CHAPTER VII THE CALL TO DUTY

One can easily understand with what enthusiasm Jim Anderson and Allan West continued the study of telegraphy. Here was something worth while, something vital, something with which great things might be accomplished; for surely there are few things in this world greater than the saving of human life.

Then, too, there was the protection of the company’s property. A collision such as that which had been averted would have demolished engines and cars worth a hundred thousand dollars. Damage suits, destroyed freight, the interruption of traffic, the cost of repairing the right of way, the loss of prestige which attends every great wreck—all these might easily have carried the total loss to a quarter of a million.

Yet neither in this accident nor in any other was it the money loss to the company of which the officials thought. They thought only of the danger to the passengers, for the passenger is the road’s most sacred trust. In his behalf, the road exacts eternal ? 68 ? vigilance from every man in its employ. His safety comes first of all. For it, no railroad man must hesitate to risk his life; nay, if need be, to throw his life away. He enters the service of the road on that condition—and rarely does he fail when the moment of trial comes, as it is sure to come, sooner or later.

The boys, then, had reason to be pleased with what they had accomplished. The superintendent kept his word, and instruments of the latest pattern were soon installed by Lineman Mickey, while the current for the line was furnished by the company’s batteries, and was stronger and more constant than their own little battery had been able to give them. Nor was that all the help they had, for the trainmaster and the dispatchers took an interest in their work, and drilled them in the various abbreviations and code signals in use on the road, as well as the calls for the various offices.

They were permitted to “cut in” with the main line whenever they wished; the messages which flashed over it were then repeated on their own sounders, and they could try their hands at transcribing them. Needless to say, they progressed rapidly under this tuition, which was the very best they could have had; and the day came at last when Allan, sitting at his desk sorting the mail, could understand perfectly what all the instruments about him were saying.

There is within us, so scientists say, a sort of ? 69 ? second-self which takes care of all actions which become habitual, without troubling us to think of them, or to will their performance. Thus we breathe without any effort of consciousness—a wise provision of nature, else we should die of asphyxiation as soon as we went to sleep. The muscles which control the heart keep on working of themselves from birth to death. Thus, too, while the baby must distinctly will every step it takes, the child soon learns to walk or run automatically, without thinking about it at all, the muscles moving of themselves at the proper instant. So the fingers of the piano-player come to perform the duties required of them instinctively; and so, at last, the ear of the telegrapher recognizes a certain combination of sounds as having a certain meaning, and the brain has no need whatever to puzzle them out. The sounds are recorded mechanically, and the brain furnishes the translation.

Nay, more than that. The operator, worn out by long hours, sometimes goes to sleep beside his key. His slumber is so deep that the roar of passing trains does not disturb it, nor the clicking of his sounder, as messages flash over the wire. But let his call be sounded, that short and insistent combination of dots and dashes which means his office—a single letter usually—and he will start awake. The ear has caught the call, has sent it into the brain, and some second-self there rouses the sleeper and tells him he is wanted. Operators are not supposed ? 70 ? to go to sleep on duty; to be caught asleep means a “lay-off,” if not dismissal. Yet they do go to sleep, for the long hours of the night pass slowly, and there are times when the weary eyes refuse to remain open. If it were not for the little monitor within which stays awake, on guard, listening for its call, accidents on the rail would be of much more frequent occurrence, and few operators but would, sooner or later, lose their jobs. And there is nothing especially peculiar or remarkable in this. Almost any one, worn out with fatigue, will go to sleep with the buzz of conversation about him; but let some one speak his name insistently over and over and the sound of it will somehow waken him. An operator’s call is as familiar to him as his name, and will attract his attention just as surely.

It was to this sixth sense, this second-self, that Allan was at last able to assign the duty of listening to the instruments in the office. He knew what they were saying, without having to stop all other work to listen; nay, without consciously listening at all. He had reached the place where he was competent to “take a trick”—much more competent, indeed, than young operators usually are.

But still there came no opening for a regular position. A railroad does not “play favourites,” no matter how deserving they may be. So long as a man does his work well, his position is his; and he stands in regular line for promotion. Incompetency ? 71 ? brings its punishment, swift and sure; just as signal services, in time, bring their reward; but reward and punishment are according to an established rule.

For the record of every man is kept minutely from the hour he enters the employ of the road. What he may have been or done before that does not matter, once employment is given him—he starts square. But even the smallest thing he does after that does matter, as he finds out, in course of time, to his amazement and chagrin. The trainmaster keeps, in a drawer of his desk, a little book bound in red leather, wherein entries are made every day; and the heart of the trainman who is “on the carpet” falls when he sees it produced. It affects him a good deal as the book wherein the Recording Angel writes will affect most of us at the Day of Judgment.

It happened, at this particular moment, that all the operators’ positions on the road were filled by competent men, and so Allan had to wait until some one of them was promoted or resigned. As for Jim, he had reconsidered his decision to become an operator. He had a natural love and aptitude for machinery, and he finally determined to remain in the branch of the service where he was, and seek promotion where he would probably deserve it most. But Allan’s mind was made up, and he lost no opportunity to perfect himself. Often, after supper, he would return to the dispatchers’ office and prevail ? 72 ? upon the night operator to permit him to attend to his work for awhile, and in this way he got valuable practice; but he longed for the day when he should be given a key of his own—when the responsibility would be all his.

The chance came at last. He was just finishing up his work, one evening, preparatory to going home to supper, when the instrument on the chief-dispatcher’s desk began to call. Allan, without really listening, heard the message:

“Night man at Byers Junction reported sick. Send substitute.”

The chief-dispatcher clicked back “O. K.,” and closed the key. Then he wheeled about in his chair and met Allan’s eager eyes.

“There’s a job for you,” he said, “if you want it.”

“Want it!” echoed Allan. “I certainly do!”

“And if you think you can fill it,” the chief added. “The work at Byers is pretty heavy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Allan promised.

The chief looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded quickly and glanced at his watch.

“You’ll do,” he said. “And you’ve only got thirty minutes. You’ll have to catch Number Sixteen.”

“All right, sir; I’ll catch it,” said Allan, and he went down the steps two at a time.

Mary Welsh was just spreading the cloth preparatory to getting supper when Allan raced up the ? 73 ? steps leading from the street below and burst in at the door.

“Why!” cried Mary. “What ails th’ boy!”

“Hooray!” yelled Allan, and seized her and danced around with her in his arms. “I’m going to be an op-e-ra-tor!”

“Well, I’m sure,” gasped Mary, releasing herself and reaching up to push the loosened hairpins back into place, “that ain’t so wonderful. You’d ought t’ been a oppeyrator long ago! A railroad ain’t got no sense o’ gratitude!”

“There, there!” cried Allan. “The road’s all right—and I’ve got to catch Number Sixteen—and I wonder if there’s a crust of bread or a cold potato, or anything of that sort handy?”

“Crust o’ bread, indade!” snorted Mary, glancing at the clock. “You’ll have your supper. Go an’ git washed, an’ I’ll have it ready fer ye in a jiffy.”

“All right,” said Allan, “but I warn you I’ll be back in just a minute and a half.”

Indeed, it was not much longer than that; but when he came in again, his face shining from a vigorous rubbing, supper was almost ready—an egg fried to a turn, with a bit of broiled ham beside it, bread and butter, blackberry jam, a glass of milk, and a piece of apple-pie—just the sort of toothsome, topsy-turvy meal a healthy boy likes.

“Mary,” he said, “you’re a jewel!” and he stopped to hug her before he sat down.

? 74 ?

“None o’ yer blarney!” she retorted, and affected to push him away, as she gave the last touches to the table.

Allan pulled up his chair and fell to with an appetite born of health and good digestion—an appetite unspoiled by over-indulgence, or by French confections, requiring no stimulus but that which work honestly done gave it. He ate with one eye on the clock, for he was not going to run any risk of missing his train, and at the end of five minutes, pushed back his chair and rose with a sigh of satisfaction.

“That was great!” he said. “Now if I may have one of those luscious doughnuts of yours, or a piece of that pie, to keep the wolf from the door to-night—”

“Doughnut, indade!” cried Mary. “What do you suppose I’ve been doin’ all this toime! Here’s your lunch,” and she set on the table a little basket, covered with a snowy napkin.

Allan’s eyes were shining at this new proof of her thoughtfulness for him.

“Mary,” he began.

“There, there,” she interrupted; “git along or you’ll miss your train. Good-bye. An’ take good keer o’ yerself, my dear.”

Allan snatched up hat and basket.

“Good-bye,” he said. “I’m certainly a lucky boy!”

She stood at the door watching him as he crossed the yards.

? 75 ?

“Yes,” she murmured to herself, turning back into the house as he passed from sight, “an’ I’m a lucky woman!”

Dan Breen, the caller, met Allan as he stepped upon the station platform.

“Here’s yer card,” he said, and held out a little envelope.

“My card?” repeated the boy, taking the envelope mechanically.

“Yes, yer card; how did ye expect t’ ride—pay yer way?”

“Oh,” said Allan, understanding suddenly; “my pass. Yes; thank you,” and he swung aboard Number Sixteen just as it was pulling out.

When the conductor came through to collect the tickets, the boy proudly produced the card, which commanded all employees of the road to “pass the bearer, Allan West, on all trains, over main line and branches, Ohio Division, P— & O— Railway.” The conductor glanced at it and then at the boy, nodded, and passed on.

Half an hour later, with fast-beating heart, Allan dropped off the train at the little frame shanty which served as the operator’s office at Byers Junction. The day operator had been compelled to work thirty-five minutes overtime, and was in no very genial humour in consequence, for if there is one point of honour upon which all operators agree, it is that they shall relieve each other promptly. ? 76 ? So the day operator, whose name was Nevins, and who knew that his supper would probably be cold when he got to it, merely nodded to the boy when he appeared in the doorway, put on his coat and hat, picked up his lunch-basket, and went out without saying a word.

Allan, his pulses racing, set his basket on the table, took off coat and hat, hung them on a nail near the window, and looked about the little room. The instrument was calling, but not for him, so he had leisure to examine the orders which fluttered from a hook on the wall near by. One was for a train which would be due in a few minutes, and Allan went to the door to see that the signals were properly set and burning.

White is no longer a safety signal on any of the larger railroads. The colours now in use are red for danger, and green for safety. Under the old system, the red lens of the lantern might drop out or a tramp might smash it, leaving the lantern showing a white light past which the engineer would run, thinking everything all right. So green was substituted for white, and now white means danger just as much as red does. The only light past which an engineer may run is a green one. In fact, the first rule under the “Use of Signals” is that a signal imperfectly displayed, or the absence of a signal from a place where one is usually shown, must be regarded as a stop signal.

The railroads are trying all the time to find some ? 77 ? third colour which can be used satisfactorily in signalling. Red for danger and green for safety are very well, as far as they go; but a caution signal is badly needed—one which will not absolutely stop a train, but which will warn the engineer to get it under control and proceed carefully. No such signal which will do the work required of it under all conditions has as yet been devised, although yellow is now used on some roads for this purpose.

Of course there are one or two other colours used. A combined green and white signal, for instance, is used to stop a train at a flag station; and a blue flag by day, or a blue light by night, displayed at one or both ends of an engine, car, or train, indicates that workmen are under or about it. When thus protected, it must not be coupled to or moved, and no man may remove these signals but the one who placed them there. This rule is enforced absolutely to safeguard, as far as possible, the lives of the employees of the road.

The only fault in the system—as in all systems—is that human beings are not infallible, and mistakes are sometimes bound to happen. The signals may be wrongly set, or when rightly set, may not be seen. Fog or smoke may obscure them, and the engineer rushes by, trusting that all is well. If he obeyed the rules, he would stop and make sure; but that would delay the train, perhaps needlessly, and trains must be run on time. The engineer who ? 78 ? fails to run on time, either through timidity or overcaution, is very soon relegated to the work-train or the yard-engine—a humiliating fall for the master of the queenly flyer.

As Byers was a junction, there were two signals there for the government of trains, one a train-signal on the front of the shanty, and the other a semaphore just outside the door. The train-signal was merely an arm or signal-blade, operated by a lever inside the shanty. Normally, this arm hung down in a perpendicular position and showed green, which meant proceed; but when the operator wanted an approaching train to stop, he pulled the lever, raising the arm to a horizontal position. At night, of course, it would not be possible for an engineer to see the position of this arm, so at the inner end of it was a large casting with two holes in it, one fitted with a green lens and the other with a red one. Behind this a lamp was placed, and when the arm hung down for safety, the light shone through the green lens. When it was raised, the red lens was thrown before the light and indicated danger.

The semaphore was a tall pole just outside the door. At its top was a cross-arm, bearing at either end red lanterns at night, to indicate its position, and operated by a lever at the foot of the pole. When the arm at the top stood in a perpendicular position, displaying the signals one above the other, it indicated that P. & O. trains could pass; when ? 79 ? the arm was thrown to a horizontal position, displaying the signals one beside the other, it cleared the track for the connecting road. A ladder on the side of the pole enabled the person in charge of it to mount and attach the lanterns at nightfall. He was supposed to take them down and fill and clean them sometime during the day. There is, it may be added, a semaphore at every railroad-crossing which is worked on just this principle.

Allan had, of course, in preparing himself for the duties of operator, familiarized himself with all the signals used; and, as has been said, he stepped to the door of the shanty to assure himself that the train-signal was raised and showing red and that the lanterns on the semaphore were burning properly, so that the train which was almost due would stop to receive the orders intended for it. Then his heart gave a sudden sickening leap, for the light of neither train-signal nor semaphore was showing at all!

Already he fancied that, far down the road, he could hear the hum of the approaching train! The day operator, despite the lateness of the hour, had not taken the trouble to light the signals. It was not his duty, strictly speaking, but there are times when more is expected of a man than his mere duty. It might not have really mattered, of course; the absence of any signal would bring the train to a stop, if the engineer obeyed the rules; but at the very least, it would have been his duty to report at ? 80 ? headquarters that the signals at Byers were not burning, and Allan would have incurred a reprimand, and a severe one, in the first half-hour in his new position.

All this flashed through the boy’s mind much more rapidly than it can be set down here. In an instant, he had sprung to the train-signal, lowered it, touched a lighted match to the wick of the lamp, and then, as the flame flared up, hoisted the signal into place. Then, with a single glance, he assured himself that the semaphore lanterns were not in the shanty. Evidently the day man had not taken the trouble to bring them down and clean them; and the boy, without pausing to take breath, started to climb the pole. As he neared the top, he saw the lanterns swinging in place; but to light them, especially for the first time, was a ticklish job.

He heard the train whistle for the crossing half a mile away, and his hands began to tremble a little, despite all effort to steady them. He reached out, drew one lantern to him, snapped it open, and, after an instant’s agony, got it lighted. Then he grabbed for the other. It swung for a moment beyond his reach, and the effort nearly overbalanced him; but he caught himself, got it at last, drew it to him, lighted it, and snapped it shut again, just as the headlight of the approaching engine flashed into view. He ran hurriedly down the ladder. As he reached the door of the office, he ? 81 ? heard his call. He jumped to the instrument and answered.

“Where have you been—asleep?” came the question.

“I was fixing the lanterns on the semaphore,” Allan answered.

“Hasn’t first ninety-seven reached Byers?”

“There’s a train just pulling in,” Allan answered, and at that moment the conductor appeared in the doorway.

“Are you first ninety-seven?” Allan asked him.

“Yes,” replied the newcomer. “Any orders?”

Allan handed them to him with a sigh of relief that all was well, and notified the dispatcher that first ninety-seven had reached Byers at 7.16.

It may be well to explain, at this point, that the regular freight-trains on every road are usually run in sections, the number of sections depending upon the amount of freight to be moved. For instance, if, toward the middle of the afternoon, there has accumulated in the yards at Wadsworth only enough west-bound freight for a single train, the cars are made up, and at seven o’clock, immediately following the accommodation, regular west-bound freight-train No. 97 is started toward Cincinnati, and runs as nearly as possible on the schedule given it in the time-table.

If, however, there are too many cars for one engine to handle, they are made up into two trains, and the first one that goes out is called the first section, ? 82 ? and displays at the front of the engine two green lights to show that another section is following. Ten minutes later, the second section is sent out, displaying no signals. Theoretically, both sections constitute one train, and the track cannot be used by any other train until both get by; but this is a theory which is constantly broken in practice. Sometimes, when freight business is heavy—in the fall, for instance, when the grain crops are being moved and the merchants throughout the country are laying in their supplies for the holidays—there will be three or four sections of each of the regular freight-trains.

But while this system allows for a certain expansion of traffic to suit the road’s business, by far the greater part of the freight in the busy season is handled by “extras”—that is, by trains which have no place on the time-card and no regular schedules, but which must run from station to station, whenever the track happens to be clear. For instance, as soon as Number Two, the east-bound flyer, pulls into the yards at Wadsworth, an extra west-bound freight will be started out, with orders to run extra to the end of the division. The conductor is armed with the time-card, and must keep out of the way of all trains which appear on it. He is also provided with meeting orders for all the other extras which happen to be going over the road at the same time, and must take care to comply with them. As he goes from station to station, ? 83 ? he is kept informed as to whether any of the regular trains are behind time, so that he need not wait on any of them unnecessarily, but may get over the road as rapidly as possible. The actual conduct of the train is left largely to him and to the engineer, so that their responsibility is no light one.

All of this sounds much easier than it really is. As a matter of fact, the task of carrying on the business of a single-track road, where it is practically impossible for all trains to run on time, where meeting-points must be provided for all freight-trains, without delaying them unduly, and where the passenger-trains must have always a clear track and opportunity to make up as much time as possible, if they happen to be late, is one of the most delicate and nerve-racking that could be imagined, though under the new double-order system it is not so bad as it was under the old single-order one.

The burden of keeping things moving and of getting the trains over the road in the shortest possible time, falls principally upon the dispatcher at headquarters, but every operator along the road bears his part, and an important part. He must keep awake and alert for any orders the dispatcher may wish to send him; he must note the passage of every train and report to the dispatcher the exact moment at which it passed; and he must be sure that the station signals are properly displayed, and that all orders are properly delivered. Upon the faithful fulfilment of these duties does the safety ? 84 ? of trains depend; but especially upon the second, for unless the dispatcher knows accurately the exact position of every train, disaster is sure to follow.

Only once that night did Allan have any trouble. That was about three o’clock in the morning. There had not been many orders for Byers, for traffic was light, and he had passed the time listening to the orders sent the other operators and studying the time-card and book of rules with which all operators are provided. But at last his sounder began to clatter out the already familiar "-..., -..., B, B," which was the call for Byers. He answered it and took down the following message on his manifold sheet:

“Hold extra east, eng. 632, at B.”

Allan repeated it at once from his copy, and a moment later, “Com 3.10 C R H” was flashed back to him.

The “com” meant “complete,” showing that the order had been accurately repeated; the “3.10” was the time the order was sent, and the “C R H” were the initials of the superintendent, which are signed to all train-orders. Three copies must be made of every such order, one for the conductor, one for the engineer, and the other for preservation by the operator. This is done by using tissue-paper for the orders—which are usually called “flimsies” for that reason—between the sheets of which carbon-paper has been placed. A steel-pointed instrument called a stylus is used to write with, instead ? 85 ? of pen or pencil, in order that the impression through the three sheets may be clear and distinct.

A few minutes after Allan had taken the order, the extra east pulled in, and the conductor, Bill Higgins, stalked into the office.

“Any orders?” he asked.

Allan handed him two copies of the order just received, then waited, his own copy in his hand, for Higgins to read the order aloud to him, as required by the rules. But instead, the conductor merely glanced at it, then, with a savage oath, crumpled it up in his hand and started to leave.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Allan asked.

“Read it? I have read it!” answered Higgins, savagely.

“Not aloud to me,” Allan pointed out.

“What do you mean, you young fool?” demanded Higgins, turning upon him fiercely. “D’ you think I don’t know my business?”

“I only know,” replied Allan, paling a little as he saw that Higgins had been drinking and was in a very ugly mood, “that the rules require you to read that order aloud in my presence.”

“Well, what of it? That rule was made, mebbe, by th’ same fool that just sent this order holdin’ me here fer an hour, when I could git into Hamden easy as pie afore Number Ten was due! What do I care fer th’ rules? This here road’s goin’ t’ blazes, anyway!” and he turned to go.

“Very well,” said Allan, evenly; "you will do as ? 86 ? you think best, of course. But if you don’t obey the rules, I shall have to report you."

At the words, Higgins sprang around again, purple with rage.

“Report me!” he shouted. “Why, you young whipper-snapper, I’ll spoil that putty face o’ your’n,” and he raised his fist.

“Hello, here,” called a voice from the door. “What’s the trouble?” and Allan glanced past the irate conductor to see the engineer standing in the doorway. “What’s up, Bill?” he repeated, coming in. “What’s the kid done?”

“Threatened to report me if I don’t read this here order to him,” answered Higgins sullenly.

The engineer glanced sharply from one to the other.

“Is that all?” he said. “And you were going to fight about a little thing like that, Bill?”

“No kid shall report me!” growled Bill, but he looked a little foolish.

“Well, then, read the order,” advised the engineer, easily.

Bill hesitated an instant, then smoothed out the crumpled paper.

“’Hold extra east, engine 632, at Byers,’” he snapped out, and handed the engineer his copy.

“’Hold extra east, engine 632, at Byers,’” repeated the latter. “Correct.”

The conductor turned without another word and left the office. The engineer followed him with his ? 87 ? eyes until he disappeared in the darkness, and then turned back to Allan.

“Would you really have reported him?” he asked, eying the boy curiously.

“Yes,” answered Allan, slowly. “I think I should. He was drunk.”

“He has been drinking,” admitted the engineer. “Personally, I detest him. But he’s got the sweetest little wife you ever saw, and three kids that worship him; so he can’t be wholly bad. What would become of them if he’d lose his job? Of course, you can report him yet, if you want to. But I’d think it over first,” and the engineer followed Higgins out into the night.

Allan did think it over, and the result was that the superintendent never heard of that encounter in the little Byers office.