CHAPTER VI A PRIVATE LINE

The conductor of Number Two, having consoled and encouraged his passengers to the best of his ability, went forward into the smoker and sat down in a corner seat to sort his tickets and make up his report. From time to time, he glanced out the window, and though the driving snow shut off any glimpse of the landscape, he could tell, by a sort of instinct, just where the train was. He knew the rattle of every switch, the position of every light. The quick rattle of a target told him that the train had passed Harper’s. He recognized the clatter of the switches at Roxabel as the train swept over them; then, from the peculiar echo, he knew that it had entered a cut and that Musselman was near. Then the train struck another cut, whirred over a bridge, and began to coast down a long grade, while the shrill blast of the whistle sounded faintly through the storm, and he knew that they were approaching Wadsworth. The lights of the city would have been visible upon the right but for the swirling snow. There was a sharp repeated roar ? 55 ? as the train shot over the two iron bridges at the city’s boundary—and then there came a shock which shook the train from end to end, and sent the parcels flying from the wall-racks.

Instantly the conductor swung up his feet and braced himself against the seat in front of him. He knew that that sudden setting of the brakes meant danger ahead, and he wanted to be prepared for the crash which might follow. It is a trick which every trainman knows and which every passenger should know. The passengers who are injured in a collision are usually those who were sitting carelessly balanced on the edge of their seats, and who, when the crash came, were hurled about the car, with the inevitable result of broken bones. To trainmen and experienced travellers, the unmistakable shock which tells of brakes suddenly applied is always a signal to brace themselves against the more violent one which may follow in a moment. Often this simple precaution means all the difference between life and death.

But in this case, the train came shrieking to a stop without any shock more violent than the first, and the conductor hastened out to investigate. He found the engineer and fireman standing in front of the engine, staring at a fusee burning red in the darkness, and questioning a young fellow who stood near by.

“What is it?” demanded the conductor, hurrying up.

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“This here youngster says he had orders t’ flag th’ train,” answered the engineer.

“Orders from whom?” asked the conductor sharply, turning to the boy.

“Orders from—”

The boy stopped and turned red.

“Well, go on. Who gave the orders?”

“A chum of mine,” burst out the boy desperately. “He works in the trainmaster’s office. He wired me a minute ago to flag Number Two and be quick about it. I just had time to get that fusee lighted when you whistled for the crossing.”

The conductor frowned. The whole affair savoured of a boyish prank.

“And do you mean to say,” he demanded, sternly, “that because another boy told you to, you stopped this train—”

He paused, his mouth open, and listened, hand to ear. Then he stooped, snatched up the fusee, and fairly hurled himself down the track, waving the blazing torch above his head. And an instant later, his companions caught the sound of an engine pounding up the grade toward them.

The red light disappeared through the snow; then two sharp whistles testified that the signal had been seen; and a moment later, a great mogul of a freight-engine loomed through the darkness and came grinding to a stop not thirty feet away.

Her engineer swung himself to the ground and came running forward.
“SNATCHED UP THE FUSEE, AND FAIRLY HURLED HIMSELF DOWN THE TRACK”

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“What’s all this?” he demanded; and then he saw the headlight of the other engine, almost obscured by the snow which encrusted it, and turned livid under his coat of tan. “What train’s that?”

“That’s Number Two,” answered the conductor, who had returned with the smoking fusee still in his hand.

“Number Two!” echoed the engineer, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. “Nonsense! I saw Number Two pull into the yards ten minutes ago!”

“No you didn’t,” retorted the conductor, grimly, “for there’s Number Two back there.”

The engineer passed his hand before his eyes and stared, scarce able to understand. Then his face hardened and his lips tightened.

“There must have been a freight ahead of you,” he said. “It came in just on your time.”

“We’re ten minutes late—and getting later every minute,” the conductor added, and stamped impatiently.

Just then the conductor of the freight came hurrying up. The engineer turned to him with a little sardonic laugh.

“Well, Pete,” he said, “I guess this is our last run over this road.”

The conductor’s face turned ghastly white.

“Wha-what do you mean?” he stammered.

The engineer answered with a wave of the hand toward the headlight glaring down at them.

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“That’s Number Two,” he said.

“Number Two!” echoed the conductor, blankly. “But then—why weren’t we smashed to kindling wood?”

“Blamed if I know,” answered the engineer, turning to clamber back on his engine. “And I don’t much care. I reckon we’re done, anyway.”

And they were, for a railroad never forgives or overlooks a mistake so serious as this.

Jim Anderson came out of the house a moment later with an order from the trainmaster for the freight to back into the yards, and the flyer to follow.

Only the driving storm had kept the passengers on the flyer from coming out to inquire what the matter was; and when the conductor swung himself on board again, he was greeted with a volley of questions. What was the trouble? What had happened?

“Trouble?” he repeated, with a stare of surprise. “There wasn’t any. We had to stop for orders, that was all.”

“You stopped pretty sudden, it seems to me,” growled one old traveller.

“The engineer didn’t see the stop signal till he was right on it,” answered the conductor, blandly.

“Snow so thick, you know.”

And the passengers returned to their seats satisfied, and none of them ever knew how narrow their escape had been—for it is the policy of all railroads ? 59 ? that the passengers are never to know of mistakes and dangers, if the knowledge can by any means be kept from them.

However, the employees in the yards at Wadsworth had realized the mistake almost as soon as the dispatchers had—and there was quite a crowd waiting to greet the trains—a crowd which even yet did not understand how a terrible accident had been averted. It was not until the conductor of the flyer stepped off upon the platform and told the story in a few words, with voice carefully lowered lest some outsider should hear him, that they did understand; and even then, it was not as clear as it might have been until Tom Mickey came along and told how he had permitted the boys to use the old wire.

As for the engineer of the freight, he dropped off his engine the moment it stopped, and hurried away to his home without even pausing to remove his overalls. Six hours later, he was boarding a train on the N. & W., to seek a job in the south. The conductor remained for the inquiry and tried to brazen it through, but the evidence showed that, instead of staying out in the storm to watch for the arrival of Number Two and give the engineer the signal to go ahead, he had told the latter to start as soon as the passenger pulled in, and had ensconced himself in his berth in the caboose and gone comfortably to sleep. So he, too, was informed ? 60 ? that the P. & O. no longer required his services.

When Jim Anderson reported for work next morning, his foreman told him he was to go at once to the office of Mr. Heywood, the division superintendent. He obeyed the order with some inward trepidation, crossed the yards to the division headquarters, mounted the stairs, and knocked tremulously at the door of the superintendent’s office. A voice bade him enter. He opened the door, and saw, sitting at a great desk, a small, dark, dapper man who was dictating at fever heat to a stenographer. He paused for an instant, looking inquiringly at Jim.

“I’m Jim Anderson,” said the boy. “My foreman told me—”

The superintendent nodded.

“That will do, Graves,” he said to the stenographer. “Send young West in here at once.”

“Very well, sir,” answered the stenographer, and went out.

Mr. Heywood turned abruptly in the direction of his visitor.

“So you’re Jim Anderson?” he began.

“Yes, sir.”

“It was you who flagged Number Two last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me about it.”

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Jim told the story as briefly as he could. Allan came in before he had finished.

“Now let’s hear your story,” added the superintendent, turning to Allan, and the latter related his share in the adventure.

“There’s only one thing I don’t understand,” said the superintendent, when Allan had finished, turning back to Jim, “and that is how you came to have that fusee.”

Jim reddened.

“I found it, sir,” he explained. “You remember when the caboose of Number Ninety-seven was derailed about a month ago, near the bridges, and rolled down the bank and was smashed to pieces?”

“Perfectly,” answered the superintendent, dryly.

“Well,” Jim continued, “I suppose the box of fusees in the caboose must have been broken open and scattered about. Anyway, I found this one the next day in some bushes at the foot of the embankment. I suppose I should have returned it to the company—but—well—I thought I’d keep it for the Fourth of July.”

His voice trembled and stopped, and he stood with hanging head, like a criminal waiting his sentence.

Let it be explained here that a fusee is a paste-board tube filled with powder—the same sort of powder which produces the red fire which forms a part of every exhibition of fire-works. At one end of this tube is a spike which can be thrust into ? 62 ? the ground. The other end of the tube is closed by a cap containing a piece of emery-paper. To light the powder it is only necessary to remove the cap and scrape it on the end of the tube till a spark falls into it. A fusee burns with a bright red light for exactly ten minutes, and no train may run past one which is burning.

Its uses are manifold. It makes a brilliant danger signal, and one which no engineer can fail to see, which no mist nor snow can obscure, and which no wind can extinguish. But it is usually used by night—as torpedoes are by day—to protect the rear of a train which has been temporarily disabled and delayed between stations.

If a train is stopped by a hot-box, for instance, a brakeman is at once sent out to protect the rear. He walks to a distance of two or three hundred yards, carrying a flag in the daytime or a lantern by night, with which to stop any train which may happen to come along before his train is ready to proceed. Ordinarily, there is no danger to be apprehended from in front, because the dispatcher will permit no train coming toward them to pass the next station until the train which is in trouble arrives there.

As soon as the heated journal has been cooled sufficiently to allow the train to proceed, the engineer blows four blasts on the whistle to recall the brakeman. But, obviously, during the time that he is walking back to the train and the train itself is ? 63 ? getting under way, another train may come along at full speed and run into it. So, before he returns, the brakeman sticks a fusee in the middle of the track and lights it. It will burn for ten minutes, and during that time no train may run past the spot, so all danger of accident is avoided. If the breakdown occurs during the daytime, the brakeman will affix two torpedoes to the track instead of using the fusee. The first train which runs over these torpedoes explodes them, and the engineer must at once get his train under control, reduce speed, and look out for a stop signal. A single torpedo is a signal to stop.

It was one of these fusees, a number of which are carried in every caboose, which had enabled Jim Anderson to flag Number Two, and lucky it was that he had it, for on a night such as the one before had been, a lantern would almost certainly have failed to be seen. But Jim did not think of that, as he stood there with hanging head. His only thought was that he should not have kept the fusee, that it belonged to the company—that he might be thought a thief. He looked up at last to find the superintendent smiling at him.

“My boy,” said Mr. Heywood, “if, as you go through life, you never do anything worse than you have done in keeping possession of that fusee, you will never have any reason for remorse. It had been abandoned there by the company; you found it. You were under no obligation to return it. We ? 64 ? had lost it through our own carelessness; it may have been missed, but was thought not worth searching for. So dismiss that from your mind. I called you boys before me for a very different purpose than to reproach either of you. In the first place, I want to thank you for your prompt and intelligent action, which saved the road what would probably have been one of the worst wrecks in its history. It is the sort of thing the road never forgets.”

There were four cheeks now, instead of two, that were flaming red. The praise was almost more embarrassing than the expected blame.

“In the second place,” continued the superintendent, “I have ordered Lineman Mickey to overhaul your private line and to equip it with up-to-date instruments.”

He smiled as he looked at the beaming countenances before him.

“In the third place,” he went on, "I have ordered a box of fusees and another of torpedoes left at your home, Anderson. And they’re not to be used on the Fourth of July, either—at least, not more than one or two. They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but it’s just possible that some day we may want you to flag another train out there, and so we provide you with the means to do it.

“In the fourth place,” he added, rising and ? 65 ? glancing at his watch, “I’m going to offer you the first positions as operator that are vacant. Now don’t thank me,” he protested, as exclamations of pleasure burst from the young lips before him. “I don’t deserve any thanks. I’m simply looking out for the best interests of the road. We want operators who are more than mere telegraphers—we want men who are equal to an emergency, who have their wits about them, who can think quickly, and who don’t get rattled—men like that are a good deal harder to find than you might think. That’s the reason we want you two. I don’t believe that one boy in a hundred would have had the wit to act as promptly and intelligently as you did last night. Now, I’ll let you know—”

The door burst suddenly open and a girl rushed in—a girl of perhaps seventeen, with flushed, excited face—the loveliest face, Allan thought, that he had ever seen.

“Oh, papa!” she cried. “Our train will start in a minute! We mustn’t miss it!”

Mr. Heywood laughed and glanced at his watch again.

“We won’t miss it, Bess,” he said. “We’ve got three minutes and a half. No train has ever started ahead of time on this road since Mr. Round took charge of it. Good-bye, boys,” he added, and shook hands with them heartily. "Hold yourselves ready for orders—and meanwhile get all the practice you ? 66 ? can. Come, Bess," and the father and daughter went out together, leaving the boys staring after them with a mixture of emotions difficult to describe.