CHAPTER XV LIGHT IN DARK PLACES

The paroxysm lasted only for a moment, then Nevins pulled himself together with a mighty effort, looking about him with a pitiful attempt at bravado. Mr. Schofield glanced at him, then turned his back, for Nevins’s countenance, not engaging at any time, was now positively hideous.

“Go ahead with your story, Welsh,” he said.

“Well, sir,” Jack began, “I waited fer Allan this evenin’ t’ tell him that Nolan had come back, an’ when he told me that Nolan had been out here—”

“Nolan out here?” interrupted the trainmaster, and Allan related the conversation of the night before.

“When I heerd all that,” began Jack, again, "I knowed that Nolan was up to no good; I knowed that he had come out here t’ do th’ boy dirt; an’ all th’ whinin’ an’ crocydile tears in th’ world couldn’t convince me no different. So when Allan got on th’ accommydation, I left a message with th’ caller fer my old woman, tellin’ her I’d be late, ? 161 ? an’ jumped on th’ back platform jest as th’ train pulled out."

Mr. Schofield nodded. He was beginning to understand the occurrences which had seemed so mysterious.

At that moment a freight pulled in, and the conductor entered to get the orders. He cast an astonished glance at Nevins, but the presence of the trainmaster stifled any questions which may have been upon his lips, and he read his order, signed for it, and went out again. Allan went to the door, assured himself that the signals were properly set, then shut the door and resumed his seat on the table beside the instrument.

“Well,” Jack continued, "I knowed th’ boy’d be mad if he thought I was follerin’ him—he never did like it, even when Nolan was arter him last year—so I stayed there on th’ back platform, an’ dropped off in th’ dark down there by th’ water-plug. I set down in th’ shadder of a pile o’ ties an’ waited. I see Allan come over here, an’ purty soon th’ other feller come out and hiked away fer th’ village, like he had a date with his best girl an’ was an hour late.

“I was gittin’ mighty hungry, and beginnin’ t’ feel purty foolish, too; fer I really hadn’t nothin’ t’ go on except that Dan Nolan had been here th’ day afore. It was gittin’ cold, too, but I turned up my collar, pulled my cap down over my ears, lighted my pipe behind th’ ties, an’ arranged myself ? 162 ? as comf’table as I could. I rammed my hands down in my pockets, t’ keep ’em warm, an’ snuggled up agin th’ logs. Somethin’ jabbed me in th’ side, an’ when I felt t’ see what it was, I found I had a torpedy in my pocket. I’d put it there in th’ mornin’ thinkin’ I might need it afore night, and hadn’t been back t’ th’ section shanty since. Well, I eased it around so’s it wouldn’t jab me, and leaned back agin.

“But th’ minutes dragged by mighty slow, an’ nothin’ happened. I could see Allan, through th’ windy, bendin’ over th’ table, or readin’ in a book. I couldn’t see my watch, it was too dark, an’ I didn’t dare strike another match, fer fear somebody’d see it, but I jedge it was clost to seven o’clock, an’ I was sort o’ noddin’ back agin th’ pile o’ ties, with my eyes shet, when I heerd two men a-talkin’ on th’ other side o’ th’ pile, an’ in a minute I was wide awake, fer I knowed one o’ th’ voices belonged t’ Dan Nolan.”

Jack paused to enjoy the effect of the words. He could certainly find no fault with his audience on the score of inattention. Allan and Mr. Schofield were regarding him with rapt countenances; and at the last words, Nevins, too, had started to a strained attention, his quick, uneven breathing attesting his agitation.

“Yes, it was Nolan,” Jack repeated, “an’ th’ other one was that felly there,” and he indicated Nevins with a motion of the finger.

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“‘Well, did ye do it?’ Nolan asked.

“‘Yes, I done it,’ said th’ other. ’How about th’ freight?’

“‘I left her three mile back,’ says Nolan, ’with th’ wust hot-box ye iver see. An’ when she tries t’ start she’ll find an air-hose busted. She can’t git here till way arter seven.’

“‘Th’ special’ll be along about seven-five, I think,’ says Nevins, ’an’ it’ll be a-comin’ a mile a minute.’

“‘Bully!’ says Nolan, an’ laughs to himself. ’I guess that prig’ll hev suthin’ t’ think about th’ rest of his life. I guess he won’t stay much longer with this road.’

“I knowed they was talkin’ about Allan,” Jack went on, "and I tell you my blood was a-boilin’ considerable; it was all I could do t’ keep myself from jumpin’ up an’ grabbin’ them two scoundrels an’ knockin’ their heads together till I’d smashed ’em. But I couldn’t see yet jest what it was they was up to. So I thought I’d set still an’ try t’ find out. An’ purty soon I did find out.

“‘But you’ve got t’ git th’ order back on th’ hook,’ says Nolan. ’If y’ don’t, it’ll be you who’ll suffer an’ not that rat.’

“’Niver worry,’ says Nevins, ’I’ll git it back. I’ve pervided fer all thet.’

“Even yet I couldn’t understand,” Jack added. “I couldn’t believe that any two human bein’s would be sich divils as them words’d indicate. I thought ? 164 ? mebbe I was dreamin’, but I pinched myself an’ it hurt. Then I thought mebbe I hadn’t heerd right. I jest couldn’t b’lieve my own ears.

“‘Well, I can’t stay here,’ says Nevins. ’I must be gittin’ over by th’ shanty. I’ve got t’ watch my chance.’

“‘I’ll go along,’ says Nolan. ’Mebbe I kin help. Anyway, I’m a-goin’ t’ stay till th’ thing comes off.’

“They come around from behind th’ pile o’ ties, and I see them run across th’ track an’ dodge in among that little grove o’ saplings down yonder. In a minute, they come out at th’ edge by the shanty, an’ I see one o’ them creep up an’ look through th’ windy. Then he fell flat on th’ ground, an’ I see Allan git up an’ come t’ th’ door. Th’ semyphore and train-signal both showed a clear track. I jumped up t’ start acrost an’ warn him, an’ jest then I heerd th’ special whistle. I knowed then what ’d happen unless somethin’ was done mighty quick t’ keep th’ special from runnin’ past. I grabbed out th’ torpedy an’ jabbed it over th’ rail, an’ then started on a run fer th’ shanty, but th’ special was comin’ lickety-split, an’ I hadn’t hardly gone a rod afore it come singin’ along. I stopped t’ see what’d happen when it hit that torpedy. I knowed they’d be some mighty lively times fer a minute.”

“There were,” said Mr. Schofield, ruefully, and rubbed an abrasion on his wrist.

“An’ then,” Jack continued, "my heart jumped ? 165 ? right up in my throat, fer I heerd that freight come chuggin’ up th’ grade. It hadn’t been held as long as Nolan thought it would, an’ it looked to me fer a minute as though th’ trains’d come t’gether right by the semyphore. But that special was comin’ like greased lightnin’. I see th’ signal go up with a jerk, then th’ ingine hit my torpedy, and th’ brakes went on. I turned around t’ see what Allan was doin’, an’ I see him kind o’ keel over in th’ door. An’ then I see somethin’ else—I see that scoundrel there raise th’ windy, put th’ stick under it, climb up to th’ sill, lean in an’ do somethin’—I couldn’t tell jest what."

“I know what it was,” said Mr. Schofield, his eyes flashing and his face very stern. “He replaced on the hook the order covering the freight, which he had taken away with him.”

“Well,” said Jack, "I knowed it was some deviltry, an’ I started fer him as fast as my legs’d carry me. He slid back t’ th’ ground, an’ reached up his hand t’ let th’ windy down agin, an’ then he heerd me comin’. He jest took one look, an’ then lighted out across th’ fields, over fences, through a strip o’ woods back yonder, up a hill an’ down th’ other side—me after him, an’ gainin’—fer I was goin’ t’ ketch him, if I dropped dead th’ next minute. I reckon we must ’a’ run three or four mile, an’ he wasn’t more’n a hunderd feet ahead o ’me, when I see him stop sudden, run a little way t’ th’ right, then stoop an’ pick up somethin’. I was almost on ? 166 ? him, when he throwed it at me, an’ it was a rock," Jack added, "with a sharp edge, an’ it went through my hat an’ caught me in the head. If it hadn’t been fer th’ hat, I reckon I’d been stretched out then and there.

“But at th’ time, I didn’t hardly feel I was hit. I jest jumped fer him, an’ over we went together, clawin’ like Kilkenny cats, into a ditch half full o’ mud. It was that had stopped him, but I didn’t see it till I was right on it, an’ it was too late then t’ stop. Well, that mud was somethin’ fierce—but ye kin jedge fer yerselves,” he added, with an expressive gesture at his bedraggled attire and that of his opponent.

“It didn’t last very long, though,” he added, “or I reckon we’d both been suffycated. I got one good lick at his eye, and then got a hold of his neck, an’ he jest wilted. He wasn’t no match fer me, nohow—he’s too long an’ spindle-legged. Well, I managed t’ git him out o’ th’ ditch, an’ marched him back here,—an’ that’s all,” he added, abruptly.

For a moment Mr. Schofield did not speak, but sat looking at Nevins with an expression of loathing as though that worthy were something venomous and unclean.

“Nevins,” he said, at last, "I have known a good many cold-blooded scoundrels in my day, but none to compare with you. I believe I am speaking the exact truth when I say that hanging would be too ? 167 ? good for you. You are a disgrace to humankind—you ought to be hunted off the earth like vermin—you and that rascally comrade of yours."

Nevins shivered and shrank together under the withering tone.

“How did you get mixed up with such a scoundrel?” asked the trainmaster, at last.

“He—he made me,” Nevins blurted out. He had intended, at first, to deny everything, to brazen it out, to affirm his innocence of any wrong-doing. But the net of evidence had been drawn too tightly around him; he saw there was no possible chance of escape.

“Made you?” repeated Mr. Schofield. “You mean he had a hold of some kind upon you?”

“He—I was afraid of him,” muttered Nevins, sullenly. “He said he wanted to get even with West for sending him to the pen.”

“And you agreed to help? Not only that, it was you who furnished the plan. I know very well that Nolan hasn’t sense enough to work out such a pretty one.”

“He said he wanted to get even with West,” Nevins repeated. “He wanted to break him, to disgrace him, to make him lose his job, to give him something to think about all the rest of his life.”

“Yes, it was a pretty plan,” said Mr. Schofield, musingly; “about the most fiendish I ever heard of. Suppose you tell us how it was worked.”

Nevins grinned cunningly.

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“I’m not going to incriminate myself,” he said “I’m not such a fool.”

Mr. Schofield made a gesture of impatience.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “You can’t incriminate yourself any more than you are incriminated. Besides, all I’m going to do to you is fire you, and I’d do that if you never spoke another word in your life. I’ve said hanging is too good for you, but I’m going to let somebody else take the trouble of having you convicted. This won’t be your last scrape—unless you make a decided ’bout face! But I’ll get Nolan,” he added. “I’ll get Nolan, if it takes a dozen years.”

“Oh, all right,” said Nevins, looking vastly relieved. "You’re welcome to Nolan; and I’m going to get as far away from here as my money will carry me. I don’t want to see Nolan, myself. It was this way. I heard that order for the freight sent to West Junction, and then, pretty soon, came the order for the special to me. Nolan was here in the office at the time, and I remarked to him that if the freight could be held up half an hour or so after it left West Junction, it would be just the chance he was looking for.

“‘I’ll fix that,’ he said, ‘if you’ll keep that order off the hook.’

“I promised him I would, and he ran out and hooked on to a freight that was just pulling out for Wadsworth. He dropped off at West Junction, and it was pretty dark by that time, so he was able ? 169 ? to remove the dope and packing from one of the journal-boxes of the D. W. & I. freight without any one seeing him. Then the train started, and he got aboard, and rode back on it until the hot-box stopped it. Then he dropped off, cut an air-hose, to be sure they couldn’t get here ahead of time, and then started to walk the rest of the way back.

“I put the order in my pocket, went to supper as soon as West relieved me, and then hurried back so that I would be sure to get the order back on the hook. The only thing I was afraid of was that Nolan wouldn’t be able to hold the freight long enough, and that it would pull in here ahead of the special. I was pretty sure, though, that even in that case I could get the order back on the hook without any one seeing me. I left my lunch-basket behind, and if there hadn’t been any other way, I was going back after it, and jab the order on the hook when West wasn’t looking. So there wasn’t much risk, after all.”

“No,” said Mr. Schofield, bitterly, “not for you. But how about the people in the special?”

“Well,” answered Nevins, deliberately, “I don’t believe I fully realized what was going to happen until the special came singing down the track. Then I turned sort of sick at my stomach; but I kept my head enough to raise the window, and put the order on the hook. Then I heard that fellow coming for me and lit out. But I wasn’t fast enough.”

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“I’d ’a’ got you,” remarked Jack, grimly, “if I’d had to chase you clear across to ’Frisco.”

“All right,” said Nevins, who, in telling his story, had regained a little of his cheerfulness. “You beat me fairly. And I’m glad the wreck didn’t happen. Now, if you gentlemen will permit me, I will bid you a fond adieu.”

“Good-bye,” answered Mr. Schofield. “Write me where you are, the first of the month, and the pay due you will be sent on to you. And if I were you, I’d let this experience teach me a lesson. You’re young yet. You can get back all you’ve lost. And remember, besides any question of right or wrong, it pays to be honest, to do right; for every one who is dishonest or does wrong is sure to suffer for it.”

“I’ve found that out,” agreed Nevins. “I don’t believe I’ll forget it,” and he opened the door, from in front of which Jack moved grudgingly, and vanished into the outer darkness. In that instant, too, he vanished from this story, for by daybreak he was speeding west toward Cincinnati. There he bought a ticket for Denver, and somewhere in the west, at the present day, he is no doubt living—let us hope honestly and usefully.