CHAPTER XII PLACING THE BLAME

The crowd of officials aboard the president’s special was a jolly one. To get away, even for a few days, from the toil and moil of headquarters was a genuine and welcome vacation, and though there were three stenographers aboard, all of whom were kept busy, there remained plenty of time for story-telling and good-natured quizzing. At the head of the party was President Bakewell, dressed in the height of fashion, holding his present position not so much because of any intimate knowledge of practical railroading as because of his ability as a financier, his skill as a pilot in days when earnings decreased, when times were bad, and when the money for running expenses or needed improvements had to be wrung from a tight market. At doing that he was a wizard, and he wisely left the problems of the actual management of the road to be solved by the men under him.

These, with very few exceptions, had risen from the ranks. They knew how to do everything from driving a spike to running an engine. They had ? 128 ? been drilled in that best of all schools, the school of experience. The superintendents knew their divisions, every foot of track, every siding, every fill, bridge, and crossing, more thoroughly than the ordinary man knows the walk from his front door to the gate. They had gone over the road so often, had studied it so thoroughly, that they had developed a sort of special sense in regard to it. Put them down anywhere along it, blindfolded, on the darkest night, and, at the end of a moment, they could tell where they were. They knew each target by its peculiar rattle as the train sped past. They knew the position of every house—almost of every tree and rock—along it. They knew the pitch of every grade, the degree of every curve; they knew the weak spots, and laboured ceaselessly to strengthen them.

Now, as the special swept westward from general headquarters, superintendent after superintendent clambered aboard, as his division was reached, and pointed out to the president and other general officers the weak spots along it. He showed where the sidings were insufficient, where the grade was too steep to be passed by heavy trains, where a curve was too sharp to be taken at full speed without danger, where a bridge needed strengthening or replacing by a masonry culvert. He pointed out stations which were antiquated or inadequate to the growing business of the road, and suggested ? 129 ? changes in schedule which would make for the convenience of the road’s patrons.

For a railroad is like a chain—it is only as strong as its weakest link, and the tonnage which an engine can handle must be computed, not with reference to the level track, but with reference to the stiffest grade which it will have to pass before reaching its destination—except, of course, in cases where the grade is so stiff, as sometimes happens on a mountain division, that it becomes a matter of economy to keep an extra engine stationed there to help the trains over, rather than trim the trains down to a point where a single engine can handle them.

The president listened to the arguments and persuasive eloquence of his superintendents, and nodded from time to time. His stenographer, sitting at his elbow, took down the recommendations and the reasons for them, word for word, as well as a comment from the president now and then. As soon as general headquarters were reached again, all this would be transcribed, typewritten copies made and distributed among the general officers; the recommendations would then be carefully investigated and approved or disapproved as might be.

At Parkersburg, Superintendent Heywood and Trainmaster Schofield, of the Ohio division, got aboard, to see that the needs of their division received proper consideration. Athens, Zaleski, McArthur, ? 130 ? and Hamden were passed, and the two officials exchanged a glance. They had a recommendation to make which, if approved, would mean the expenditure of many thousands of dollars.

“The next station is Byers Junction,” said Mr. Heywood. “From there to West Junction, as you know, the D. W. & I. uses our track. In view of the great increase of traffic during the last year both Mr. Schofield and I feel that the D. W. & I. should either be compelled to build its own track, or that the P. & O. should be double-tracked between those points.”

“Hm!” commented the president. “How far is it?”

“Seven and a half miles.”

“Do you know how much another track would cost?”

“Not less than fifty thousand dollars.”

“What return do we get from the D. W. & I. for the use of our track?”

“It has averaged ten thousand dollars a year. But their freight business is increasing so that I believe it will soon be fifteen thousand.”

“Hm!” commented the president again. “Why don’t they borrow the money and build their own track?”

“In the first place, their credit isn’t very good,” Mr. Heywood explained, "and in the second place, for them to buy and get into shape a separate right of way would cost probably two hundred thousand ? 131 ? dollars. We have our right of way, all grades are established, and all we have to do is to lay a second track along the one we already have."

“It sounds easy, doesn’t it?” laughed the president. “I don’t know anything that’s easier than building a railroad—on paper.”

“It would be a good investment,” said Mr. Schofield, rallying to the support of the superintendent. “It would return at least twenty per cent. on the cost. If we don’t get another track, we’ll have to shut the D. W. & I. out. A single track won’t handle the business any more. There’s always a congestion there that affects the whole road.”

The president puffed his cigar meditatively. Good investments appealed to him, and the reasons for the improvement certainly seemed to be weighty ones.

“Besides,” went on Mr. Schofield, “there’s always the danger of accident to be considered. A single one might cost us more than the whole eight miles of track.”

“Ever had any there?”

“No—none so serious as all that. But we’ve escaped some mighty bad ones by the skin of our teeth.”

The president smiled.

“Don’t try to scare me,” he said.

“I’m not. But it’s a serious matter, just the same. There’s the office now,” added Mr. Schofield, pointing to the little frame building. He saw ? 132 ? a figure standing in the doorway, and knew that it was Allan West. “There’s the boy,” he began, when a report like a pistol-shot stopped him.

Instantly he grasped the arms of his seat, as did all the others, for they knew that the train had run over a torpedo. A second later, they were all jerked violently into the air as the brakes were jammed on and the engine reversed. Every loose object in the car was hurled forward with terrific force, and a negro porter, who was walking past bearing a tray of glasses, was shot crashing through the thin front partition, and disappeared with a yell of terror. A window, shattered by the strain, rained its fragments in upon the floor, and through the opening thus made, the occupants of the car could hear the shrieking brakes and labouring engine. In a moment, it was over; the train jerked itself to a stop; paused an instant as if to regain breath, and then, as the brakes were released, started with a jump back toward the office it had just passed. A moment later, something seemed to strike it and hurl it backward, but the car did not leave the rails. The impetus slowly ceased, and the train came to a stop just opposite the semaphore.

Without saying a word, the officials hastened outside. They knew perfectly well what had happened. A head-end collision had been averted by the narrowest possible margin; indeed, it had not been wholly averted, but had been so reduced in force that no great damage had been done.

? 133 ?

“Lucky our train was a light one,” muttered Mr. Schofield, as he jumped to the ground. “I wonder if he thinks now I was trying to scare him?” and he shuddered at the thought of what would have happened had the engineer been unable to control the train. If it had been a regular passenger, with eight or ten heavy Pullmans crowding after the engine, even the most powerful brakes would have been unable to hold it.

Superintendent Heywood, his face very stern, hurried forward toward the engine. It was his duty to investigate the accident, to place the blame, and to see that the guilty person was punished. He regretted, as he had often done before, that the only punishment the road could inflict was dismissal from the service. Such a punishment for such a fault seemed so feeble and inadequate!

Bill Roth, the engineer of the special, was walking about his engine, examining her tenderly to see what damage she had sustained from the tremendous strain to which she had been subjected and from the collision which had followed.

“She’s all right,” he announced to Mr. Heywood. “Nothing smashed but her pilot and headlight,” and he patted one of the huge drivers as though the engine were a living thing and could feel the caress.

The superintendent nodded curtly and hurried on. Twenty feet down the track, the pilot and headlight also smashed, loomed a freight-engine. ? 134 ? A single glance told Mr. Heywood that it belonged to the D. W. & I.

“I’ll run her in on the siding,” he said to Mr. Schofield, who was at his elbow.

The latter nodded and started on a run for the office, in order to get into touch at once with the dispatchers’ office. Neither official understood, as yet, how the accident had happened; but there would be time enough to inquire into that. The first and most important thing was to get the track clear so that the special could proceed on its way and the regular schedule be resumed.

As Mr. Schofield sprinted toward the office, he glanced at the train-signal and noted that it was set at danger. He must find out why their engineer had disregarded that warning, for he knew that the brakes had not been applied until the train was past the signal. Bill Roth was one of the oldest and most trusted engineers on the road, else he would not have been in charge of the special, but the best record on earth could not excuse such carelessness as that.

So Mr. Schofield reflected as he sprang up the steps that led to the door of the shanty. There he paused an instant, for at the table within stood Allan West, ticking off to headquarters a message telling of the accident, and asking for orders. Not until he came quite near could the trainmaster see now drawn and gray the boy’s face was. He waited until the message was finished and the key clicked ? 135 ? shut. Then he stepped forward and laid his hand gently on the boy’s arm.

“All right, Allan,” he said. “No harm done, though it was a mighty close shave. You sit down there and pull yourself together, while I get this thing straightened out.”

In a moment he had headquarters.

“Eng. 315 running extra delayed at Byers Junction ten minutes. Will leave Junction 7.18. A M S.”

“O. K.,” flashed the answer from the dispatcher, who at once proceeded to modify his other orders in accordance with this delay.

As the trainmaster snapped the key shut, the superintendent appeared at the door.

“All ready,” he said.

“The track’s open,” said Mr. Schofield. “I’ve notified Greggs,” and the two men ran down the steps and started toward the train. “Did you notice the signal?” he added.

“Yes,” answered the superintendent, “and I asked Roth about it. He and his fireman both swear that it showed clear when they looked at it a moment before they reached it. Roth merely glanced at it and then looked back at the track. But the fireman says that it seemed to him it was swinging up just as they rushed past it. Then they hit the torpedo.”

“And where did it come from?”

? 136 ?

“Lord only knows. There’s something mysterious about this affair, Schofield.”

“I know there is,” and the trainmaster’s face hardened. “I’m going to stay right here till I get to the bottom of it.”

Mr. Heywood nodded.

“Yes—I think that’s best. Who’s the night operator here now?”

“Allan West,” answered the other, speaking with evident difficulty.

The superintendent stopped for an instant, then went on whistling softly.

“Too bad,” he said, at last. “Have you asked him anything about it?”

“No; he seemed all unstrung. But he kept his head. He was reporting the accident and asking for orders when I got to the office.”

“Good; I hope he wasn’t to blame—though the setting of the train-signal at the last instant looks bad.”

“Yes,” assented Mr. Schofield, “it does.”

“Of course, I’m sorry for the boy; but if he was at fault, not even all he has done for the road can—can—”

“No,” broke in Mr. Schofield, curtly; “I know it can’t. Don’t be afraid. I’ll go to the bottom of the matter, regardless of who is hurt. I’ll fix the blame.”

The superintendent nodded without replying. Both men were more moved than they cared to ? 137 ? show. For they were fond of the boy and had been very proud of him.

Mr. Heywood glanced at his watch, saw that it pointed to 7.18, and gave the signal to the conductor.

And as the train pulled away, Mr. Schofield started slowly back toward the shanty. The task before him was about the most unpleasant that he had ever faced.

But his countenance was impassive and composed as he mounted the steps to the door.