hose, applied the automatic pressure to the wheels of the three light cars so suddenly and so effectually that only the mail car tipped over and hung with her nose in the water. The mail agent climbed to the side doer, and, with the help of the bleeding fireman, succeeded in es- caping from the slanting car. When the postal clerk and the fireman pounded on the door of the express car the messenger, waking suddenly, warned them if they attempted to enter the car he would shoot. The deafening roar of the THE WRECK A T ROURIDEA U 121 river made it impossible for them to hear what he said, and when they began to heave great stones against the car door he made good his word ; nor did he stop until a dozen forty-five calibre bullets had crashed through the door and sides of the car. After waiting for some time the messenger concluded that the robbers had been frightened away, and cautiously peeped out. " Well, you idiot," said the postal clerk from beneath the car, " are you out of ammunition ? " Degan lived a lifetime in the moment when the Rockaway was leaping into the flood. When the engine struck bottom, twenty feet from the surface, she began rolling over and over like a corncob in a flooded barnyard. The picture of his past life which had been suddenly flashed before his eyes now disappeared, and the en- gineer, hopeless as it may seem, found himself watching for an opportunity to slip out of the cab of the rolling engine. Now he felt the en- gine slam up against a big boulder in the bot- tom of the river, and at the same time his hands grasped a floating something. It was the fire- man's waste-box, and the engineer, holding hard to it, was dragged out of the cab and carried to Ml !f 122 THE iVRECK A T ROUBIDEA U \ ;i ;ii , the surface. He had barely time to breathe when a floating drift swept over him, forcing him into the water again. He held to the waste-box, having a hand in one of the handles, and was soon brought to the breast of the river again. All this had occurred in a very brief space of time, but Began was not a strong man, and the strain was beginning to tell on him. Once in a while, above the billows of the boiling flood, he got a glimpse of the low banks of the river running backward in the dim starlight. The roar was deafening. The river surged against the sands, the banks crumbled, and great cotton- wood trees that had stood there for half a cen- tury swayed to and fro, and finally fell into the roaring flood. At times the waste-box swung near the shore, eddied back, and then shot down the middle of the river at a furious rate. Unless you have seen a mountain stream at flood you can form only a faint notion of the force and speed of the Gunnison running bank-full. Great rocks of the size of a sleeping car are rolled along at the bottom of the river, as marbles are rolled by the stream of a garden hose, and here, at the door of death, Began turned to THE WRECK A T ROUBIDEA U 123 look, and was awed by the awfulness of the wild scene. When first he found himself at the front of a fast express, timing the train with a touch of his hand, fixing the speed by the turn of a lever, he had marvelled, as most men do, at the speed and power of the locomotive ; but all that was mean and tame compared with the force of this fearful flood. As Degan began feeling strong again and was watching a chance to pull for the shore, the leafy top of a falling tree caught him and dragged him below. Tangled among the boughs with his waste-box, the desperate driver fought with all his strength, and in a little while felt the waste-box bearing him up and on once more. He was now in a narrow, straight chute, at the lower end of which the river made a short bend to the left, and away from the railroad track. Degan saw the curve and hoped that he might be thrown upon the bank at the bend, and the next instant the box was driven hard against a huge rock and went to pieces. When Degan regained consciousness he was lying full length upon the flat top of the rock against which his life-preserver had been wrecked. 1 t \ W 124 THE WRECK A T ROUBIDEA U U. The gray dawn was upon the river, that was al- ready settling back to its normal bed. His clothing was torn, his hands bleeding, his bones ached with the chill of the morning. One of his legs was broken, and the pain of it made him feel faint. The river was falling rapidly. If he could walk at all he could walk ashore without getting water in his trousers' pockets. The sun came up and dried his over-clothes and warmed the rock upon which he lay. Presently he heard a locomotive screaming down the canon, and when she came round the curve he flagged her. Behind the engine was a wrecking train, coming up from the junction to find and fish the Rockaway out of the river. The crew were greatly rejoiced to find Degan. They bore him tenderly to the way-car and car- ried him to the company's hospital at Salida, and there it was he told the story of the Roubi- deau wreck. *^ Black ifiif w M .M'tS, B t i ■^ ■^ THE BL^CK FLIERS "JYJONDAY, January 2, 1899, was the date J^^A fixed by Uncle Sam for the shrinking of the continent. Beginning with that day. the North Atlantic and Pacific coasts were brought thirteen hours nearer to each other. A fast mail train left Boston; another left New York; the two fiowed logether at Buffalo, and entered Chicago over the Lake Shore. At the same time the east-bound service left the Pacific Coast and began a race across the con- tinent. Hundreds of thousands of government and railway officials and employees were intensely interested in the new service. All day the driver of the black flier that was to tPi.e the fast mail out of Chicago worked ciDout the big machine, going underneath, com- ing out of the pit, and working round and round. »»' THE BLACK FLIERS "^Z^ the men as they worked. In three minutes he be- came uneasy, in four minutes he had shoved his apparatus between the waste-box and the wall, and a moment later was hanging on for dear life. I learned from the General Manager before he left me that Burlington, the next stop, lay at the foot of a forty-mile slope ; forty miles of down hill, leaving Galesburg a few minutes late, and a driver with a devilish desire to give the dead- heads a whirl for their money, made a picture that I did not enjoy. A mile a minute on a straight track is all right ; but when you pass that point, and begin to hit curves, and reverse curves, pitched for forty-five posts and hit them at sixty-five, it is hard on the nerves. You find yourself straining to the curve to help hold the engine on the rail until your sides ache, and she goes around apparently on one rail ; then when she finds the tangent you get another shock. Now, you say, here the rail runs straight away, and the next moment this great bulk, these thou- sands of pounds of steel and coal and water and you, dart suddenly to the right, and you think she has left the rail ; but she is only switching to the proper channel of a double track. _#t. *•» li <■ : ! ■ .' 1' M- I /I ;t 134 r//£ BLACK FLIERS The artist kept asking me to guess at the speed slie was going, and said he had heard some prediction that we would touch a ninety- mile gait before we reached the river. " Is that not ninety ? " he asked ; but I had not the nerve or voice to answer. On she went like a Kansas cyclone, swinging over culverts and bridges, now gliding down a swale, and then turning suddenly to the right or left, following the bend of the low bluffs. On she swept through sags and over swells. Through curves and cafions the grimy driver steered the big machine, playing with dan- ger like a man who is unhappily married. Now, as she rolled and pitched, so that I was obliged to kick the seat down, the artist grabbed my arm again. *' Now ? " he asked. I nodded yes emphatically ; for if she was not making ninety miles, she was not moving. Presently, with a wild shriek, we shot out upon the long bridge, and a moment later were beyond the Mississippi and in the real West. Softly now, and without any show of pride in what he had done, my companion stole out of the cab and into one of Uncle Sam's letter- wagons. THE BLACK FLIERS 135 Burlington is two hundred and six miles, and, by this run, four hours west of Chicago. One engine crew had brought us the entire distance. They had earned their wages quickly, but, as the General Manager observed, marking the per- formance of the fireman, they earned every bit of it. ' Here we gave up the 590 for another engine, with a wheel four inches lower. At each zip, zip she would not go so far by a foot as the other did, but her " zips " came close together, like the click of the sickle in a mowing-maciiine, and in a little while the rail was rushing beneath her throbbing throat like a swiftly, smoothly running river. The pale remnant of a hold-over moon, worn thin like an old brake-shoe, came out of the east, peeped over my shoulder, and shone along the cold steel beyond the flash of the head-light. I began to nod, for it was far past midnight. Now this engine began to roll just as the other did. The cab window slammed up against my head, and immediately I was wide awake. Somewhere Field has recorded the fact in rhyme that the farther west you go, the redder grows the paint ; ■ 4^ ,.';'5.«-;*«»'* 136 THE BLACK FLIERS ^ I and now I observed that the farther west we got, the harder these daring drivers hit the curves. After leaving the engine the General Manager said to the newspaper men, standing wide-legged in the swinging mail car, that this driver had been on the fast mail for a dozen years. Well, I should not care to hazard even a guess that he will be there twelve years from to-night if he keeps up this gait. So far we have touched every town on time, and often ahead of time. At a flag-station we had four minutes to kill. When the time was up, the engineer gave them the bell, and got a "stop " signal from a hand- lamp in the rear. A gaunt youth put his hand up to the side of his face and yelled at the en- gineer, " Hot hub on letter- wagon." Cooling the box we lost eleven minutes, leaving seven minutes late. Seven minutes later the driver, having relighted his cigar stub, was swinging us around curves that were not put there to be used in that way. There was no flutter from the stack now, but a steady roar — a wild, hoarse cry. The black flier leaped and rolled and plunged so that the bell, driven by steam, hiccoughed and stammered, until some one reached over and I .>ir«t>fc-rf*B»'tft>»4 Ifc-**"* I THE BLACK FLIERS 137 shut it oflf. In a few minutes we crashed through a small station, and as the green and white lights brushed by our windows the driver yelled over the boiler-head at me, " On time." In twenty- six miles we had made up seven minutes, and dashed into Creston, Iowa, two minutes before we were expected. The fresh engine slipped and fretted. The driver touched the three-way cock to see that the air was off. He opened the sand-valve once or twice, and immediately we felt the fine gravel crushing beneath her cold wheels, felt her lifting the train, felt the west wind pushing hard against the front of the cab, and pulled our heads inside. The driver, appreciating the importance of the run, seemed a little impatient because she slipped again, after getting well under way, and, instead of helping her out by quick'y closing the throttle — just for a second— he dropped sand under her and allowed her to catch herself as best she could, as the driver of a trotter, when the horse breaks, whips him down to his wcl again in- stead of holding him up. Almost mstantly she found her feet, and away she went, sniffing and i **^-)flf^lW - . 138 THE BLACK FLIERS w \ ih snorting in the frosty night. But the steel was cold and hard and glassy, and now and again she would get away. Her wheels would whirl so furiously that the driver dared not hold his throttle wide. The moment she slipped he gripped the lever to help her if she failed to catch herself, and at the same instant a faithful fireman opened the furnace door, so as to pre- vent her tearing her fire in holes and pasting her flue-sheet with the fuel, that is like thick black- strap in a white-hot fire-box. Always above the roar of the wheels you could hear the low burr of the injector that was throwing thirty-five gal- lons of water a minute into the big boiler more than half a gallon a second it took to c . her burning thirst. When the pointer on the steam-gauge touched the blow-off mark, and a ribbon of white steam fluttered away above her back, the fireman left the door ajar to save the water that would thus be wasted, and the watchful driver opened the injector the least bit wider to save the fuel. At other times I would hear the singing of the left- hand injector in addition to the one that was feeding the engine regularly, and it sang in my THE BLACK FLIERS 139 ear above the roar of the train, precisely as a locust sings on a tree twig close beside your head, and in a moment, with the heavy click of the check-valve, I would hear him shut it off again. Here are some more curves and reverse curves, the passing of which makes the blood chill, and makes you tremble and feel yourself face to face with eternity, for it seems impossi- ble now for her to hold the rail. Frankly, for the first time in my life I felt every hair on my head tingle at the roots ; and then came the sweetest music that ever smote my ear — the hiss and blow of the three-way cock. Three times this dare-devil driver let off air, and clamped the brake-shoes to the wheels that were whirling at a mile and a half a minute. Ah, that did me good. He too had felt her tremble ; had felt her shake, slam, and wrestle with the rail on that reverse curve, — a curve scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, and one that would not be felt by a passenger on board the Denver Limited, but a curve so wicked and severe that it froze my blood for a second ; but now the driver, who, after all, is but human, and in no great hurry to meet his Maker, saw that he il 7«ll^^:^^« ■ -iaiiSiSai- ri!: 140 THE BLACK FLIt S il' had reached the limit, and began to steady her. The clamp of the brake-shoes soon brought her down to a smooth gait, and she trembled aw3y down the line, with opposing passenger trains, long creeping freight trains, and sleeping v'illages brushing by us like ghosts in the night. Always at the furnace door I saw the fire- man watching and working, — for on an express engine these soot-soiled heroes watch each other and work together as two finished musicians play a duet. The fireman is going to school now. Here he receives the education that will fit him for the post at the right-hand side of the cab. When he has stood three, four, or five years at the furnace door, marking each move made by the engineer, he will be able to do the trick. He will be a better runner than can be pro- duced by promoting an expert machinist who has not the necessary road experience. A man may be able to build a bicycle, but if he has never been on board one, he will not be able to steer until he has mastered that, which is another trade. This Burlington fast mail is not the only liier abroad to-night. A few miles to the north, and only a little way behind us, we are reasonably 1 r THE BLACK FLIERS 141 sure that the Chicago and Northwestern's splen- did locomotive is trembUng up through the dawn, — engines ?s fine and fast as money can buy, and over a road-bed that is scarcely to be excelled anywhere upon this continent. Side by side, almost neck and neck, they are racing with us over this five hundred mile course, and not a man among us but believes that we shall be at the river on time, and that when the moment arrives for the rival train to show up it will l,e there on the strike of the clock. No, thi^. is not a race to see who can go quickest from the great railroad centre to the river. To inaugurate such a scheme as that would be wicked aid dangerous, for no man knows the limit of tiiC speed of these black fliers. That can only be determined by putting one of them in the ditch. Then, gazing on the ruin, we might truthfully say she had reached the limit. This time is fast enough, and I believe it can be made on either road on an average of three hundred and sixty days in a year. We are making it so -asily now that it does seem at times slow; bi,t a half-thousand railss in a little over ten hours is not bad. ■ »'"-*"?AJ!-'*'''J • ^ f S p»;«^* (-P..W SS^'-ill^.- 1 i » • 142 Tf/E BLACK' FLIERS Still, at the furnace door I see the sturdy fire- man, and upon the open face of the steam-gauge read the record of his work, — the net result in pounds of steam. Without his brain and brawn and unerring swing of his scoop we should not be able to make time. He plays his part, and is a part of the business, just as the grim stoker in the bowels of the battleship helps the admiral to overhaul and sink the enemy. The General Manager in his office directs the movements of the whole fleet, but the man in the cab is " fight- ing the ship." He is at once the captain and the gunner, and we all know the responsibility and the importance "of the man behind the gun." Now we are rolling again, rolling up through the dawn of the morning, and the roll of the engine rings the bell. Away out there in the dawn lays a long gray line of fog, marking the trail of the Missouri. With a shrill, triumphant cry the big machine relaxes, slows down, and stops and stands quite still. Only the air-pump breathing softly, and the flutter of steam from the dome, and the burr of the injector cooUng off the boiler show that she lives. I feel like pulling the pin and ''i \ . « W «»" »f <,»•#•■.■ ♦ #i^'><- .•%J.j.r-«t!.-"«k«*<«^ 144 THE BLACK FLIERS It is very interesting to see the pointer go up and up and up, then back again, only to re- turn and try to reach a still higher point on the next level stretch of road. These fast trains do not cross the continent ignoring small towns. At almost every county-seat we stop, pick up and discharge mail matter, so that all the people get the benefit of the ser- vice, and not the great cities alone- These stops, with the necessary stops for water and for changing and oiling engines, take up a great amount of time, so that the pointer on the speed -recorder has to play constantly about the mark that indicates a mile a minute. At mid- night, east of Galesburg, when the indicator showed eighty miles an hour, we wrote notes to each other, the General Manager and I, to show that we could write at that rate of speed. They were not beautiful specimens of hand- writing, but probably as good as either of us could do at our desks. At nine minutes past two in the morning, wlien all the good people of the great city were asleep, we slipped into Chicago, six minutes ahead of time, having made the round trip of a thousand interesting miles. ^-^•::L:-3CXkiaasm,-^.'i.mXi'vicm%'iJt^ •»»* •• .>^. *6e iFigtiting Manager !•! ( lO ii > i S );( »;«i*ww w r i * . « »< iWi .MOK^Ji^i THE FIGHTING MANAGER WE had been discussing the late war and the heroes of the hour. « The most heroic man I ever knew was Stone," said the General Manager, placing one foot upon the box that covered the machinery of the speed- recorder at the rear of his private car. "Stone of the Q strike?" " Yes, Henry B. Stone. Ask Brown of the Burlington, Ripley and Morton of the Santa Fe'. Robert Lincoln, and dozens of others who fought under him in the great strike of 7.888, or who knew him intimately after he had left the road, and who still mourn his tragic death, and they will say, every one of them, that they are braver and better men because of their acquaintance with him and his influence upon their lives. Stone could not so much as think crooked. He had, perhaps, an exaggerated idea of honor ' ► 148 r/fK FIGHTING MANAGER and loyalty and of his duty to the company that employed him. During the freight-handlers' strike his litde boy fell ill. All day this faithful manager remained in his office, and then sat all night at the bedside of his dying boy. One morning his chief clerk, VVyllie, saw him stand- ing on the platform of the freight sheds, sur- rounded by sullen strikers, smiling and talking with the General Superintendent. The secre- tary was pleased, for he guessed that the boy must be better. But when, after receiving some instructions about matters of business, he ven- tured to ask, Mr. Stone's answer was : * Oh, the boy 's dead. Yes, he died last night, just after I got home.' " The secretary tried to stammer some word of condolence, but the General Manager waved him aside, swallowing hard. 'Yes, Wyllie,' he said ; 'just so. I say, Wyllie, if any one calls at the office, just say that the boy is dead, that the end was painless, and that — that 's all, Wyllie,' he jerked. ' I sha'n't be at the office to-day.' " The chief clerk thought, of course, that he would go home, but he did not. He remained ^Vl!^l ! >'"»'iV-'^. >nt?Mt wiwB»wii«i»iiwii»»^^ '***^. THE FIGHTING AfAiVAGER 149 all day long at the freight sheds, fighting burly freight wrestlers and doing his best to take care of the property and the business of the com- pany. When night came, he went home, and he sat and watched and wept by the side of the small coffin. — But that is not the story I started to tell. It was at East St. Louis, at the time of the Martin Irons riots, that he showed the greatest heroism I have ever seen displayed. Every day for nearly two weeks the mob had marched through the freight yards, clubbing every one who seemed not to sympathize with them, and terrorizing those who wanted to work. Finally Mr. Stone, who was then Gen- eral Manager of the Burlington, came down to St. Louis to try to start the wheels of com- merce that had been stopped by the strikers. Not a pound of freight had left St. Louis or East St. Louis for ten days. Mr. Stone sent word to the shippers to send over their teams, and the company would undertake to protect them and the men. • " About ten o'clock a boat-load of transfer teams left the Missouri shore, and steamed across to the freight yards of the Q and the 1^ ISO THE FIGHTING MANAGER Alton. The moment the mob caught sight of the boat, they raised the war-whooT' and bore down upon the shore. As they approached the landing and began to stone the boat, McChesney, a deputy sheriff, Mr. Stone, and his superin- tendent, Mr. Brown (now General Manager of the Burlington), eacli grabbed a rioter, and I followed the good example. And we each held a six-shooter to our prisoner's ear. Stone seemed to have singled out the biggest and toughest looking man in the mob. The fellow showed fight, and I saw Stone's face go pale, saw his hand grip the self-acting revolver until the ham- mer raised from the cartridge. My man stood quiet, — much quieter than I was, for I was watching the hammer of Stone's revolver and the little space that was narrowing between that rough and eternity. "The mob, seeing the four men held with revolvers to their heads, turned and swept back up the bank, bent on rescuing the prisoners. There were at least four hundred men to do the rescuing, and I confess that I saw nothing for us but a brief fight and death. Holding his man at arm's length, Stone levelled his revolver fU «i». 5 THE FIGHT INC, MANAGER 151 at the mob, and called upon them to stand back, at the same time displaying the big badge that proclaimed him an officer of the law. But the badge had the same effect upon them that a red flag would have on a barn-lot full of bulls. With a horrible, blood-chilling yell, tiiey came on. Again I saw Stone's hand grip the pistol-stock, and saw the hammer draw back like a deadly serpent about to strike. Just at that moment we heard a voice close behind us cry, * Lie down, Stone ! Drop to the ground ! ' It was the voice of the Burlington's superintendent of bridges. We all released our prisoners, and fell upon our knees, and instantly the bridgeman and twenty-nine other men pointed thirty glis- tening rifles over our heads and at the mob. The effect was wonderful. Those savages fell back, tumbling over one another and rolling almost down to the water's edge. " After that we held the field for two hours. About noon, Mr. Stone said that the mob had become altogether too quiet ; they were plotting mischief. He sent Superintendent Brown down the river with instructions to get into a telegraph office near the east end of the bridge and report t W A N 152 THE FIGHTING MANAGER '/ ' the situation. I stood under the bridge, and saw Brown walk past and out into a little open space. Here he stopped to watch the man- oeuvres of a mob who were rapidly forming near the Louisville and Nashville yards. At the same time a number of deputy sheriffs were forming to hold them back. A little way beyond Brown, a detective and a Burlington yard-master were also watching them. Suddenly, from the ranks of the rioters, a pistol was fired. Instantly I saw the rifles of the guard go up, and to my amazement and the horror of the mob, the dep- uties began to pump lead into the desperate strikers and their still more desperate followers. I saw men drop ; saw others throw up their hands, stagger, and fall. At the front of the rioters, I had seen a wild creature in the garb of a woman, waving a long stocking with a stone in the toe, her loosened hair flying, while she shouted to the men to come on. Now I saw her put up her hands, stiffen, and pitch forward. It was horrible. The mob shrank back at first, and then charged furiously, — hundreds, thou- sands of men, armed with guns, clubs, iron bars, axes, pitchforks, and stones. I was so fascinated W THE FrCffTrXG MAX ACER 153 that I could not stir, though they were advanc- ing steadily in my direction. Presently the detective and the yard-master came running toward the bridge. As they passed Superin- tendent Brown, they yelled to him to fly for his life. His first impulse was to stand his ground and fight, but as the howling mob ad- vanced he saw the folly of such a course, and, turning, followed the yard-master and the detective. As soon as the three fugi- tives had passed, I made the number up to four. "A perfect shower of bullets followed us. I saw them skipping along the pavement, chipping pieces from posts in front of wooden storehouses, and heard them spit and spatter in the muddy road. The firing line somehow seemed to lie parallel to the very street along which we were taking our flight. I saw a man on a delivery wagon pull a revolver and fire at Brown. A man bareheaded and in shirt-sleeves sat in fronl of his cottage, quietly reading his morning paper. I had been expecting to drop dead at any mo- ment, and the sight of this happy man, silting under his vine, reading his paper, filled me with V i warn ^^nnmtfm^r-rngffm 154 T/fE FIGHTING MANAGER \\'. I M a deep longing to live, to be absolutely out of range and contented once more. I shall never forget ho\v peaceful that little home looked to me as I raced up to it in a heavy shower of lead and no umbrella. Suddenly I detevmined to seek asylum there ; to throw myself upon the neck and mercy of that blessed man. But as T drew near, he put down his paper and ran into the house. I guessed he had gone to get out of the draught. But as I dashed by, he came out again, levelled a pistol at my head, and al- most burst the drum of my ear, so close did he fire. Now 1 began to understand. The people were against us. Men would stop work to take a shot at us as we raced along. "The yard-master had drawn up to second place, near the superintendent. The detective, by this time, began to fag. Suddenly I saw him pitch forward. I knew it would be folly for me to stop, but a little farther along, I knew, there was a posse of deputy sheriffs ; and leaping in among the cars, I got witiiin heiu'ing, and shouted to them to go back and rescue the detective. In a few moir.ents they had stayed the advance of the mob and brought the detec- THE FIGHTING MANAGER 155 tive into the yards, with a nasty, though not fatal, wound in his neck. " If the rioters had been dangerous before, they were desperate now. A sheriffs badge was their target. Everybody and everything that stood for law and order was looked upon as the enemy of anarchy, and treated accord- ingly. In the middle of the afternoon, General Manager Harrahan, of the Louisville and Nash- ville (now Vice-President of the Illinois Central), telephoned to Mr. Stone that a lot of his em- ployees, many of them women, were imprisoned in the L. and N. freight depot. The building was surrounded by a mob who threatened to fire the place, and stood ready to kill the help- less employees as soon as they put their heads outside the building. He begged Stone to go to the relief of his people, and to hold the mob back if possible until he couid arrive upon the scene with a force to aid in the rescue. When Mr. Stone had read the message, he called for ten men to go with him. About fifty men stepped out, and among the first I saw Brown, the Superintendent of the Q. If he knew how to reueat, he knew also how to fight. The Gen- H ' \\ 11 ! -I 156 THE FIGHTING MANAGER ii v'l eral Manager, however, requested him to remain to defend the Burhngton, and with a dozen men marched off to the Nashville yards. " As the little company came in sight, the rioters set up a wild cheer, for they were out for blood now. Stone gave no heed to their threats and jeers, but boldly marched on to the edge of the ring of rioters that begirt the freight-house. As he approached, he drew his revolver, and his followers did likewise. The men who had threatened Iiiiii, however, ap- peared not to notice the weapons, but stared at the calm face and flashing eyes of the leader. On they marched in the form of a V, Stone at the point. Now the strikers began to give way as the cold point of the leader's pistol came close to their heads. Steadily, right through the mob, the little regiment made its way, and not a hand was raised against it. When it reached the building, the doors were thrown open, and the prisoners escorted away. " In the meantime we had asked the Gover- nor to send the Slate troops to suppress the rioters. Early in the evening they began to arrive by special trains over the various roads. ; I THE FIGHTING MANAGER 157 The Governor had asked Mr. Stone to aid in the distribution of the troops, which he did, assisted by the other railway officials. About nine o'clock we began to smell pine burning. At nine-thirty the glare of fire lit up the bot- toms almost to the bluffs at Collinsville. In the yards of the Cairo Short Line, two hundred freight cars and forty coaches were burning at one time. The VandaHa, the Louisville and Nashville, everything south of the bridge seemed to be ablaze. Whistles were screaming, bells were ringing, men were shouting, women crying, and above it all we could hear the wild shouts of the lawless thousands cheering while the hun- gry flames licked the paint from Pullman cars and consumed the homes of hundreds of inno- cent people who had no part in the quarrel and who could gain nothing by the riots beyond a little innocent rifle practice as the deputy sheriffs passed their quiet homes. Now a new sound came to us from the Missouri side, — the sound of rough-shod horses galloping over the big bridge. It was the fire brigade coming to the rescue. But as fast as they made connec- tion the mob rushed in with knives and axes, \ I V- fl 'iTr n i r ' - \\v% t mi»tmAm hi''. 158 T//E FIGHTING MANAGER and slit or hacked the hose to pieces. For nearly an hour the firemen worked like beavers, but to no purpose. Once in a while a stream of water would shoot into the flames for a moment, then slacken, and fail. Finally the Chief said, * Let the town go ! If the State can't protect the people and their property, let her blaze ; ' and with that he reeled up his wounded hose and jogged back to Missouri. "Yes," concluded the General Manager, as we slowed down for orders at a junc ion point, " Henry B. Stone was a hero." . i t^t pa00tng of ^cjflUor If ■ • • ■» , . • 'r-Ji^kife.fSTsii is THE PASSING OF MclVOR. TtyTANY of my readers will remember -»-▼-■. Mclvor, who as he oiled the notorious 107 said to the paymaster, whose train he was to take out, " It 's ail poppycock — there 's no such thing as an unlucky engine. This Friday talk is child's talk." And then, glancing up at the new moon, he made a wish. Later, when he hung the reprobate's boiler on a big rock in the black canon, he came from the cab more than ever of the opinion that he was never to be killed on an engine. When he took desper- ate chances, it was not to save himself, '^.it other people and his engine. Mclvor was a Virginian. Before the beard broke through his boyish face, he entered the army. He went in at one end of the war and came out nt the other end, with whiskers and scars, but still proud of Virginia. II : j; I i- I f W if 1^ Hi ( 'X It ! if * ^1 !.| I !! i ) 162 ■J7/E PASSING OF MciyOR After the war, young Mclvor became a locomotive engineer on one of the Southern railways. One day a lot of negroes, feeling their freedom, said they would ride on the engine, and Mclvor was unable to put them off. Finally one of them, being especially frisky, said he would run the engine, and Mclvor said he would not. After that there was confusion in the cab, and when it was all over, the engineer stood looking at a smokmg six-shooter, letting the engine jog along to the end of the run. Along the track three negroes lay dead or dying, and a half dozen other negroes, some limping and all scared, were humping it across a meadow toward the wood. The engineer's left hand had been cooked while he was struggling to keep out of the fire-box, for the negroes had playfully attempted to poke him through the furnace door. I have heard it hinted that Mclvor succeeded in locating four more of his torturers, making seven altogether ; and then he went North. I have always respected Mclvor, Taking account of the war, the negroes, and his after experience on a new railroad in the i-ljVJ .*•?■ '^ff**"/* *'<>*'"''" * 'i!''"'*^' '". A"' .'■*-■ ^'j*' •*■•»«»■;■■** -•'^^■^ ^^'yyjy r:-, • : :\V.. J../ \- . ■ 'f:<;'ixts-»*( THE PASSING OF McIVOR 163 then new West, Mclvor had many narrow escapes. Like most men who have lived long at the front of an express train, he was quick to act in the face of danger. One night, when the road was new and unfenced, he was fall- ing along the Tomeche, forty minutes late, with No. 7 full of hungry people anxious to reach La Veta Hotel at Gunnison, famous as an eating- station in the days when the main line lay over Marshall Pass. The first snow was falling in the hills, and a band of half-wild horses were hurrying down in the autumn twilight to a lonely ranch at the mouth of the canon. Mclvor saw them coming towards him in a. deep cut. He was on a down grade, and he knew it would be impossible to stop. As he reached for the whistle he pulled the throttle wide open, for to slow down at such a time was to increase the danger. Instinctively he shouted to the fire- man, who was down by the furnace door, to " look out ; " and taking alarm from the cry of the engine and Mclvor's voice, the fireman went up against the sloping side of the dirt cut, and rolled unconscious, but almost unhurt, along with the wind of the train. The little rockaway en- I I 1 1 'fliVivtt*^ I ! i h * n h Y f 4:/ . f^ H i li; "l 1 164 THE PASS/.VG OF McIl^OR gine tumbled into the herd at a frightful rate. Mclvor said he could feel the horses slamming up against his front end. They crashed over the pilot, tearing away the signal lamp, the head- light, and the stack. As soon as it was over, Mclvor stopped, bacljied up, and found his fireman. "You told me to jump," the fireman stammered. " I did nothin' of the sort," said Mclvor ; " I merely said, * look out.' " When the company settled wuh the ranch- man for that night's work, they paid him for thirteen horses. Mclvor had made a record that has never yet been broken ; but a man with less " sand " might have made it thirteen human beings. A few years ago a young man employed as a watchman at one of the division stations on that same railway, in a fit of anger, struck a conductor with a piece of plank, and killed him. The conductor was very popular in the town. His friends, assembling quickly, called it mur- der, and went at once to the jail where the THE PASSING OF I^cIVOR ^65 young man had been locked up and murdered the murderer. When it was all over and the men saw what had been done, they were alarmed. The good people of the town were shocked, and the whole community was sorely grieved over the tragic death of two respected citizens. Naturally, the grand jury inquired into the matter, and Mclvor was one of the first men arrested. Two or three witnesses swore positively that they had heard Mclvor's Virginia voice shouting at the head of the mob. Other men, equally reputable, offered to swear that Mclvor was elsewhere at the mo- ment of the hanging ; but McJvor refused to let them testify in his behalf. When, some time later, Mclvor was brought from the jail to be tried, he said he was not guilty. He had a friend high in the Masonic order, as he was himself, and this man came and testified that Mclvor was not in the mob, and proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt, and Mclvor went free. Then some people accused him of "playing horse" with the State; but- that was not true. Mclvor had gone to jail to give another man, who had the same Southern i ^1 J if nw ■ ! ! ( ( ;. < i' 1 66 THE PASSING OF MclVOR accent, time to get out of the country, and he got out. Mclvor was an interesting combination of strength and weakness. As shown here, he was loyal to a friend and would suffer for him ; but I don't believe he ever wholly forgave an enemy. On his engine he would face death with a smile. On the ground he was as weak and erring as a village belle who has inherited her mother's beauty and a deep longing for the stage. He railroaded at ?11 times and in all places, and used his engine or the time-card to illustrate what he had to say. Once his fireman fell in love with an interesting widow who kept a boarding-house, and he asked Mclvor's consent. " Well," said the engineer, thoughtfully, " she 's sho* onto heh job ; but it seems to me, Johnny, that it wud be bettah to get one just out o' the shop, an' break heh in to suit you. In that case, ye 'd know all heh weak points." The other day I had a letter from the little town where, for the past fifteen years, Mclvor '?..-j. I THE PASSING OF MclVOR 167 had stabled his iron horse. It was written by one of the foremen in the sliops, I fancy, and was meant only to carry the news of the engineer's death and to say that his brother, who had come up from the South to settle the dead man's affairs, had expressed the wish that some acknowledg- ment might be made of the receipt of a story 1 had sent before I learned of Mclvor's death. The brother, as he read the story, had smiled through his tears, the lett^i i aid, for he had often heard Mclvor himself tell of his experience with the gander in the graveyard. The two men had parted many years ago, and now the brother, coming to the little town where Mclvor had lived, found four or five thousand dollars, some real estate, a few shares of mining stock — and a grave. The steady hand that had hekl in it hundreds of lives almost every day for the past twelve years is resting there. Perhaps of the men and women who read this recital not a few have at some time slept down the steep moun- tain and through the dark cafion while Mclvor kept watch in the engine cab. Mclvor is dead ; and, as he always said it would be, he died in bed, "with his boots off." ^ |r i ■ i68 THE PASSING OF McIl^OR ''Ma I I?, I have no right to print the foreman's letter, but 1 can give the story in my own way, which, however, can never impress you as this letter has impressed me : Mclvor had been ill for three or four years — some trouble with the spine, a thing com- mon enough among enginemen. He would lay off for a while, go up and down the country, experimenting with the many hot springs of the West and fooling with widely advertised Chinese doctors — who are usually brought in from the nearest laundry, hung about with baggage checks, and propped up on a sort of tlu-one under i\ big umbrella. Finally, a few months ago, his en- gine went into the " back shops " to be rebuilt, and Mclvor's friends persuaded him to go to the hospital, get well, and be ready for her when she should come out. This hospital is main- tained by the employees and the company, and Mclvor, who had been one of the directors, knew that it was not a bad place — much better, in fact, than the rtvcrage hotel ; and so, after fighting dow.i a natural dread of such institu- tions, he finally went to live at the hospital. For a while he was reasonably well contented, ? THE PASSING OF McIVOR 169 I but his health did not improve ; indeed, he seemed to grow worse from week to week. At first he kept quiet — racing, as it were, with his engine, to see which would get out first. Tiien, when the newly turned wheels had been replaced beneath the boiler, the old engineer used to cross the leetering foot-bridge that hung over the Arkansas and sit for hours watching the workmen putting the engine in shape for the road. " Towards the last," writes his friend, the foreman, " the doctor used to try to keep him away, for he would not go back to the hospital at noon to eat. All day, from the first to the last whistle, he would sit by, getting up now and then to help adjust the different parts of the machine." Every new device in the store Mclvor would have. The old-fashioned oil-cups had to be removed and glass ones put on instead. The latest patent lubricators and a spring seat in the cab he asked for, and the master-mechanic, knowing that these things were not for Mclvor, said, "All right — give it to him," and then went into his office to think. Day by day, as the engine assumed her normal shape, growing n: • •t \ r If 170 THE PASSING OF McIVOR % I bright and beautiful under the painters touch, the engineer wasted away. In the course of time he began to realize this fact, for now he urged them to get her out as soon as possible, so that he might break her in for tiie road. By the time the last touches were being put on the new engine, it was necessary for some one to walk over the swinging bridge with the engineer when the six o'clock whistle blew. Finally she was finished and fired up, but that night they had to carry Mclvor over the river to the hospital, and the next day he was unable to leave his bed. Nobody spoke now of the engine to him, and he never si)okc of it himself. One day, a week or two after his last trip over the bridge, the master-mechanic went in to see him. Mc- lvor was lying apparently asleep, with his face to the wall. Presently a whistle sound Iff 'i ki rf \ ^ii f A SVMPA THY STRIKE 177 smoked and almost choked me, while the heat from the fire-box was suffocating. I saw at a glance that the red-hot ash-pan came down to within four inches of the ties, and if the engine started forward, I must pass under it. If she backed up, the pilot would roll me into a pulp. In less than a minute the smoke from the ashes and the steam from the air pump exhaust, blow- ing in under the boiler, blinded me. To be sure, there was no more danger now than there had been before, for it was sure death if the engine moved, but the darkness made the situation ten times more terrible than it had been. T could hear my scared heart pounding the ties upon which I lay. I thought then that it was the smoke and gas, but 1 know now that it was my heart that was choking me, so violently did it pump blood. That was the one moment in my life that I never can forget. It was horrible. Presently, when I had been there perhaps a hundred seconds, though it seemed a hundred years, the foreman put his face between the spokes of the main driver and yelled " That 'II do," and immediately walked back to the car. 12 \ .\'\ \ . 1 : ■i "J \^ i i\ I. :| if \ %■ ■ I 178 A S I 'Ml V; TIIV STR IKE Now the agony was almost over, but not quite. 1 had still to crawl out between the drivers, and fancied I could feel them pressing my ribs. The wind blew the smoke away and 1 peei)ed out to see if any one stood guard over me. Over against the sand-house, about a car length from the cab, I saw a stout man standing, watching me intently. As 1 put my hands out over the rail, the stranger put a hand straight out, saying, as he did so : " Don't move, Frank, there 's a man under the engine." When, after all those years of agony under the engine, I stood up, I found my knees shak- ing. I wanted to thank the gentlemen who had stood watch over me, but I • could not walk to where he stood, and so leaned against a flat car that stood on the sand track and rested until the train pulled out. I dare say the gentleman would have been surprised if I had spoken to him, and the foreman (who was as new in his place as I was in mine) would have been shocked; but I knew nothing of discipline, nor of the invisible " range " that is supposed to rise between a hostler's helper and the General Manager. \ \ •■^i. ^S£:'.Ts ■ •trfefemw A SVAfPATHV STRIKE 179 An hour later, when the six o'clock whistle blew, I washed u]) and went iionie, and went supperless to bed, with a roaring, howling headache, but with the kindly, sympathetic face of the General Manager living in my dreams. After that 1 saw the General Manager often. I fired and handled the special engine on our division, and at the end of three short years (they seem now the shortest of my life), I held a commission as locomotive engineer and helped him over the hill. While still in the service of the company, I was sent by the master-mechanic, along with a number of other emi)loyees from other divi- sions, to see the General Manager and talk over with him a new plan for the management of the company's hospitals. I found him just as he had appeared to be at our first meeting, — kind, frank, sympathetic, and wholly unselfish. Al- though I had been elevated but a few notches, I failed to find any very considerable mountain between us, and yet I was extremely proud of the honor of his acquaintance. When I glanced about the magnificent rooms I felt out of place, P (I \i i| IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 !^ I.I ■ 2.2 us u US. 12.0 IL25 III 1.4 mil Va "^ y Photographic Sciences Corporation 33 /nS,J MAIN STRUT WIBSTIR.N.Y. MStO (716) S7a-4S03 ^\ ,v :1>^ \ c\ o\ '^ o^ ^ i8o A SYMPATHY STRIKE 'h if) but the moment my eyes rested upon that kindly face, I was perfectly at ease. In later years, when I had left the road, the General Manager and I became very well ac- quainted, and were, I think I may say without appearing to boast, of mutual assistance to each other. I know that he helped me vastly, and I believe that through my intimate acquaintance with his employees I helped him over a bad place in his railroad career. I believe there are managers, though perhaps not many, who would have shown me the door upon that occasion, but he did not. He heard me out, and when I convinced him that he had been ill advised, he tore up a decision that had already gone to the printer — in fact, it was the printer's proof that he destroyed — and wrote another, not so very different, but it avoided a strike. After that our little bark, " Friendship," glided smoothly over two or three years, and then we hit a rock. Swat McQaade was a tough switchman. There could be no two opinions on that point, and the new man, who had come back with him from the stormy division of the " Q" was little r A SYMPATHY STRIKE l8l better, but they were what yard-masters call " fly switchmen." Dead tough they were, but fly, and so kept a job. Tough as he was, Swat was not bad to look upon, and in time a very good, honest little woman — girl, I might better say — became his wife, and they abode on the bank in a little, neat, unpainted cot. Swat's chum, the stormy switch- man, boarded with Swat and slept in lay-over cabooses, and Swa* swatted any road man who objected to the arrangement, and that is how they came to call him Swat. The third man on Swat's crew was a nice boy. He was neat, clean at all times, good-looking, and very intelli- gent. He stood out in the night yard-shift like a pure diamond in the bosom of a brakeman's soiled shirt. Everybody liked Smith, though Smith was not his name. That winter the West was overrun with tramps, and it began to be hinted that freight cars were being robbed at Wideview, and the company set detectives to watching the place. Of course, the detective who was sent out began to look about for a dog with a bad name, and in less than twenty-four hours had Swat McQuade and I, ' J, I: \ l82 A SYMPA THY STRIKE I the " Q " man down in his little book as men who might know something. One night a box-car was seen to be on fire in the freight yards. A yard engine was coupled to it; it was fanned down to the water-tank, broken open, and the fire was quenched. The car was loaded with silks. A vast amount of goods had been scorched, all had been flooded, and some of them carried off during the excitement. When the car had been cooled down and thrown in on the " rep. track," Swat chalked on the side of the car, in big, bold letters, " Wat- ered Silk." A few days later Swat and the stormy switch- man were arrested. At the end of a week young Smith was dis- charged. Now, nobody would believe Smith capable of robbing cars, and naturally there was a good deal of feeling. I read of it and grew warm. It looked as though the local officials were doing a little " example " business, and when a com- mittee of employees came to headquarters ask- ing Smith's reinstatement; and went back A SVMPATHy STRIKE '83 assured that their request would not be granted, I went down to see my friend the G. M. I told him that I had worked with this young man; that I knew him better than the local officials, or the tin-horn detectives, could possi- bly know him. Oh, I was indignant. I charged the local officials with trying to cover up their own carelessness by the cowardly dismissal of innocent employees, and ended by asking — al- most demanding — the reinstatement of young Smith. "Say," said the General Manager, "you've been imposed upon." " By whom, pray ? " " Well, whoever sent you here to make an ass of yourself." " Nobody sent me here," I said. " This, then, is purely a sympathy strike on your part— you are not representing the em- ployees." '' Not in any sense," I answered, " but if you don't see that this man gets justice — I quit you cold." My friend smiled. " I '11 see that they all get that," said he. I ; I ^ 1 84 A S 1 'MP A TH I ' S TR IKE \ ll iB<' r ' I^K ' ■\'' The General Manager turned in his big, swing- ing chair, pressed a button, and when the boy came, asked for the papers in the car-robbing case at Wideview. " Sit down," said he, and I threw myself into one of the leather chairs. "Ah, here it is. Confession of Mrs, Mc- Quade." And then he read to me what the stenog- rapher, who, seated behind a screen, had gleaned from the sobs of the heartbroken wo- man, who, a few days previously, had made full confession to the manager. She told how at first her husband had brought a lot of silk to the house, and that she had shown it to the neigh- bors, proudly, and that her husband had been angry with her because of this. He had been sued, he said, for a debt which he did not owe, and if the constable should come and find the silk he would carry it away. After that, when her husband brought anything home he hid it under the floor. Sometimes the " Q " man came with him, and after awhile Smith came shyly, carrying bunJles. They seemed to do all their shopping at night. A SVMrATffV STRIKE 185 At this point 1 got up and stood at the window with my back to the CJcneral Manager. One night the boys were drinking and they took a lot of stuff and carried it away with them. By this time Mrs. McQuade grew uneasy and asked her husband, when the men had returned with more wliiskey, where they had been, and what it all meant. " We 've been to our uncle to hang up some of our chattels," said McQuade. " An' if anybody asks you, tell 'em you don't sabe, see ? " And then the new car repairer came one night and stayed, drunk on the floor, while the boys went back to work. The next day the two switchmen were arrested. The car repairer was discharged for being drunk, and went away the same day. " We are going to let Smith go away and find employment elsewhere," said the General Man- ager, in his natural, sympathetic way ; " because he's young and was led into this, but I don't see how we can reinstate him, much as I would like to." il 1 I *:» i fS y i86 A S VMP A Tf/y STRIKE I made no reply. " What are you looking at so intently ? " asked the official, coming over toward the window. " Horse," said I, " horse running away with a milk-wagon." j f l' iji t iii t i t i ii »>ed blanket, a Navajo buck snored lustily, vhile beside him upon the floor sat his du I.y s(iuaw, her vigils keeping, ever and anon suckling an embryo Sitting Hull, who at other times stood strap[)ed to a board which leaned against a convenient bench. In another corner a party of Mexicans and cowboys, from a ranch up the " Picket- wire," were playing " high five," and the fre- quent jingling of silver indicated that it was not for pastime only. A bevy of gaudily dressed maidens, whose rich, olive cheeks and languish- ing, dreamy eyes bespoke their Spanish origin, chattered and laughed over the fun and frolic of the ball which they had come down from El Moro to attend the night before. 'I'heir escorts, bashful and awkward, occupied a bench at the opposite side of the room, and contentedly I I :. m ^'i f f lif t ii > i n i » »ii w |>.>i n i rn m ^x i mn i >r*o» i92 A RAILWAY EMERGENCY i'! i N' smoked their cigarettes in silence. A couple of miners from the famous " Ten Strike " were sizing up their losses over by the ticket window, and cursing Victoria and his devilish Apaches, whose bloody raids into that part of New Mexico had made life in the Black Range country alto- gether too unpleasant for them. The merry clicking of the telegraph instruments in the ad- joining room could be heard, and occasionally the sleepy operator would volunteer some cheer- less information as to the whereabouts and pros- pects of " No. 104." Outside the wind blew in fitful gusts, the snow sifting in tluv-^gh the crevices in doors and win- dows, only to last a brief moment in that stifling atmosphere. Through the small niullioned win- dows could be seen the flickering street lamps, upon snow-covered wooden posts, that stood like ghosdy sentinels at long intervals on Com- mercial Street. Diagonally across, and high up in one of the blocks on Main Street, gleamed a row of lights which marked the News Office, where Editor Newell nightly prepared the mental pabulum on which the " unterrified " of that day fed and waxed fat. Near the bridge, which A RAILWAY f-:Mi:R(i/':xcy 193 spans the " Picketwire " stood pcg-lcgged Pete's dance house, and the sounds of revehy and de- bauchery borne upon tlie night wind mingled weirdly and gruesomely with the dismal creaking of the old windmill, that for so many years held sway upon the opi)osite bank of the stream. About one o'clock I turned to the telegraph window, when the following message posted on the bulletin board caught my eye : — I-\ Jl'NIA, Nov. Agent R. So, — Start engineer Murphy for La Junta at 2 A. M. with Kng. 63, light. A. T. I immediately determined to be a passenger on " 63 " if I could get Murphy to carry me. About 1.30 Mr. Murphy showed up, and, after 1 presented my credentials, he consented to take me along if 1 would promise not to fall out of the cab window and disfigure the right of way. I agreed to this provided he kcjit on the rails, so the matter was settled. Shortly after, the fireman brought his engine out of the round- house, and quickly signing his orders and " oil- ing round," Murphy and I climbed on board. The " 63 " was Murphy's pride ; a swift, pow- »3 Pi .1 II i V UM ^^^^Tiii'fe^''''*'''*'** ' '**' ^'** **' ' '-'***'''* ^*** " * '' ' * ' *** * * * * *' »' *'"»» 194 A RAILIVAV EMERGENCY ■ fl erful, and handsome giant, that responded promptly to his every touch and wish, and seemed ahnost human in its obedience. Throw- ing forward the lever, Murphy took his seat, and, shooting a quick glance ahead, to where the multitude of switch lights flashed their signals of warning or safety, his hand grasped the throttle, and a moment later we were off for an eighty- mile dash into the darkness of the night, with a clear track as far as Thatcher, thirty-six miles away, where we were to meet '* No. 103 " and report for orders. Slowly at first, then faster and faster turned the huge drivers, until by the time we had reached the yard limits, and passed the last friendly light, the old " 63 " had warmed well up to her work, and was dancing along the rails like a thing of life. Not a word was spoken until we slowed up for the Denver and Rio Grande crossing, at El Moro, when Murphy re- marked it was about the blackest night he had ever seen hang over the road. Again he opened the throttle, and, with bell ringing, and a lurid glow from the fire-box throwing a weird though beautiful Rembrandt against the inky sky, we shot across the narrow gauge tracks and sped fi A RAILWAY EMERGENCY 195 the cen Rio re- had ned urid DUgh we sped on our way. With one leg partially crossed under him, and his faithful left arm still grasping the throttle, old Murphy sat motionless as a statue, his eyes peering through the narrow cab window, although, save for the reflection of the headlight upon the track, all was as black as an Egyptian night. At that time, Thatcher was the only telegraph station between Trinidad and La Junta. Each station, or siding, however, was provided with a telegraph box, and every train crew was re- quired to carry an operator and a portable in- strument. Thus, if a train got off its time the operator would " cut in " at the first siding and report to the despatcher for orders. Sometimes when the snow was deep and the operator too short to reach the box conveniently, the mes- sages that emanated from those improvised offices would melt the plugs out of the switch- board at La Junta. On we flew, past ranches and dugouts, over bridges and around curves, until we had left Hoehnes, Earls, and Tyrone far behind, although, save for the occasional shriek of the whistle, announcing the approach to a station, and an ; 1^ IV il ' " ■ ii«l> iu l W ii »«" I Ju 196 A RAILWAY EMERGENCY i C Ik ' iS ^. extra jar as we crossed the switch frogs, there was nothing to indicate the vicinity of any living thing. Suddenly rounding a curve, the green signal light at Thatcher came into view, and, with a glance at the steam gauge and another at his watch, Murphy opened wide the throttle, and as if maddened by the touch, the iron steed shot ahead, and with every nerve throb- bing dashed down the half-mile stretch and up the long grade, on the summit of which stood the station. A few minutes after getting our running orders, the head-light of" 103" showed up, and \ ery soon the New York Express thun- dered up alongside of us, and a moment later was gone again, the tail lights on the sleeper looking like balls of fire as they dissolved in the darkness. Once more aboard with a down grade and a " regardless " order, the fireman curled up on the seat I had vacated and was soon lost in slumber. I was fortunate enough to have some cigars with me, and, offering one to Murphy, was pleased to note that after lighting the same his grim, stern features relaxed, and beckoning me to share his seat, he seemed disposed to be sociable. A RAlLll^AV EmiRGE.VCy 197 ere ^ing een ind, ther >Ule, iron irob- kd up stood I our lowed thun- t later leeper in the and a up on lost in e some hy, was me his me to )ciable. There was nothing to do but watch the steam gauge and keep an eye on the track ahead, and soon we were skimming along at a forty-five mile pace. It transpired in conversation that Murphy was an oKi Pennsylvanian, and before coming West had put in some long and hard years of service on eastern roads. Pressing him for some incidents of life on the footboard, he mellowed up at once, and regaled mc with story after story, all of which were replete with inter- est, and many of them exciting to a high degree. Some of these had already worked their way into print, but to be fully appreciated should be told with all the wild accessories which sur- rounded them that wintry night. Incidents in railroad life during the rebellion and during the Mollie Maguire troubles in the coal regions, hairbreadth escapes from collisions and falling bridges, followed in quick succession, until I felt that we were about to repeat in fact what I was listening to in story. After dashing through Iron Springs, the shrill scream of the whistle had hardly died away when the old man •' shut her off," and slowed up for water at Timpas. I was quite overcome by 71 * 1 V\ :s « ,* ^W ' -' i "^ »i^ii>i»ii! i iw m m » ■ m mn *' <»i» i*n>f m* 'iii^-»»'<w^ ' \ ': 198 A XAILIVAV EA/ERGENCy fatigue and the strange experience of the trip, and, while Murphy once more lubricated the muscles of old " 63," I fell into a doze from which I with difficulty awakened after he again came into the cab and once more started us on our journey. A fresh cigar limbered him up again, and shortly after whistling for Benton, he took a few vigorous whiffs, and said : " Now, young man, I 'm going to tell you a story that has never got into the newspapers. It was away back in the early seventies, and at that time I was pulling the midnight express on the old Williams- port & Catawissa road, my run being from Wil- liamsport to Onakake. We were scheduled to leave Williamsport at 11.30 p.m., but one Friday night in September we were held thirty minutes to await transfer of passengers who had come down on the Northern Central. Now I always get kind o* nervous when I register out late, especially if it happens on a Friday. I was more than usually careful when I oiled around the old ' F. B. Gowen ' that night (our engines were all named those days), and I made the car inspector take another good look over the train before I got into the cab. He reported every- A RAILirAV EMERGEXCV 199 thing 'O. K.,' and at 11.30 p.m. we pulled slowly out of the archway, and were soon skii> ping along the west branch of the Suscjuehanna. Muncy, Milton, Lewisburg, and Sunbi.ry suc- cessively were reached and passed, and although everything seemed all right, I could not by any means pick up the thirty minutes we had lost at VVilliamsport. Ordinarily it was easy, but that night it was simply impossible to recover a min- ute of our lost time, and, in fact, we pulled into Tamaqua just forty minutes late. There we got orders to run to Onakake ' regardless,' but to meet extra north, conductor Grey, at that point. After signing the order we pulled out at once, and were soon spinning along until Rupert, Danville, and Catawissa were far to our rear, when suddenly my fireman exclaimed : ' There 's a red light out at Ringtown.' " Now there was no meeting-point at Ring- town down on the card, and I held orders to run to Onakake regardless ; so I was a little shaken up when I saw that red signal. As we had a down-grade run, with good prospects of making up some of our lost time, the sight of that signal made me rather warm under the col- 'V \- ,'* A I c jl V Jl-l !■: \ \ ' P. .1, 200 A RA/LirAV EMERC.ESCY lar, but 1 shut off steam, whistled for brakes, and brought the train to a full stop at the little depot. I found the operator sitting inside calmly smoking a pipe, and at once demanded to know by whose orders I had been flagged. Without looking up from the message he was sending, he calmly informed me that he had hung out the signal on his own responsibility, and that no one that he was aware of had given him any orders. " He was a young lad of about seventeen, I should judge, with rosy cheeks and big brown eyes that looked right at you without flinching. Something in his countenance told me that he would not stand too much stirring up, and, though I was boiling mad, I curbed my anger somewhat and remarked : ' Look here, young man, when you get through monkeying with that instrument I will be pleased to hear you explain why you have taken it upon yourself to hold a passenger train without orders to do so.' " Before he had time to reply, I heard the whistle and distant rumble of an approaching train, and, rushing to the door, looked down the track, ahd there, just coming round the curve, A RAILiyAV EAfERGEXCV 201 I saw the reflection of a headlight, which, com- ing nearer and nearer, finally stopped altogether, and I knew a north-bound train was taking the siding at the south end of the yard. Then the situation suddenly flashed upon me. " I was being held for a north-bound freight train which evidently had not been protected against the midnight express. '• I excitedly thrust my hand in the pocket of my blouse and drew out my orders. Although the words seemed to swim before my eyes, there could be no mistake as to their meaning. " * Midnight express, eng'r Murphy, will run to Onakake regardless of all trains. (Signed), ** * Midnight express, eng'r Murphy, will meet extra, engine io6, cond'r Grey, at Onakake. (Signed)' " Merciful God ! Had not that red light, which I dared not run by, stopped me at that little station away up there among the Pennsyl- vania hills, the midnight express, with its load of living freight, would have met and crashed into the heavy north-bound freight tiain not very far beyond that curve. For a moment I pictured i •a- 'V iV ;/ft i \ I 202 A KA/LirAV EMERGENCY i the awful horrors of such a calamity, listened to the wails and shrieks of the mangled and dying, and saw in imagination the crushed and wounded, intermingled with the debris of that terrible wreck. Then I seemed to collect my scattered senses. While thus engaged, the young operator came up and coolly inquired ; * Well, old man, have you found out what 1 flagged you for? ' I shook his hand in a grasp that nearly crushed it and replied : ' I knew something awful would happen to-night ; but tell me how it all occurred.* " It was a short story, briefly told. " While smoking his pipe to help pass away the time and almost involuntarily listening to the messages that flew 0"*^ the wires, he had heard an order for extra north, conductor Grey, to meet the midnight express at Ringtown. Some time after this he heard the operator at Port Clinton tell the despatcher that owing to a hot- box Grey would probably be thirty minutes late in getting out. It was now about four o'clock, and he was just getting his * good-night' from the operator at Danville (a mighty pretty young thing she was, too), when the despatcher broke in with an order for the midnight express to A RAlLirAV /■: MERGE XCV 203 meet extra north, Conductor Grey, at Onakake. It was no uncommon thing to cancel a train order, and while he hstened, quite as a matter of habit and not of interest, it soon passed from his mind. When, however, tlie night express whistled for Ringtown it flashed upon him that he had not heard anything over the wire cancelling the order for the extra to meet the passenger train at Ringtown. He flew for his red lamp, which he quickly lighted and swung across the track just as the express appeared over the brow of the hill. ** Who was to blame ? Well, now, I don't care to answer that. When the superintendent had us up on the carpet the despatcher furnished his order book, and there was the copy of a message to the operator at Onakake to ' flag and hold extra north, Cond'r Grey, for orders,' which was underlined to show that it ..ad been repeated back, and had the usual operator's *0. K.' in the left-hand corner. " The operator swore point-blank that he had not received such a message, consequently he couldn't have repeated it back. Grey and I were all right, for our orders were straight, and i ' \ 7 I ^ ' \ t V V S iV <-~ * » • VI w^ \ i ' 1 ' I* < If ' H 204 A KA/HyAy EMERGENCY we took out our runs as usual the next day. The Onakake operator, poor devil, was fired, but between you and me I thought him inno- cent, and believe to this day that that third trick man doctored his order-lxjok to cover up the ' lap.' liut, as Dooley used to say, ' It 's hard to beat the gang,' and the despatcher was not even censured. " The officials suppressed this affair as much as possible, and 1 doubt if a half-dozen of the three hundred passengers on the midnight ex- press ever knew how near to eternity they were on that awful Friday night. "What became of the young operator at Ring- town, and who was he? He is fast working his way up the railroad ladder, and will some day get to the top. He is J. P. Flynn, chairman of the Colorado- Utah Traffic Association." Hailroaoing m iPrame ) n ^ , I ♦, ;^ 212 RAILROADING IN FRANCE to understand how a man can be perfectly contented to fire a locomotive four or five years for forty and fifty dollars, or how an engine driver can be perfectly happy at eighty- five dollars a month, standing on a seatless, cabless engine through the long bitter cold winter nights — and northern France is cold. French employees do not require as much in the way of comforts of life as Americans do. Your Frenchman with four sous' worth of bread and cheese and five sous' worth of sour wine will make a meal. His three meals a day will not cost him more than thirty cents, while an American in a similar capacity pays thirty-five cents a meal. Being accustomed to the cold, the Frenchman sleeps in a fireless room and looks for nothing better. In short, with half the wages and none of the comforts, he is about twice as happy as the average raihvay employee in America. Except in cases of gross carelessness or drunk- enness on duty, an employee is seldom dis- charged unless the charges made against him are well sustained, after thorough investigation, during which he has ample opportunity to de- ^ t 'J .^» =*^^ nt*% r-^-P-" RAILROADING I.V FRANCE 213 [unk- dis- him Itioii; de- fend his cause. The management, as a rule, does not consider the organization of employees as detrimental to the service. On the contrary, such organization is rather encouraged than otherwise so long as the object is mutual aid ; but they fight hard against the formation of any- thing of a political nature. One is surprised at the army of idle porters, who do the work of office-boys, but they are all big grown-up men, ...id it takes at least a half dozen of them to do the work usually done by a bright boy in this country. Even at the en- trance to the shops or yards you will find a closed gate, a little office or bureau^ as they call it, and a half-dozen men, half police, and half porters, in charge of this gate. Just outside the office of the director of one of the large railways I saw eight big, round-faced, clipped-headed porters seated at a long table wailing to take in the card of any visitor who might call. One of them took my card and passed it up to the man who appeared to be the chief. That in- dividual shot a few sharp glances at me, and directed one of the men to " throw me in " on a siding while he submitted my card to a i vs U\ n, I ,1 f. 1 ■ 1 ^ ■-\\ '* i > 1 > ([ rk ■? t: 1 i 1 214 FAILROAD/NG IN FRANCE number of under-clerks. Presently a young man came out and said in an embarrassed way that he was afraid " zat ze secretary " could not see me. " Give this to him," said I, "and let him de- cide the matter," and I handed the clerk a letter from the United States Embassy. In less than two minutes I was in the presence of a director who stood up to receive me. It 's the same everywhere. My embarrassment always ends when I get past the typewriter and the office-boy. One of the most interesting features in the management of the railways in France is the system of retiring pensions in vogue on some of the large railways. All " commissioned em- ployees," as they are called, which includes all staff officers, men employed in the transportation and locomotive departments and on permanent way, are entitled to a retiring pension when they reach the age of fifty-five years, or have served the company a quarter of a century. The amount of the pension depends upon the aver- age pay drawn by the employee, but is never less than six hundred nor more than nine hun- RAILROADING I.V FRANCE 215 dred francs a year. If an employee is com- pelled by any misfortune to leave the service or is forced to retire after having served fifteen or twenty years, he receives a retiring pension ; but in that case it is never more than four hundred and fifty or less than three hundred francs. A widow is entided to one half the pension of her husband, provided the marriage took place two years previous to the husband's death. This seems a hard rule, but it is necessary, I am told, to guard against enterprising young widows who are wont to spring up unexpectedly and come weeping around the grave of a dead pen- sioner. Sometimes the woman came alone, sometimes leading a little child whom the rela- tives of the dead man had never seen. To provide for this retiring pension fund three per cent of the wages of each employee is re- tained, to which the company adds an amount equal to twelve per cent of the wages. In other words, four-fifths of the fund is contributed by the company. A very important rule to the employees is one providinp' that in case a ser- vant severs his connection with the road, even ^ I ili ,^: C ■ ! 3l6 RAILROADING IN FRANCE ." I !■ if he is dismissed by the company before he has served long enough to be entitled to a pension, all the money he has contributed to the pension fund is returned with interest. Day laborers who do not contribute to the pension fund have no share, of course, in the benefits of that fund, but they are not forgotten by the company. If they have served fifteen years, they receive a retiring pension equal to one-half the amount receixel by commissioned employees. This fund is provided almost en- tirely by the railroad company. Those who have served but a short time, if overtaken by any serious trouble, are usually cared for in the same way by the management, and all this tends to make the employees appre- ciate what they have and strive to hold their places or gain better places with better wages. Very friendly are the relations of the railways to the press and the press to the railways. Passes are given more freely, if anything, to reputable journalists than they are in America. A great many political men, including ex-mem- bers of Parliament, are considered to be entitled to permanent passes. T^"o varieties of the RAILROADING IN FRANCE 217 French politician invariably refuse free trans- portation, - the man who is extremely con- scientious, and the fellow who is only acting to fool the people. These good souls either pay fare or walk. ' '/ lit I' m if n 1 1 1 \ ;' r ^! > i^S ^ '1 m ^- '1 1 il ( i ' ;" ', ' 1 t i W.i t^ **ar* ?f OTotJ 3lt?" t f llr ■ii if I! y II- " i > « t) '«; 1 ■ Si -1. '; I. it AR' YE WOTH IT?" /^LD Mr. B. owned a big farm out in Michi- ^^ gan. He had heaps of horses, sheep, cattle, and hogs, and a boy — a dreamy, blue- eyed boy — whom he called Steve. Steve was a good boy, as boys go, but he never seemed to fit in on the farm. He never complained, but appeared dissatisfied. He was forever looking do'vn the dusty road that ran away to the town, where the train stopped, picked people up, and carried them away into the wide, interesting world. When he started across the lield again he would hold the plough with one hand, walk sidewise, and look back over his shoulder. Finally old Mr. B. took the plough from Steve and cold him to go 'way for a spell, and see if he did n't want to get back worse 'an he ever wanted to pet away. Stev- went. He wandered into the far West and began "railroading" where the setting sun i %, i. if-. M 1 I: f y i •M ,«^ «« '< tj ^ .» t- fl t.i ■ . ■4' I m' M 224 "AR' VE WOTH IT?" Steve almost strangled on a piece of core, and the old gentleman saw that he had guessed too low. " Three ?^' he ventured. " More than that, father." " Ye don't mean to say they pay ye as much asy?-e-v-e?" "Yes, father; more than twenty-five." '. ' )ld man let the empty hull fall between his knees, stared at his boy, and whistled. " Say, Steve," he asked earnestly, " ar' ye woth it?" */ .ji i( m \\ * »• >re, sed nch een IE t '1 u ye ^ Roumanian Romance »$ i.^ji p 'f k 1 "*MMi»j*,IMNf#. •fitwi^miariartir-'-vrs! ♦****#»»^*V.V,dftMlV ,!>»■*♦♦. •'•<*t~ii«fcrf^:^'>")*>i)h'***-'*^ tl' ' m ^ tl0im0lliMtlfittlfti0ltt i'< I 1 m k - : lit' i * ^«v«*b4A «»^»vtf~*Mk.-i»'»;;..^ M i' . ! 230 A ROUAfAXfAN ROMANCE much coaxing he persuaded her to sit down upon the grass and talk with him. She asked his name. "My name is Rudolph," he an- swered ; '* and how have they named you ? " " My father calls me Ilka," she said, raising her eyes to his and dropping them instantly. " And how does your mother call you ? " " I never knew my mother," she answered, her eyes still on the ground. " Nor I mine," said Rudolph ; and for a mo- ment he met her glance again, and in that glance each seemed to say to the other " We ought to be friends." The girl had been looking over her shoulder in the direction of the village, and novv, rising, she told Rudolph that he must go. " And would you send me away so soon ? " pleaded the Hungarian. " I 'd like to linger here all my life." " Your life will be short," said the girl, glanc- ing up the glen, " if you stay here ; my father will be coming soon." " And what will he say to me ? " " Nothing." " Then what will he do to me? " 1?i «ll«'lllli IIKI .III II ifmr-^ .11 i t i O » « ««<»«•>. »-»,«.*■, 'i,; 1^'' 232 A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE Steed. By keeping carefully off the old man's time Rudolph had avoided a collision, the re- sult of which had been guessed at by the shep- herdess upon the occasion of their first meeting. As fortune-tellers the Roumanian maidens were not slow, so the young man was willing to take her word for it that the gentle shepherd would cut off his career the moment he found hirr singing love songs to the shepherdess. Aiab, there are always meddlers in every community, and it fell out that a jealous suitor warned the shepherd of his daughter's danger. That 's how it happened that he failed to visit the village or ^ day when his daughter thought he had gone, was one of those glorious days that come along in the wake of summer. Ilka had been bathing her brown feet and washing her hair in tl-e little brook ; and when ♦he whistle came it found her seated upon the bank, drying her midnight tresses in the morning sun. She was still sitting thus, with her hair about her face when Rudolph came, pulled it back, and kissed her on the mouth. It surprised her a little, but she was a woman and this was her lover. Rudolph thought he heard the grass A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE 233 m lir it las Iss rustle, and glancing round saw the shepherd bearing down upon them, followed closely by a long, hungry-looking man with a very dark face. As the men came running toward the lovers they each drew a long knife, and when the giri saw their danger she threw her arms about the Hungarian's neck, and put herself between him and her irate sire. Seeing now that the girl loved the engineer, the shepherd halted, but the jealous Gipsy swerved round and made a ilash at the man who had won the heart of the shepherdess. The girl still kept her place, and when the man struck at Rudolph the latter seized his wrist and dealt him a heavy blow under the left ear that put him out of the con- test for a whole minute. The shepherd sheathed his knife now and ordered his daughter to the hut. She hesitated, for the first time in her life, and her father stamped his foot. Turning to the engineer she gave him both her hands and whispered to him to go. As the Gipsy struggled to his feet the girl picked up the knife that he had dropped and Rudolph walked down the hill, swung himself into the way-car of a passing freight train, and rode back to the village. ;j ,1 M ^•;u I ■' , Ai»«ri»»' r<**»»»v«-f,- •"J ■»r««MH«i'»»»V»«»**>w»'»-»'«-«r-«»»«*»-*»«»"r«'*''«>ti'" •*■ - • •'.^'v*v l*-*l* «^ rt--^-^-^ 'm. 0m * ft i »* sv ' i 'i't 234 A ROUMANIAN RO STANCE That night the shepherd packed his traps, and on the following day at sunrise had, with the help of the gaunt Gipsy, completed arrange- ments for a long journey. Not a vvord had passed between the shepherd and his daughter since he ordered her to the hut, but now he must speak to her. He had himself bundled up her scanty wardrobe, and now he ordered her to prepare to travel. " Where are we going? " asked the girl. " Away," said the shepherd. "This day you must choose between me and the white-skinned rider of the iron horse." The girl glanced at the Gipsy, whom she hated now, and who seemed to be prepared to go with them. About the only thing her father had taught her was obedience. She felt that she must follow him. " Then you must choose between me and him," said the girl, pointing to the Gipsy. " He goes to help with the sheep," said the shepherd. " I'll mind the sheep," she answered, " but I will not go unless he remains here." The shepherd saw that she was desperately in * ^.^ ft,,mwiit, f - ■ «**v*-*»--^-..*« >v| A POUMA.VIAN ROMANCE 235 the lUt I in earnest, and ordered the Gipsy, whom he also disliked, to go back to the village. Slowly and sadly the shepherd led the belled and freighted donkey r cross the hills, followed by the sheep that were driven by the dogs under the direction of the heavy-hearted shepherdess. From the top of a far-off hill she took a last long look at the poor little village, the only city her life had known. There lay a stretch of the iron road along which her lover would soon pass upon his wondrous steed. How she longed to see him once more, to tell him how she loved him, for she had not a doubt that he loved her. Her heart was heavy, and her feet 'jeemed to be made of lead, but she trudged on in silence. For days and weeks they crawled southward, until finally they came to a broad valley, through which swept a beauti- ful river, whose waters were as blue as Rudolph's eyes. *' Shall we rest here and make a new home in this beautiful vale? " asked the shepherd. " If it please you, father," said the girl, sigh- ing, and gazing into the stream. So they made a hut near the river, and the I .f'f i \ M ... f: :J W.' r pi I il! ' f ^ 1 ' 236 A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE shepherd, having seen smoke down the valley, set out to find the village or settlement. Two hours' walk brought him to Belgrade, the capital of Servia, where he sold the two sheep which he had taken with him, and with the money bought bread and honey and dried fish. When Rudolph came whistling down the Roumanian railway on the day following the scene at the shepherd's ranch, he was surprised at the deserted appearance of the place. An hour later he pushed the door of the hut open, and found it empty. A rat ran across the dirt floor as he entered. He thought they must have moved into the village and turned in that direction. He met the hungry Gipsy who had attempted to murder him the day before. The Gipsy laughed and taunted the Hungarian until the latter knocked him down and kicked him. Rudolph searched the village until leaving time, but could find no trace of the shepherd or his daughter. Every day he would go to the hut only to find the place still empty and more rats in the house. t;^l A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE 237 He inquired at the little shop in the town where he had seen the man buying supplies, but the shopkeeper knew nothing of the whereabouts of the shepherd. Even the ugly Gipsy had disap- peared, and Rudolph grew despondent. The sweet, innocent face of the shepherdess, with her deep dark eyes, haunted him day and night. He could not if he would, and would not if he could, forget the touch of her warm, ripe lips, and he longed to see her again. Lots of girls there were in Budapest; beautiful girls with sunny hair and eyes blue and deep as the Danube ; but his heart had gone out to the guileless nomadic maiden, and to her only. When the shepherd and his daughter and the dogs had been in their n*. '^ome for two days, Ilka set out to visit the village, ^^''^en she was near to the town she heard the roar of a railwa\ train and the whistle of a locomotive. Her heart beat wildly, for, so far as she knew, there was only one railroad on earih. There might be many engines, but only one engineer whose horse was hitched to painted cars, and thes«* cars were painted. As the engine swept round i t n ^ I* -•^ » ;,tj I ^ j }'• ^ I ' m n 1 fp 'i * '.( i ': i i ■^ > 238 A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE a long curve and slowed down for a bad bridge, the girl stood waiting to get a glimpse of the engineer. " Ho ! my pretty shepherdess," cried the driver, leaning far out of his window. The girl, speechless with joy and surprise, gazed up at the engineer, and as he opened the throttle and steamed ahead put up her hands beseechingly, imploring him to stop and take her upori h": wonderful steed and carry her away. "What a foolish maiden," said the engineer, after he had thrown a kiss to her, "and how pretty ! " Ilka went not to the to\7n, but, with a heavy heart, returned to her father m the little hut they called their home. At last she had found him and he had only smiled, tossed a kiss to her, and rode away. Ah ! could it be that he did not love her after all? She would see. She would go down to the track again, and if he would not stop and take her away she would cast herself beneath the wheels of the great machine and end her life. Every day she would go down to the railway and watch for the train, but the Orient Express does not run hourly or .■il»i|»»l«« WW* %\tt*)>>f«*^ > »■. »•■ L. ^^*■^^ j^' #» •♦' >»s«te»Vi* 'il 8 / .~m T^,A<||y->lJ>^jW'-il »* i 'i i ii|wi > > ii li; i »'i<^i i 5 i » i» *yy i -* "'' *- '' ^*<" '"'-^^^ ' A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE 243 them the story of his acquaintance witli tlie shepherdess : how at last he had come to love her, and that she seemed to love him. Her father, it now seemed to Rudolph, had taken her away to keep the lovers apart, and at sight of Joseph she had mistaken him for her long lost lover. " But, after all," said Rudolph, " it is Joseph who has found her and saved her life. He loves her too, and if she loves him I must go far away, for I could not live and see them together." " No, no," said Joseph, magnanimously, for his love had not burned into his soul as Ru- dolph's had burned into his, " you must stay." The good aunt, who had also been weeping, now suggested that the twin brothers, who loved each other and had been together all their lives, leave the choice of a husband wholly to the shepherdess. " Her woman's heart will tell her and her woman's instinct will guide her to the man she really loves." She made them both promise to remain away from the cottage until the girl had regained her health, when she would notify them and fix a day for the final drawing. It was nearly two 1 1 >i 1 ■ s \' I a n li. A i lrf<»*««M*."V»^' 244 A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE months later when the two brotliers crossed over to the Palace side of the river to meet the shepherdess. The summer had passed away, and dead leaves were drifting dow upon the Danube, whose beautiful blue waters slipped noiselessly beneath the bridge. The widowed aunt had talked a great deal to the girl about the engineer, but she was extremely reticent. " Would you know him if you saw him in a great crowd of men? " asked her hostess of the shep- herdess one day, after the latter had vaguely acknowledged that she had a lover somewhere. The girl smiled as she replied by asking an- other question : " Would the king know his palace from the other houses?" Rudolph and Joseph, dressed precisely alike, sat in a sheltered place in the garden, and when their aunt and the shepherdess had arrived at a point directly opposite them the elder woman paused, and, turning toward the two men, said : " Ilka, one of these men is your lost lover ; can you tell which is he ? " The two men left the bench and advanced with outstretched arms. The girl, bewildered and half afraid, clung to the woman at her side. <«MM MIMMMM MMtl Ir^MMM HMM Mmmmmmmmu il A ROUMANIAN ROMANCE 245 Neither of the men were to speak, and both were silent. " Choose you/^ said the woman ; " be not afraid." The girl glanced from one face to the other for a moment and then cried, "Rudolph! Rudolph ! " as she threw herself into his open arms. " Ilka ! Ilka ! My lost Ilka ! " said Rudolph, holding her to his breast ; and Joseph turned away. # tf' }\ V: i if 1% ii * 1 :li ' ', 1^.., h (&pminz of m Alpine tunnel M i III i '■' 1 I :—.r.V: '-T/',7!7Tf T '»! I * ' n pi i r ' f I li ■» OPENING OF THE ALPINE TUNNEL ^HE highest point reached by any railway (not a cogvvay) in the Rocky Mountains IS at Alpine Pass, on the Denver, Leadville and Gunnison, a part of the Colorado Southern system. Marshall Pass, on the Rio Grande, is 10,050 feet, Tennessee Pass 1 1,000 ; but Gov- ernor Evens, who built the road over Alpine Pass, climbed up and up until he reached timber Ime, and then, diving under the eternal snow, he tunnelled through the top of the towering range and came out on the Pacific Slope. It cost a mountain of money to make the grade and bore the big hole in the hill, but the Gunnison country at that time was attracting the attention of the mining world, and the cost of the railway was not taken seriously into con- sideration so long as it tapped the Gunnison. The timbering, we are told, in this great tunnel came from the red-wood forests of Cali- \ it ' Jf \% 1 ■\ I. I . ' M I I 250 OPENING OF THE ALPINE TUNNEL fornia, and had to be hauled up to the top of the range on the backs of burros. Finally the road was completed, but the Gunnison boom was already dying ; the winter came on and the new railway was closed up, for no amount of " buck- ing" with pilot ploughs could keep the heavy drifts from the deep cuts. In five years the road was almost entirely abandoned. A few years ago, when, through the breaking up of the Union Pacific system, the narrow gauge came back to the original owners, the ambitious man- ager undertook to reopen the railway over Alpine Pass. It was a big undertaking. The snow near the tunnel had been there for many months, some of it for years, and when June came you might still walk over the top of six feet of hard snow where the road lay. It was a novel sight to see three or four big locomotives pushing a rotary snow-plough through the white waste, for only the furrow in the forest showed where the road wound away up among the high hills. Where the mountain-side was steep the solid stream of snow, as big round as the wheel of a bicycle, shot up from the snow machine, clear over the top of the telegraph poles, and went OPENING OF THE ALPINE TUNNEL 25 I |i crashing down through tall spruce and stately pine, stripping them of their branches, until the whole hillside was carpeted with the green boughs that had been torn from the trees. After many days of constant and persistent pounding they reached the tunnel, and found It filled up solid with snow and ice. It was hke boring a new tunnel, almost, but they worked away until they were more than half-way through, and then they began to have trouble. There were no chimneys, or shafts for the bad air to escape through, and when they began to use locomotives to haul the snow out the coal gas from the engines made it almost unsafe for men to work there. m r Already the literary bureau of the passenger department was trying (but failing, for no man could do it) to paint pictures of the wonderful scenery of Alpine Pass. And it is wonderful ; there is nothing like it. But all the grandeur of all the world will not suffice to hold men where they can feel upon their throats the cold fingers of the grim reaper, and every day the force decreased. Dozens of hves had been lost in \ it'i 5 V I ^ ■■] 252 OPENING OP THE ALPINE TUNNEL V>\ H \^. :,'i the building of the tunnel. The place when full of black smoke seemed to the workmen to be alive with the ghosts of men who had met death there. Every night now the men rehearsed the old stories of the building of the great tunnel at the boarding train at the foot of the hill. Every day new men went up to the pass, and old men with time checks tramped down the Arkansas. The ice near the west end of the tunnel became so hard that it had to be blasted out, and two men were killed at blasting. Expert miners were brought down f-^m Leadville, but they smelled death in the damp of the place and in the breath of the blind steed that ""^s ever pufifing and snorting in and out. The noise and smoke of the blast- ing added to the other perils of the place, and now the men worked with one eye on the exit or in the direction of the open end of the tunnel. If the engine slipped or snorted the men would start, ready to stampede like a herd of Texas steers. It was an awful strain upon the nerves of men to work in that way from day to day, and then add to the anxiety by rehearsing their experiences in the boarding cars at night. One ;/ OPENING OF THE ALPINE TUNNEL 253 day the engineer became excited, blew iiis whistle, and backed away hurriedly, killing or crippling a half dozen men. Things went so badly that the general man- ager took his private car and camped on a spur near the tunnel to help to encourage the work- men. Great preparations had been made for a grand excursion over the pass on the Fourth of July. It was now the last week of June, and the road not yet opened. Down at Denver they were constructing observation cars to carry the people through the new wonderland. An especially elaborate carriage had been made for the accommodation of the Governor and his staff. But there came a day up there when the Clouds lay heavy upon the hills, and there was not a breath of air stirring. Fortunately for the workmen, they had broken a hoie through the ice at the far end of the tunnel, and now, encouraged by the fresh air and another exit, worked with a will to clear the place. The engine went snorting in and out, with three flat cars in front of her, the miners kept blast- ing, and the men shovelling. It was nearly noon. ■ ■M t y- ,% \r\ ) ■iv;; S'*ii5?Mi«i#^ '^JiMEWrW^ ■i * : I :.> *« 254 OPENING OF THE ALPINE TUNNEL The tunnel, in spite of the new opening, gradu- ally filled with power-smoke and coal gas. The men working near the ground, and not far from the entrance, had felt no inconvenience. The fireman of the locomotive had gone out to the front end of the engine to fix a signal lamp, when of a sudden he was overcome, and fell among the men, who hastily carried him to the narrow doorway and out into the open air. Other workmen seeing this, stampeded and saved their lives. Meanwhile the heavy cloud lay like a wet blanket over the mouth of the tun- nel, held the poisonous air in and kept the fresh air out. Noticing the confusion of the work- men, the engineer leaned far out of his window and tried to make out in the smoke and dark- ness what had happened. He was a new man in the tunnel, the old engineer having been suspended pending an investigation of his case. Suddenly he felt a strange sensation. In another second he real- ized that he was alone in the great tunnel among the ghosts of the dead. He had strength and presence of mind enough to open the throttle, the wheels began to revolve, — under the engine \.)i\ OPSmNG OF THE ALPINE TUNNEL 255 and in his head,- he fell across the arm rest, and then the world ivas all dark and dead. A moment later the general manager, looking from the window of his car, saw the work train commg out of the tunnel like a ball out of a cannon, and saw the limp form of the driver hangmg from the window as the engine, still wide open, rushed down the steep grade. At a curve in the road the engine jumped the track and went tearing down the mountain-side, overturning great rocks and crushing tall trees down as though they had been weeds. The sudden lurch of the locomotive threw the driver from the window and left him unhurt upon the snow. The cool air soon revived him, and when the general manager came to look for h.m he found the driver sitting on the snow- bank without a scratch, but very pale and perspiring, cold, like one who has been very near to death. ' i: , II \;' >:^^y. ' . V' '?, 1^ f i^ n I V iV' p! r :'i ,^' ;« ■ fii\ i , »( U *'l t lb ^n t\)t 51Blacb4i0t 17 ^^ 11 ■ I • I i \ ON THE BLACK-LIST ii " J^EDMOND, dear," said Mn. Smith, "your *^ mother is dying." The boy looked up, bewildered, but showed ■ttle surpnse. His father had died four v Ir ago when he was barely ten, and now i, seemed r::^:::^---a.or't:b: uncle She h T """""' °^ '^ '"^'""-'y I J ft 4! 26o ON THE BLACK-LIST ^.\ ' If I V I • i,t i ^n the man and the boy appeared to misunder- stand each other. In a little while the boy found the plough handles in his hands, his feet in a furrow, and he followed the plough and the team that was following the hired man across the field. The boy went on mechanically, never taking the least interest in the work. It was not his work, and he wondered how long he would be kept at it. He was still wondering, when one day he saw a snowflake flying across the brown field, when the seed had been sown for another crop. When it was real winter he went to school, and was far more interested in his books than he had been in the field. His mother, having warning of what was coming, had spent all her leisure hours cramming the boy's head with book stuff, and he had taken it well. Of an evening when he came home from school he usually found the local freight crew doing way-work at the mill switch, and he took great interest in the trainmen and what they did. The whistle of a locomotive always attracted his attention. He was never too busy at work or at play to stop and look at the passing train. rn t\ O.W THE black-list 261 :revv took did. Icted rork Irain. From the field the boy saw the brakemen dangling their feet from the tops of box-cars as the long freight train toiled up a heavy grade. One day he went over to the fence and saw a new man open the switch, and heard him swear at the engineer, who did n't answer back. The brakeman was a small, young man, under a cream-colored linen cap. He was in his shirt- sleeves, and from his throat a thin silk necktie fluttered in the summer breeze. He wore a vest, to be sure, for he had to have its pockets to hold his big blue lead-pencil, his rabbit's foot, comb, and tooth-brush. The black and green shirt he wore fairly screamed when he waved his arms in the sunlight. The Smith boy had never seen mortal so mighty. With the small crook of his arm he could stop the big locomotive, and start it again with as little effort. He was awful, and yet the boy was not afraid. He was fascinated, and, craving a closer view, he hurriedly filled his hat with ripe peaches and went over the fence. The brakeman accepted the fruit as a matter of course. " Be back here to-mor', two- eighteen, sonny ; have a nice, cool melon for me — see ? " 1 V M I I \ K ■^I- 262 Oy THE BLACK-LIST It I',*- ')■» The Smith boy made no answer. He won- dered if any one would have the moral courage to answer this man. He was sure the engineer had not, and he had always considered the driver of a locomotive a great man. When the engine came out it waited respect- fully for the proprietor of the road, who locked the switch up for the main line and then, hold- ing his cap full of peaches under one arm, leaped lightly upon the pilot and rode proudly away. The next day when the local stopped to pick up the car that liad been loaded with floui, the farmer's boy had a big watermelon and two cantaloupes hid in the weeds near the switch. This time the brake man did not go on the engine when it backed away. To the amaze- ment of the boy the proprietor of the road stood at the switch and allowed the train to roll by him. When the caboose had come up to the switch, the brakeman, scowling, held an arm straight out and the whole train stopped, ** Come, hurry ! " said he. " Hustle yer pump- kins aboard." '''he bewildered boy hurriedly lifted the big watermelon and rolled it into the door of the way-car ; the arm of the great man !• £ -'.■"> .'t>t ' ' 1..'- • *-l ' «.*•> »»-.- ^.r=.^m .. ON THE BLACK-LIST 263 by the went up and wriggled, while down the long train the bumping .sound of the jerking cars came nearer and nearer. Now, as the boy threw the last melon into the caboose, it started forward with a bound, but the second it leaped, the brakeman had swung himself up, and now, standing wide-legged, he looked down upon the freckled face of the boy and said, almost pleas- antly, '' S' lopg, sonny. ' That evening, when Redmond and the hired man stabled the horses, had supper, carried water from the well to the calves in the cow pasture, and swill to the swine in the clover field, and were chopping wood in the twilight of a sixteen-hour work day, so as not to delay breakfast on the following morning, they heard a locomotive scream down behind the orchard. The boy looked up in time to see the overland flyer on the Sunrise Route flit by. Some boys, barefooted and free, passed down the road from the ball ground and called '* Reddy " to come and join them. The boy's day's work was done, all but carrying in the wood, but he was too tired to play. He strolled over to where his uncle, the farmer, miller, and liveryman, stood ^ \s i S. . { ■sh. f'*, 264 ON THE BLACK-LIST ■ ttj in his shirt-sleeves, leaning on the low fence watching the fat pigs romping in the clover. The boy had made up his mind to quit the farm. He would leave quietly, if he could, taking the good-will of his well-to-do relative with him. He was not made to be a farmer and he knew it. Remembering the advice of his mother, he would endeavor to keep friends with his uncle and act openly and honorably with him. Calling up all the courage he could command, he spoke to the stern man. He said he was tired of the farm and would like to go out into the world and try something else. The farmer was furious. He could not understand a boy who would leave a good home to become a tramp. " If you go you need never come back," said he, and the boy, glad to be away, turned and went into the house. Into the old satchel that had belonged to his father he packed all his belongings, — all that he cared to take with hiin, — and when the farmer and his wife were fast asleep he went down to the water tank that stood at the edge of the mill- pond, and waited for a train. IH , I I ^, ON THE BLACK-LIST 265 These practical, hard-working people had ap- preciated the boy according to his earning capa- city, but there was not much sentiment in the flimily. They had loved him as much as they loved the hired man who had lived with thetn three years, but no more, and so the boy, feeling this, had not taken the trouble to say good-bye. It was almost midnight when a long freight train stopped at the tank. The boy thought they must have forgotten to bring a caboose, but at last he found it at the end of a half-mile of empty stock cars diat were going West for stock. The train had started up again before the voyager reached the caboose, but he threw his satchel in and climbed aboard. The conductor would have dropped him off, but the honest face of the farmer lad was like an open book of blank passes, and he carried him to Cleveland. The next morning Redmond strolled down the freight yards and had the good fortune to meet the silent brakeman with the screaming shiit. At sight of the farmer's l)oy the brake- man laughed, — a thing unusual for him. ■ I want you to ;.:ct me a job,"' said Rcd- moiKi ij t 1 \ ! .3 '1 (' Ik ' »'U U' I J < ' 266 OAT THE BLACK-LIST "A job?" "Yes, sir." "What kind of a job?" " Anything tiiat 's railroading." By this time the yardmaster, a half dozen switchmen, and the messenger boy had gathered round the new-comer, and when he said he would go railroading and said it in good Eng- lish, they all roared, — all save the yardmaster. " Railroadin' ! " yelled the messenger boy, " wid milk ahn yer boot? " Red glanced at his boot and at the boy. The yardmaster bade the car boy keep quiet. He questioned the boy and asked the shirt what he knew of the boy, and when he had made up his mind that the boy had run away from home he said he would send him back on 29. The boy declared that he had not run away, that his uncle had said he could go, but that he must not come back. They sent him to the section-house and kept him there, and when the brakeman on the local had investigated and learned that the boy had told the truth, he at once became the champion of the " Alfalfa Kid," as they called him. jrjae'Jayeaagrajaa?** *^ ''* ^ ' ON THE BLACK-LIST 267 n The yardmaster took such an interest in Red- mond — " Red " from now on — that he started him out with the messenger boy to learn the yards, the routs, — the *' ropes," as he expressed it, — so that he might take the place during the absence of this very fresh youth, who would go to school when school opened. The messenger boy was so " dudish " that he objected to " carrying signals fur a farmer," and it was not until the yardmaster threatened to dismiss him that he consented to allow Redmond to accompany him. As soon as they were out of sight of the shanly the farm boy stood the messenger boy up against a box-car and made it plain that he had not c.ome all tlie way to Cleveland to be " run over." He would buy suitable clothes as soon as he could earn some money. Meanwhile he would wear what he had, and would not be insulted. " And you are not going to call me Alfalta, or Hayseed, for I won't let you." The eyes of the messenger boy open«i wider and wider as the farmer boy sjxjke. " Why, you don't peer to know me, Reddy. li ,,y i I f t 268 0^r THE BLACK-LIST They ain't a kid in Cleveland 'at I ain't tumped." " Well, you can't ' tump ' me." " Can't I ? " and as he put up his hand the farm boy seized him by the windpipe and, though he wiggled and kicked and cried — actually cried, did this little bully — he could not escape. He had been used to dealing with the thin-legged, sallow children, who ate cheap candy and slept in stuffy tenement houses, and the grip of the honest hand of this boy was too much for him, and he begged for mercy. Red- mond had a desperate temper for a boy, and he would not let his victim off until he had prom- ised him fair treatment. From that hour the messenger boy was Redmond's best friend. In a little while Redmond was the messenger boy. In his leisure moments he watched the men at work. He was as quick of wit as he was of foot, and used to amuse himself by taking off the numbers of a long string of freight cars as they rolled by into the yards. When his friend of the loud shirt had become a conductor the boy used to hand him a slip with the numbers and initials of all the cars in I ,■>, t ,• ,-*»M*^*^*^» i »U 'i<» fc j«« ON THE BLACK-LIST i 269 his train as the caboose passed the yardmaster's ofifice. The silent man would go over the list, and if he found a mistake he would consult the car in question, and usually it was he who had made the error. If a string of cars that had been cut off ap- peared to be coming in too swiftly, Red would run up one of the ladders and twist the brake and save a draw bar. Nothing escaped his notice. U he saw a scratch on the track he knew that a brake rod was down, and he never stopped until the injured car had been located. J < -1 Two years from the day he left his uncle's farm Redmond was switching and swearing in the Cleveland yards, and the yardmaster who had promoted him was the man who had worn the loud shirt. The boy was as big as the yard- master, and his age had been given in three years ahead of time, for he would expect pro- motion, and it would be necessary for him to be twenty-one ; so the yardmaster had decided to start him well. The boy, having been accus- .,/ ^ i f *"■ i'.i- P U P A' ) « / 'I, I i ^ ^v '1 ,^» it ,! ■'. i^iV I ? :/ • il ' f It 'il 270 ON THE BLACK-LIST tomed to outdoor work, was strong and active, and soon became a good yardman. To be sure, he learned to smoke and swear, but he never drank. He boarded at the sec- tion-house that stood at the end of the yards, and in less than a year his youthful heart had gone over to the dark-eyed daughter of the section boss. The years rushed past them, and before they knew what had happened the boy was a big blonde man, and the section foreman's " little girl " had developed into a plump, pretty womaii with big black Irish eyes. It was good for Red Smith that he fell early in love, for when he was with the girl he was out of trouble and missed many a fight ; for fighting was his besetting sin. His record in that re- spect was bad, and kept him in the yards when he might have been promoted. In the mean time the section boss became the roadmaster. The family now left the section station and went to live in a " house.' ' When Kitty was no longer the daughter of the section boss, helping at the tables, but was the daughter of the roadmaster going to school, Red Smith was still switching in the yards. ii » ii i i» ytmm, .i* mfl O.V Till: Ht.ACK-LIST *73 l>.--t went by like a breath of suntmer wi,..| from a bee of roses; but when this hones, girl >a. learned ho>v her lover ha,l suffered, tran,pe.,, and even begge.l, and that l,e haow to hold his place, and now at the age of uventy-three (twenty-six in his personal record) I'e was yard,nas,er at Cincinnati at a salary of one hundred dollars a n,onth. He had nLer forgotten his engagen,ent for a tnoment, and had been savmg his money for a whole year. He had unvested a little in lots near where the new shops were to be, and had managed to get bank°"" " '° '"' "''"' '" '^' ^-'i- Before the young people had left the bench the .w,l,ght bad deepened into darkness, and M.SS K,tty McGilhcndy had renewed her jlrom- ■se to be married to Yardmaster Jones, whose name had been Smith - some day. l8 !!)' i! V. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) ^^^ u 1.0 :^us »£ itt li'. 12.2 1.1 r-^Ks IL25 mi 1.4 I 1.6 *'■ ^ ^ > / // ^^ w ys ^ m Photographic Sciences Corporation ^^ ^\ <^ ^ ^°^ ^. >. 6^ ^>^ 33 wfST MAIS y>nnt WItSTH.N.Y. MSM (716) •73-4503 '^ ? „»i > II nft i i n i wo I m i I ix mmtmm ■ M HI' .lOXH— «>• °"«' '■" 'he city of the dead across the narrow vale, and thinking of the boy that had left him, who might now comfort him in his old age. He had been thinking that if M .*{i» 278 ON THE BLACK-LIST Redmond never came back (and he had told him not to), there would be none of his blood to follow him across the rill when the time came for him to go. "Where's Aunt Mary?" asked the young man, glancing at the big white house. " Over there," said the sad-faced farmer, swinging his head lightly in the direction of the village burying-ground. "What! not there?" " Yep. Did n't ye know it, Redmond? " "No," said the boy ; and glancing up he saw a tear roll down the face that had once seemed like marble to him. The next day Redmond strolled over the old farm with his uncle, stood in the orchard and saw the brakeman on local open the switch and set in a car ; but oh, what a difference. This fellow had no collar, and actually wore a jumper, like a fireman. That evening Redmond went over to the fence by the clover field, and, holding out his hand, said, abruptly," Good-bye, uncle." " Where 'd ye come froiv<, Redmond ? " asked the farmer. ON THE BLACK-LIST 279 " Oh, nowhere in particular/' said the young man. ^ " And be you going back to the same place neow?" ' " Yes," said Redmond ; and when the old man had taken his hand and let it go again, he strolled down to the water tank to wait for a train. It fell out that when Redmond Smith, the outcast of the Sunrise Route, secured work at Kansas City, he reported to the man who had awed him at Mill Switch and accepted a hat-full of peaches without thanks. He was the division superintendent, and he wanted a trainmaster. He gave the place to Redmond Smith. These two shrewd young men knew the busi- ness from the bottom. Neither had ever seen the mside of a college, but they could take the numbers from the cars of a freight train at ten miles an hour. They could figure time and build time cards, taking advantage of the road, and they knew how to get business. What was vastly more important at that time in the West, they knew how to handle it when they got it. 28o ON THE BLACK LIST t The railway grew ; the West grew, and they grew with it. When a trainman blew in from the East and asked for work, Redmond Smith looked at his hands, and at his face, turned him out in the yard, and if he swung his arms right he was right. If he fell down he was discharged and sent adrift in a busy world ; but the com- pany did not say, " 'I'hou shalt not work." There was no time nor place for that evil thing — the black-list — in the healthful, hospitable West. Many a time Kitty McGillicudy had turned her tearful face to the Virgin that looked down from the wall and implored her aid in finding her lost lover. The girl friend, upon whom the unhappy young people had relied, had taken the veil, and so awoke suddenly to the wickedness of her part in this plot against a loving parent, who was trying to save his daughter from an unhappy marriage. She had agreed to receive th* young girl's letters from Redmond and deliver them in another envelope, to Kitty, but when the first letter came she handled it gingerly, wondered what was in it, crossed herself, and sent it back OiW THE BLACK-LIST 281 to the writer. After that she could do nothing but hold her course, and so the love-letters all went back to the writer unopened and unread. The next few years following the girl's rt.turn to her father's home in Cleveland brought a great change to the roadmaster. There had been a new president elected for the Sunrise Route, a new general manager had come over from New England, and McGillicudy had lost his job. He had scarcely ceased to bewail his fate when another trouble overtook him. In the shadow of this great sorrow he had forgotten his lesser one, and his grievance against the man whose greatest offence, according to Mc- Gillicudy's way of reasoning, had been to love the dark-eyed Kilty. He did not know, of course, that the object of his wrath was then far beyond the Missouri^ in the free, wide West, where little men with petty grievances can't live. After the death of his wife, who had shared his hunger in the old green isle, and shared his prosperity in America, the old roadmaster be- came a sad and thoughtful man. He had pros- pered in America and enjoyed its freedom, but, 282 ON THE BLACK-LIST 1^ like many a foreigner, at the first opportunity he had withheld that freedom from a fellow- man. The ever dutiful Kitty, under the weight of a double grief, — the loss of a lover and of a mother, too, — sat brooding in the shadow of her sorrow. Far out in the West one day, two railway men sat discussing the problem of keeping a new track in shape. " I Ve written to old man McGillicudy," said the general manager. " He 's out of a job by the new deal on the Sunrise, and it we can get him we need not worry about the roadbed. You remember old Mack, the gruff old devil who was always showing up on the head end of a work train, or on the rear of the fast mail? " " Yes," said the superintendent, " I remember him." In a few days the general manager had a wire from the old roadmaster, who had been roadmaster when tWs same general manager was braking on local freight, and when this young superintendent was switching in the Cleveland yards, saying he would take the place. ON THE BLACK-LIST 283 The general manager wired transportation for John McGillicudy and family, and ten days later the old man was in a new world. Like the plain old man that he was, he had taken his daughter up to the general offices with him. When they had been in the office of the manager for half an hour, the stern-faced official said he would introduce? the new roadmaster to the superintendent. He blew into a tin pipe and told the man who answered to send Mr. Smith to hin. Now, when John McGillicudy saw the super- intendent, he put his hand to his forehead and said to the general manager that he could not take the place. '*Oh, yes, you can," said the young man to whom he was to report the next day for duty, "we have no black-list here." And then he walked over to the girl, and the touch of her hand told him that she'd not forgotten, and could never forget li [ \v 1 tde iPim Srain obrr iftr Brioge ■I !■ ^ inml '^ ' jml ' i^lf J al 'j ;ffl .; S"! *' Mi i THE FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE JT may have been because they had just ^ moved into their own little home, or because he had a new engine, or because he was to take the first express train over the big bridge, but, at all events, the engineer of the night express was unusually cheerful. The fireman was equally happy, for a good fireman IS as proud of his engine as is the engineer. He had wiped the dust from the blue-black jacket, touched up the brass bands, that in those days begirt the big machines that flew before the swift trains, and now stood beside the old engmeer, admiring the engine. The engineer's wife, with her young friend, who happened to be the fireman's sweetheart had come down to the depot to see « the boys '' Oil with their beautiful new machine, all gaudy in black and brass that shone like burnished 288 T//E FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE gold. In the shadow of tlie great engine the lovers lingered and talked in low tones of what was uppermost in their minds. But the girl was not quite happy. She had a nervous dread of the awful engine. She had never been so near to a locomotive, and now the valve flew open, just as she was saying that she had a presenti- ment of some great evil, and with a shudder she darted her hand into the hand of the fire- man ; and it lay there soft and white, like a bouquet in a hodman's barrow. " You '11 jump, won't you, if there is any danger? " said the girl ; and the fireman laughed and assured her that there was no danger. " Aye, but there is always danger," urged the girl, standing close to the tall young man who was to be her husband. He pressed her hand. Now the superintendent came forward, along with the master-mechanic, and the modest maiden drew away and found a harbor in the shadow of her chaperone. Presently the agent of the express company came up, took the superintendent to one side, and the two officials talked together in a whisper. Now the railway official spoke to the engineer. "The detec- ^ffE j^,xsr 7vf^/,v orEK t„e brwgf. 289 tives," began the superintendent, "have sot >v.nd of a robbery. The Wabash gang, i, has been vaguely hinted, will hold yo„ up at the Kaskasba, so you might better be on the look- out, and — " '■Whist, be aisy," whispered the engineer, nodd,ng toward the two women. " Don't let he w,fe hear ye talkin' that guff about detec- ■ves, or ye '11 have to get another man .0 run her She s never a bit afraid of a wreck, but ■St breathe about train robbers and she '11 start throwm water out of her stack in a holy minute." ' "Very well," said the official; "but you must not call it 'gufl;- ^^ ,h„ • . cianger." The driver ' assured him"thaTTe would not stop at the Kaskaskia unless the bndge was burning, and the superintendent smd good-n,ght and went his way. In ,he mean t,me the master-mechanic had strolled over to where the women were, and engaged the g.rl ,n conversation. A pretty girl Zl , ra,lway man, regardless of age oVclass, Ta lamb attracts a lion. » => a "So you thou^c^ht you'd like to come do^vn 19 290 THE FIRST TRAIiV OVER THE BRIDGE and see Dennis off on his last trip, did you, Maggie ? " asked the master-mechanic. Maggie blushed becomingly, and nestled nearer to the engineer's wife, as she asked, ''Why his last trio?" " Well, he 's going to be promoted to-morrow," said the oiificial ; and the girl clapped her hands and gave a little cry of joy, but the M. M. put up his finger, and she was silent. " A young man who is brave enough to take a wife on fireman's wages deserves promotion, and we are going to make an example of him — not an awful example, but a good one — for the rest to follow." The girl blushed again, and the good wife of the engine-driver put a protecting arm about the slender waist. She knew it, and had known it for hours, for her husband, whr had helped to bring it about, had told her. Railroad men have few secrets that their wives do not help them to hold, and the fewer they have the better. Make your wife your confidant and nothing that con- cerns you will be news to her ; therefore she will not gossip about your business, for women like to have something " new " to say when they THE FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE 291 talk. It was almost leaving time. The girl stole to the side of her lover, who drew her dic,creetly into the shadow of the engine. "Oh, Dennie," she cried in a big whisper, ' I 've got good news for you — no, I mus n't tell, so don't ask me, but, Oh, it 's such news ! " and she clapped her little hands joyfully, without making a particle of noise. The fireman glanced up and down the line, and then his arm stole round the girl's waist, and he pressed her to his newly washed jumper, and felt her iieart beating against his breast as the heart of a wild bird beats when you catch it and hold it in your hand. Love is blind, but chaperones are ever on the lookout, and when the good woman saw the young people " killing in the dark," it made her sigh for the days that were gone, and, stealing to her husband's side, she sneaked a little kiss up under the peak of his cap, and he caught it as he dropped a marker on the main pin. The Vandalia had the first place on the plat- form of the new station, and behind the engine that now stood steaming and puffing, impatient to be off, there was a splendid train. The Alton, the Wabash, the O. & M., and other older roads 292 THE FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE were made to feel the force of the new Hne, and the result was a better class of trains running out of St. Louis than ran at that time out of any of the railway centres farther East. Now the con- ductor tosses his white light, and as the ray of it flashes on his spick-span uniform, all brilliant with brass buttons and gold cord, the engineer opens the throttle, and the big machine slips out of the long, low shed. How wild and high and awful the big bridge seemed to the engineer, who now found himself gliding above the broad river, — over the tops of tall steamers, that bellowed at screaming ferries that were sulking in the river, jealous of the big bridge that had robbed them of their revenue and their glory ! Now the strong, swift steed, feeling the earth beneath her feet again, bounded away to the bluffs at Collinsville. A few moments later she screamed for Troy, and without stop- ping went roaring down toward the West Silver- creek Bridge. The fireman strained his eyes as they trembled round the curve below Sherman Park, a new town that had just been hacked out of the oak forest. Now they found a long tan- gent, and the driver saw the friendly white light run flKST TSM/.V OysR THE BKIOGE 293 at tl,e bridge beyond Hauler's, and the head- light .juivered on the furrowed face of the faith- (ul old watchman. , 'ITie men on the engine exchanged glances as the big engine hfted tliem up toward High- lands. It was almost midnight when thev reached Effingham, the end of their run, but there was no engine available to take the place of the dusty steed, for this was one of the most ■mportant runs on the road. The line was new they were short of engines, and she must Ao double work to-night. The engineer refused to leave her, the fireman remained with tl,e driver, and in ten minutes they were off again for the State line. When only a half-hundred miles remained between them and Terre Haute, they stopped at a lonely tank for water. While the driver was watching the fireman's signal at the top of the engine tank (it's hard to stop a heavy train just so, you know) two men in long linen dusters wearing steel masks, boarded the engine. They ordered the engineer to slack back, cut off the mail and express car, and " pull down the track a piece." 294 ^^^ FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE mi\ ' The indignant driver looked at the men with- out making any reply. The men became nerv- ous. They were not cool and polite, like the gentlemen who were in the same line of business at that time in the newer and wilder West. The fireman saw the robbers, remembered the advice of his sweetheart — "jumped," and went back to warn the captain of the train. "Will you take our signals?" asked one of the catchers, glaring at the driver through his bird-cage. " No," said the engineer. The man in the mask was toying awkwardly with his six-shooter. Next to a drunken man a scared and nervous man is most dangerous with a gun. Now the second robber came forward to say that he had pulled the pin behind the express car, and the other gentleman in long linen renewed his request, but the driver stub- bornly refused to pull out. Some one came running forward ; the nervous robber levelled his gun, fired, and the driver fell dead across the arm-rest. The robbers opened the throttle, ran down the line about a mile, and stopped near a farmhouse. They now ordered the express I - THE FIRST TRALV OVER THE BRIDGE '95 messenger to open the car, and he refused. The farmer, hearing the talk, looked out, and seeing the locomotive, came out to see why it should be standiiig there in his field at two a. m. Farmer-like he had not thought of danger, but came sauntering up the track with the head- light gleaming on his hickory shirt. Nearer and nearer he came, walking unconsciously up against the guns of the desperadoes. They could count the bone buttons on his breast, and see a spot where he had dropped some tgg on his shirt-front that morning at breakfast. Now the glare of the headlight so blinded him that he held his head down so as to shade his eyes. The two masked murderers raised their revolvers and aimed at the inapprehensive man. Perhaps they thought it a good time to fire, now that his eyes were shaded, and they were not compelled to look the while into his honest face. Each seemed to wait for the other to fire. Suddenly the farmer looked up. " Hey, thar," he shouted. " Whatche doin' thar ? " Now the sight of the farmer's face and the sound of his voice, ringing out on tl.o still night air, so terrified the robbers that they took to 296 THE FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE their heels, cowards that they were, and left the messenger and the farmer in charge of the train. Larry Hazen, the express company's detective, and detective Thiel of St. Louis went after the robbers. They chased them into the wilderness of the Wabash bottoms, but were unable to chase them out again. . Some years after the murder of the engineer, young Pinkerton discovered a man at Chicago known as '* Big Ed. Hennessey." who claimed to know the robbers. The Pinkertons got the short card monte sharp out of jail and sent him down to testify against the alleged robbers. They had been arrested by a detective, who had heard a man and a woman discussing the hold- up in a drinking house at I'erre Haute. Hen- nessey testified strongly against one of the men. He swore that this man had asked him to join in the robbery, but he had refused. His busi- ness was that of a robber, but not of the high- way variety. His testimony, however, was not taken as the whole thing by the jury. The accused, having good counsel, was cleared, and so the murder of the engineer has remained one of the many mysteries that are still unsolved. *t t THE FIRST TRAIN OVER THE BRIDGE 297 The childless widow of the murdered man is an old woman now ; she lives where she has lived for the past twenty years, with Maggie and her husband. She has ever loved Maggie, for she it was who put the poor woman up to stealing tliat sweet last kiss. !l if iFann^ ano tijc iFirrman f FANNY AND THE FIREMAN C It here, please," said Fanny ; and she stood *^ with her siiapely hands upon the back of a chair that she had drawn a little way out from the table. It was the boast of the proprietor that he had the handsomest lot of table-girls on the road, and the Queen of the collection was Fanny McCann. That is how .he happened to be head waitress, for she could not know much of the business. She had come to the eating station partly because her widowed mother was poor and partly to gratify a consuming desire to pose as the prettiest girl in the place, for she had been consulting her mirror. The fireman frowned, but took a ^;,ax next the proprietor of the Mint Julep. The fire- man's face, newly washed and hard rubbed, glistened in the glare of the electric light, and the same light played upon the jewelled hands and immaculate shirt-front of the Julep man 302 FANNY AND THE FIREMAN The fireman bowed coldly, and the other, feel- ing a certain superiority in the matter of dress and personal appearance, smiled. The head waitress, taking a position at one of the windows, stood looking at the two men, both of whom had made love to her. She had pur- posely seated them so as to get their faces in one frame, as it were, for she had been unable to forsake one and cleave to the other. She respected the fireman, — she had loved him once, and had acknowledged it to him, — but she was dazzled by the handsome, well-groomed proprietor of the Mint Julep. Once or twice the fireman ventured to look up, but each time he saw her gazing upon his rival, and his heart was filled vith dread. "What time shall I call? " he asked, as Fanny punched his meal-ticket. " Not before nine. I detest being first in a ball-room." " Suppose we say eight-thirty ? It will be nine by the time we reach the hall." " Nine," said Fanny, smiling and no(3ding at the Julep man as he passed out, with his chin- chilla thrown gracefully over his shoulders. M FAXNV AND THE FIREMAN 303 " But I 'm on the reception committee." ''Then go and recep and come back for me. I shan't leave the house before nine. My, how jay you are ! '' The fireman went out with a heavy heart. Fanny was getting on. She had not used such language to him before, and it cut him to the quick. He iiad felt it himself, but to have her see it and tell him of his shortcomings to his face was crushing. He remembered how he had begged her to keep out of the eating house and tried to hint to her mother that the place was full of lures. '* It 's only a short step in the direction of danger," he said, _ "a public dining-room, camp- meetmg, the skating rink, an — " '* Stop ! " said Fanny's mother. *' I will not have you hint even that Fanny is capable of being bad." And so the fireman had been powerless to - prevent the pure young girl from putting herself in this Eden so freighted with poisonous fruit. Promptly at nine o'clock he called for Fanny. She would be out in a moment, her mother said. During the half hour in which he waited for 304 FANNY AND TIIK FIREMAN the expiration of a woman's "moment" the fireman noticed a number of new pieces of fur- niture. Also he noticed that Fanny's mother was a little mite remote. Fanny herself, while amply deliberate, was irritable and nervous. Conversation seemed to go slowly with them, like a heavy train on an up grade, and when he shut off they appeared to be going back. When they entered the ball-room, the fiddlers were already fiddling, and they fell in line for the opening walk around. Over in one end of the hall there was a bank of plants and ferns, loaned by leading citizens for the firemen's an- nual ball, and just in front of the oasis stood the Julep man, immaculate as ever, and wearing the only dress-suit in the room. My, but he was ra- diant ! and all the more so by comparison, for not a few of the respectable black suits worn by the firemen and their friends were beginning to take on that unmistakable shine that comes with age. "Oh, Isaac," exclaimed Mrs. Wolfstine to her husband, " what a beautiful young lady I Who is she?" " She ees not what you say, — a lady. She ees waitress fum ze eating house." FANNY AND THE FIREMAN 305 lent" the :es of fur- 's mother self, while nervous, ith them, when he k. e fiddlers 1 line for le end of nd ferns, len's an- itood the firing the " was ra- J, for not 1 by the ; to take ith age. stine to g lady! r She "And who is the handsome gentleman writ- ing on her card ? " " He ees not one gentleman, my dear. He ees ze proprietor of ze Mint 'Ulep." Now, Mrs. Wolfstine marvelled that this man should be there dancing with the daughters of the best families in this growing Western town. But why should he not be there? Every fire- man on the division had sold or tried to sell him a ticket to the annual ball. Society had not yet become stratified, and this wolf was still allowed to romp with the lambs. After the ball, when honest people were asleep, he would go and mingle with his own kind. The fireman was surprised upon taking Fanny s card to find tliat his rival had already written upon it. A half hour later he took the card again to select a number, and found the face of it black with : "Julep." "Julep." "Julep." This man had been called by that name so much that he had come to answer to it and ao 3o6 FANNY AND THE FIREMAN write it. Indeed, few people in the place knew that he had another name. It was two hours after midnight when the fireman opened the gate in front of the little frame cottage where the girl's mother lived. " Well," said the girl, putting the gate be- tween them, " was the ball a success ? " " For some people I think it was a decided success." " And for others ? " " A flat failure." '•' That 's too bad," said Fanny, with provok- ing carelessness. " Oh, I don't know. Where there are so many smooth runs and smooth runners there must always be a few wrecks and failures." Fanny yawned and ended it with a forced, hall-apologetic laugh. " Fanny," said the fireman, " I want to ask you one question before I go, and I would like a frank and honest answer." "Well?" " Do you love me ? " " I have said that I did." " And you have shown that you do not." It 'H FANNY AND THE FIREMAN 307 " Then why do you ask me ? " " For your answer. If you can say truthfully that you love me now, fresh from the radiance of that tinsel god Julep, I shall trust you." " Oh, you don't need to trust me if you don't want to! I'm sure 1 never asked you to. Good-night ! " " Fanny," exclaimed the fireman, stretching his arms over the gate, " is this the end of my dream ? " The girl twisted the little gold engagement ring from her finger and thrust it across the gate. Now the fireman wondered that he had not until now noticed the beautiful diamond that sparkled even in the pale moonlight. How strangely sad the organ sounded in the man's ears ! He could scarcely remember when he had been inside of a church. " It 's all rot, Fanny, ole girl," he had said, " hawkin' a dead baby round a damp synagogue — women snifflin', priest workin' the sprinkler. 'S 'nough to give a man the jimjams." r I 308 FANNY AND THE FIREMAN " Mother of God," wailed the woman, falling upon her knees beside the small white coffin, " take my baby, my baby ! " And then she lay and sobbed above this mite of cold, cold clay. The man turned his bloated, distorted face from the window, drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and flicked the dust from his patent- leather boots. And that 's how the Mint Julep man happened to hear the organ. Ill Fanny had just returned from the little stony graveyard that had grown up with the town. The grass of two summers had grown green upon the grave of her dead baby. Her hus- band, the Mint Julep man, was no more. His light had gone out in the midst of delirium, and his body had been sent back East to his people. They had seen men carrying a man on a stretcher from the train across the river to the hospital. " Engineer hurt ! " shouted a freckled boy iSmi i ir' i ' FANNY AND THE FIREMAN 309 going past the cottage, proudly spreading the news. "Who is it?" II Dunno," said the boy, without slowing down. " Yes it 's him," said Fanny's mother, coming back from one of the neighbors ; " caught un- der his engine -leg broke and badly scalded." Fanny put her chin in her hand, and the tears began to run down her pale face. If only she could go to him ; but she had no right. Besides, he might not care to have her. She had seen him but once since they parted in the moon- light at the gate. That was the day her baby was buried. Lifting her eyes from the grave that was clos- "ig over the white coffin, she had looked into his face, and. seeing a look of sympathy there, she had almost thrown herself into his arms, so utterly lonely and miserable did she feel ; but he turned away, probably to hide his own tears. It was a week later that the kind-hearted surgeon consented to allow her to visit the in- jured man. He was asleep when she entered, and she sat down silently beside the little iron bed. The ga w lBwtf tBJii ri < U W MH> ^ ^ 310 FANNY AND THE FIREMAN sight of his pale and honest face so affected her that she took his hand and held it in hers. The sleeper stirred slightly, and she put down the hand, but not until she had left two tears upon it. When he could collect his weak and waver- ing mind, the sick man looked upon the pale but still beautiful face of the woman and whis- pered the one word, the one name, that had been the sweetest name in the language to him in his youth. He had taken her hands, and now drew her toward him. She turned her face away. " Ah, Fanny, don't you think you could learn to love me again ? " " I have never ceased to love you," she said, with her honest eyes upon his. '* It was all a mistake, — an awful, horrid mistake." " Here, here ! " said the doctor, entering. " If you 're going to cry, I '11 send you away." *' No, you won't," said the engineer, smiling, and taking her hand in his. " She 's going to be my nurse." THE END t BOQK S^ CY WARM AN • THE WHITE MAIL i2mo. $1.35 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS The Nation. Cy Warman can always impart a living interest to a story through his close intimacy with locomotives yard- masters, signals, switches, with all that pertains to rail - n,admg m a word -from a managers' meeting to a ^°f : . ^^? ^^""^^^ enthusiasm he feels for the denizens of his iron jungle is contagious. The Outlook Mr. Cy Warman, by long personal experience, ac- quired a close and exact knowledge of the life of rail road men "The White Mail " brings out realistically the actual life of the engineer, the brakeman, and the freight handler. The Congregationalist Cy Warman writes excellent railroad stories, of course, and his new one, " The White Mail," is short lively, and eminently readable. * St. Louis Globe-Uemocrat In "The White Mail," Cy Warman, in the pleasant, witty style for which this {)oet of the Rockies has be- come noted, has presented a tender, touching picture CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS 153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK HOOKS BY CY WAR MAN FRONTIER STORIES i2mo. $1.35 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS Kkview ok Reviews Nobody knows his frontier life better than Mr. War- man, and his yarns of Indians, striking miners, cow- boys, half-breeds, and railroad men, are full of vivid reality. There is plenty of romance and excitement in this score of stories. The Churchman Eighteen tales which certainly are excellent in their kind, quick, breezy, full of the local color, yet with delightful touches of universal humanity. Cincinnati Commercial Tribune They are honest little chapters of life simply written, an effective word of slang stuck in here and there where it does not seem at all out of place ; honest, open-hearted, steady-eyed narratives all, with the breeze of the Western prairies in every line, as well as the brotherhood of man, and his triumphs and his failures impressing themselves upon ycu at every turn. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK I B^^KS^BY CY WAR MAN THE EXPRESS MESSENGER ^nd Other Tales of the Rail xamo. $1.25 OF THE PRESS OPINIONS Boston Transcript The author's work is familiarly and pleasantly known to magazine readers for the realistic details of VVestern rahroad l.fe, which give them a dashing, vital movement, though they are often highly romantic. The romantic' in them, however, seems very human _ indeed, there 18 a nng of true feeling in these little tales. Brooklyn Daily Eagle Mr. Warman's work has about it the merit of a genuine realism, and it is as full of romance and adven- ture as the most exacting reader could desire. It is a volume oj sketches that is well worth reading, not only because they are well written and full of action, but for the pictures they give of a life tiiat the world really knows very little about. Philadelphia Press The poet appears in the descriptive passages, and there is a melodious rhythm to his prose style that is pleasurable in a high degree. Mr. Warman has a tield of his own, and he is master of it. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK II I* ' HOOKS BY CY WARMAN TALES OF AiN ENGINEER With Rhymes of the Rail ismo. $1 2^ ' OPINIONS OF THE PRESS The Congregationalist There is true power in Cy Warman's "Tales of an Engineer," and the reader yields willingly to the attrac- tion of its blended novelty, spirit, and occasional pathos. It does not lack humor, and every page is worth reading. The Churchman A new departuri; in literature should be interesting even if lacking \r "^lio brilliant ort'-hand sketchiness of these pages. One steps into a new life. There is not a dull page in chis book, and much of it is of more than ordinary interest. New Vork Commercial Advertiser The. J is a rugged directness about the description of rushing runs on the ra'l, througii which one can hear th'j thump-thump of the machinery as the engine dashes over the rails, and which seems to be illumined by the glow of the headlights and the colored signals. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK \^ y