CHAPTER VIII AN OLD ENEMY

Every night must end, although that one, as it seemed to Allan, was at least forty hours long. His greatest difficulty was to keep awake, for he had been working all day before he came on duty. More than once he caught himself nodding, until, at last, he dared not sit still in his chair, but went out upon the stretch of cindered path before the shanty and tramped up and down it, pausing now and then at the door to make sure his instrument was not calling him. The cool air of the night blew sleepiness from his eyes, at last, and he stood for a long time gazing out over the silent fields. Away in the distance a cock crew; others answered it, hailing the dawn; for the eastern sky began to show a tinge of gray. From every tree and coppice came sleepy twitterings, which, as the east grew brighter, burst into songs of joy to greet the rising sun.

Birds never make the mistake that some boys and girls do, of rising with sour faces—"wrong end ? 89 ? first." They know how much it adds to the day’s happiness to start the day right; they are always glad when morning comes, and they never forget to utter a little song of praise and gratitude for another sunrise. Then they fly to the brook and take their bath, and hunt cheerfully for breakfast. Nor do they lose their tempers if they can’t find some particular worm or bug of which they are especially fond. Truly, bird-ways are worth imitating.

Allan sat down in the door of the shanty to watch the daily miracle which was enacting before him, but which most people have come to regard as a matter of course. It was the first sunrise he had seen for many months—in fact, since the days, seemingly years ago, when he had risen every night to take his trick at guarding the track from train-wreckers. Now, as he sat here, watching the brightening east, all the adventures of that time came vividly back to him, and he smiled to himself as he reviewed them one by one. He had made many firm friends—and one enemy, Dan Nolan, the vicious and vindictive scoundrel who had tried in so many ways to injure him; and had finally joined the gang of desperate tramps who had given the road so much trouble, and who, caught in the very act of trying to wreck the pay-car, had been sentenced to a term in the penitentiary.

Allan had incurred Nolan’s enmity the very first day of his service with the road. Nolan had been ? 90 ? a member of Jack Welsh’s section-gang, and had been discharged for drunkenness. He knew, however, that the place on the gang would be hard to fill, and expected to be taken back again. But that very day, Allan, who had walked all the way from Cincinnati in search of employment, came along, and Welsh, impressed by the boy’s frank and honest face, had given him the place. Nolan had blustered, threatened, and even tried to kill him; and had ended by being sent to the State prison.

Allan’s face darkened as he recalled Nolan’s many acts of enmity, and the thought came to him that he had not yet heard the last of the scoundrel. But this gloomy mood did not endure long, for suddenly a radiant yellow disk peeped over the hills to the east, and flooded the world with golden splendour. The birds’ songs of praise burst forth afresh, and every tree, every plant, every flower and blade of grass, seemed to lift its head and bow toward the east to greet the luminary upon which all life upon the earth depends. Its warm rays drank the dew from the meadows, and over the brook, which ran beside the road, a filmy mist steamed upward from the water. Away off, across the fields, Allan could see a man ploughing, and a herd of cows wandered slowly over a near-by pasture, cropping the fresh grass and blowing clouds of warm and fragrant breath out upon the cool air. Allan resolved that so long as he held this trick, every dawn should find him at the door watching ? 91 ? for the sunrise, the wonder and mystery and beauty of which he was just beginning to understand.

A call from his instrument summoned him back into the office. There were a number of orders to take for trains from east and west, which were to meet and pass at Byers, and by the time these had been duly received, repeated, and O. K.’d, six o’clock had come and gone. Six o’clock was the hour of relief, but Nevins did not appear. After that, every minute seemed an hour, and Allan began to understand Nevins’s feelings the night before, when his own relief did not arrive. He began to fear that he would miss the morning accommodation train to Wadsworth. If he did, he could not get home before noon, and he was desperately tired and sleepy. He went to the door and looked out, but saw no sign of Nevins, and was just turning back into the office, when a low, sneering laugh almost at his elbow caused him to start around. It was Nevins, who stood there grinning maliciously. He had evidently come around the corner of the house, while Allan was looking out across the fields.

“Well,” he sneered, “how d’ ye like it?”

“I don’t like it at all,” said Allan.

“After this,” added Nevins, pushing past him, “you be on time and I will. That’s all I want of you.”

“We’ll have to rearrange our tricks,” said Allan, his cheek flushing at the other’s tone. "I can’t get here until the evening accommodation at six-thirty; ? 92 ? so suppose you come on half an hour later in the morning. That will even things up."

Nevins growled a surly assent, and turning his back ostentatiously, he hung up his coat and flung himself into the chair.

“There are three orders,” added Allan. “One of them—”

“Oh, shut up!” snarled Nevins. “I can read, can’t I?”

“Yes; no doubt you can. But the rules require that I explain outstanding orders to you before I go off duty.”

Nevins looked up at him, an ugly light in his eyes.

“So you’re that kind, are you?” he queried. “Little Sunday-school boy. Ain’t you afraid your mamma’s worryin’ about you?”

“Don’t you want me to—”

“I don’t want you to do nothin’ but get out!” Nevins broke in, and took the orders from the hook and looked over them. “As I said before, I can read. I suppose you can, too. So don’t bother me.”

An angry retort rose to Allan’s lips, but he choked it back; and at that instant a whistle sounded down the line, and the roar of an approaching train. He had just time to grab coat and lunch-basket and swing aboard, and in a moment was off toward Wadsworth.

He sank into a seat, his heart still hot at Nevins’s insolence; and yet, on second thought, he was glad ? 93 ? that he had not yielded to the impulse to return an angry answer. It was natural that Nevins should have been provoked, though the delay of the night before was not Allan’s fault in the slightest degree; and, in any event, there was no use making an enemy of a fellow who might be able to do a great deal of mischief. But one thing Allan resolved on, his lips set: he would explain outstanding orders to Nevins, whether the latter chose to listen or not.

Mary Welsh was waiting for him at the door.

“You poor boy,” she said. “You’re half-dead fer sleep!”

“Only a quarter dead,” Allan corrected, “and I’ll soon be good as new. What’s that I smell?” he added, wrinkling his nose, as he stepped inside the door. “Hot biscuits?”

“You go git washed,” retorted Mary, with affected sternness, “an’ you’ll see what it is when ye git t’ table. Hurry up, now!”

“All right,” laughed the boy. “I know you, Mary Welsh.”

And when he sat down, he found that his nose had told him correctly. The biscuits were flaky and white and piping hot, with golden butter melting over them; and there were three slices of bacon cut very thin and browned to a turn; and potato-cakes—not those soggy, squashy potato-cakes which are, alas! too familiar—but crisp and brown, touching the palate in just the right way. Ah, Mary, you have achieved something in this ? 94 ? world that many of your more “cultured” sisters may well envy you! How few of them could create potato-cakes like yours!

It was after eight o’clock when Allan finally climbed the stair to his little room under the roof, and went to bed. Mary had darkened the windows, so that the light should not disturb him, and he dropped off to sleep almost at once. I know the physiologists tell us that sound sleep is impossible after a hearty meal, but, candidly, I don’t believe it. Healthy animals, at least, have no difficulty in sleeping after eating; in fact, a nap almost always follows a meal. Watch your cat or dog after you have fed them. The cat will make a hasty toilet and curl up for a snooze; the dog will drop down behind the stove or in a sunny corner out-of-doors without even that formality. It is only when the stomach has been ruined by long years of overfeeding that one must use all the precautions which physical culturists and health-food advocates and cranks of that ilk advise—must eschew biscuits for bread two days old, and half-starve oneself in order to live at all. But the healthy boy may eat whatever he pleases, in moderation, and be none the worse for it.

So all the day Allan slept, never once so much as turning over, hearing nothing of the comings and goings in the house. Indeed, Mary Welsh took care that there should be little noise to disturb him. Mamie, when she came home from school at noon, ? 95 ? was promptly warned to keep quiet, and ate her dinner as silently as a mouse. Not until the sun was sinking low in the west and a glance at the clock assured her that he must be awakened, did she climb the stair which led to his little room and tap gently at his door.

“Allan!” she called. “Allan!”

“Yes?” he answered sleepily, after a moment.

“You must be gittin’ up, if you’re goin’ t’ ketch your train,” she said.

“All right; I’ll be down in a minute,” and he sprang out of bed and into his clothes in a jiffy.

Mary had his supper smoking hot on the table, and Mamie, who had just come home from school, sat down with him to keep him company.

“I don’t like your new position very well, Allan,” she said, as she poured out his coffee for him.

“Why not?” he asked, smiling down into the serious little freckled face.

“Why, you’re going to be away from home every evening,” she explained. “Who’s going to help me get my lessons, I’d like to know?”

Allan laughed outright.

“So that’s it? Well, we’ll have to make some arrangement about it. Maybe in the morning, as soon as I get in—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” broke in Mrs. Welsh, sharply. "When you git home in th’ mornin’ you’re goin’ straight t’ bed, jest as soon as you git ? 96 ? your breakfast. Mamie kin git her own lessons. It’ll do her good. You’re fair spoilin’ th’ child."

“I’ll tell you,” said Allan, “I’ll get up half an hour earlier in the afternoon. There’s no sense in my sleeping so long, anyway. It’ll make me stupid. You hurry straight home from school, and we’ll have plenty of time.”

Mamie clapped her hands. Then she sprang from her chair, flew around the table, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Allan, you’re a dear!” she cried. “A perfect dear!”

It was at this moment that the door opened and Jack Welsh came in, grinning broadly as he saw the tableau at the table.

“Mary,” he said, “it seems to me that Mamie’s gittin’ t’ be a very forrerd sort o’ body. It’s scandalous th’ way she runs arter th’ boys.”

“Only arter one boy, Jack,” corrected his wife, “an’ I don’t care how much she runs arter him. But how did ye happen t’ git home so early?”

“I was hungerin’ fer a sight o’ your black eyes, me darlint,” answered Jack, winking at Allan, and he passed his arm about his wife’s trim waist and gave her a tremendous hug.

“Go way, ye blarney!” she cried, beating him off. “Do ye wonder your child’s forrerd when her father sets her sich an example? An’ I s’pose you’ll be wantin’ your supper now. Well, it ain’t ready!”

? 97 ?

“No,” said Jack, releasing her, “I’ve got t’ go back t’ th’ yards first t’ see th’ roadmaster. I’ll be back in about half an hour. Come along, Allan, if you’re goin’.”

Allan put on coat and hat, picked up the luncheon-basket, which Mary had already packed for him, kissed Mamie again, and followed Jack down the steep path which led to the street. He turned at the gate to wave good-bye to Mary and Mamie, who stood watching them from the door above, then followed Jack across the maze of tracks toward the station.

“Th’ fact o’ th’ matter is, Allan,” said Jack, in a low voice, as the boy caught up with him, “I come home early on purpose t’ see you.”

“To see me?” Allan repeated, and when he glanced at Jack, he saw that his face was very grave.

“Yes, t’ see you,” said Jack again, and hesitated, as though reluctant to impart the news which he knew would be unwelcome.

“What is it?” asked Allan, and a little shiver ran through him, for he knew that Jack would not speak so without good reason.

The elder man hesitated yet a moment.

“Dan Nolan’s loose,” he said, at last, his voice hoarse with emotion.