CHAPTER XVI ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

The lamp seemed to shine more brightly and the air of the office seemed somehow clearer and cleaner when the door shut behind Nevins and the sound of his footsteps died away. Mr. Schofield arose and shook himself, as though to rid himself of some infection. Then he glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight.

“It’s time I was getting back to town,” he said. “I’ve got to join the special again in the morning. Isn’t there an extra west about due here?”

“Yes, sir,” Allan answered. “There’s one due in about ten minutes.”

“Well, I’ll take it; I dare say the conductor can fix me up a berth in the caboose. You’d better come with me, Jack,” he added, as Allan set the signal to stop the train. “Your wife’s probably trying to figure out what’s happened to you, and I think she’s entitled to an explanation.”

“Not much sleep will she be gittin’ this night,” Jack chuckled. “She’ll be havin’ me tell th’ whole story foive times, at least!”

? 172 ?

“And, by the way, Allan,” went on Mr. Schofield, casually, “you needn’t report for duty to-morrow night.”

Allan’s face flushed. Of course there would have to be an investigation. He had forgotten that.

“Very well, sir,” he said, quietly, though he could hear the heavy breathing which told that Jack Welsh did not think it well, at all.

“Because you know,” the trainmaster went on, smiling queerly, “that the day trick here is vacant now, and, of course, it naturally falls to you. I will get some extra man to take it to-morrow, so that you can get a good night’s rest—you need it. You will report for duty the next morning.”

Allan’s heart was in his throat, and he dared not trust himself to speak, but he held out his hand, and the trainmaster gripped it warmly.

“And I’m mighty glad,” said Mr. Schofield, not wholly unaffected himself, “that you’ve come out of this affair so well. I was afraid for a time that you wouldn’t—and I couldn’t have felt any worse if it had been my own boy. There she comes,” he added, in another tone, as a whistle sounded far down the line. “Come on, Welsh; we mustn’t keep her waiting. Good-bye, Allan,” and he sprang down the steps.

But Allan held Jack back for a whispered word.

“After all, Jack,” he said, brokenly, squeezing the broad, honest, horny palm in both his own, "it ? 173 ? was you who saved the train, not I. You deserve the reward, if there’s to be one. I didn’t do anything—only stood staring here like a fool—"

“Cut it out, boy; cut it out,” broke in Jack, gruffly. “You did all ye could. I jest happened t’ be there.”

“But oh, Jack, if you hadn’t been! And no one would ever have known who caused the wreck! Every one would have thought it was my fault!”

“I know three people who wouldn’t!” protested Jack. “Their names is Mary, Mamie, an’ Jack Welsh!”

“Nonsense, Jack,” said Allan, laughing, though his eyes were bright with tears. “Why, I’d have thought so myself!”

“There’s th’ train,” broke in Jack, hastily. “See ye in th’ mornin’,” and tearing himself away, he followed Mr. Schofield down the steps.

Allan, watching from the door, saw them jump aboard the caboose before it had fairly stopped. The trainmaster exchanged a word with the conductor, who swung far out and waved his lantern to the engineer; and as Allan lowered the signal to show a clear track, the train gathered way again and sped westward into the night, toward Wadsworth. He watched it until the tail lights disappeared in the darkness, then he turned back into the little room and sat down before his key, his heart filled with thanksgiving.

? 174 ?

The dispatcher at headquarters, calling Byers Junction to send a message to the trainmaster, soon found out that he was aboard the freight, and in consequence that fortunate train was given a clear track, and covered the twenty-eight miles to Wadsworth in forty-five minutes. One o’clock was striking as Jack Welsh climbed the steep flight of steps that led to his front door. At the top, he found a shawled figure waiting.

“Why, Mary,” said he, “you’ll be ruinin’ your health, me darlint, stayin’ up so late.”

“Yes,” she retorted, “an’ I’ll be goin’ crazy, worritin’ about ye. Where’ve ye been, Jack Welsh?”

“Niver ye mind. Is my supper ready?”

“Supper? Ye mane breakfast, don’t ye?”

“Call it what ye like, so it’s fillin’. Fer I’ve got an awful emptiness inside me. Didn’t I send ye word by Dan Breen that I’d be a little late?”

“An’ do ye call one o’clock in th’ mornin’ a little late?” she queried, with irony.

“Well,” said Jack, tranquilly, walking on through toward the kitchen, “that depends on how ye look at it. Some folks might call it a little early.”

A lamp was burning on the kitchen table, and as Jack came within its circle of light, Mary, who was close behind, saw for the first time the condition of his clothes.

“Jack!” she screamed, and rushed up to him, ? 175 ? and then she saw the piece of court-plaster on his forehead, as well as the various minor bumps and contusions which he had received. “Have ye been fightin’?” she demanded, sternly.

“Yes, darlint,” answered Jack, cheerfully.

“An’ got hurted?” and she touched the wound tenderly.

“Only a scratch, Mary; ye ought t’ see th’ other felly.”

“Who was he, Jack?”

“His name’s Nevins—but ye don’t know him.”

“Tell me about it,” she commanded, her eyes blazing. “All about it!”

“Well, it’s a long story, darlint,” said Jack, teasingly, “an’ I don’t feel quite ekal to it on an empty stomach. I guess I’d better go over t’ th’ daypo restaurant an’ git a snack. I ain’t had nothin’ t’ eat since noon o’ yistidday.”

“O’ course I kept your supper hot fer ye, Jack,” she assured him, softening instantly. “You go git washed an’ git into some clean clothes, so you’ll look a little less like a hobo, an’ I’ll have it on th’ table in a jiffy.”

Mary Welsh was one of those admirable housekeepers whom no emergency finds unprepared. Jack’s supper had long ago evaporated and dried up in the process of keeping it warm; even the tenderest steak, kept in an oven for seven hours, will acquire a leathery texture and a flavour of old shoes. But a fresh piece of steak was frying in ? 176 ? a moment, and some sliced potatoes sputtering in the pan beside it; the coffee-pot was set on again, and the pantry rummaged for such supplies as it could furnish. It was some little time before Jack reappeared, for he had to change his clothes from the skin out, as well as get the mud off the skin itself. When, at last, he did come down the stairs, the meal, fresh, appetizing, and smoking hot, was awaiting him on the table.

“Mary, you’re a jewel,” he said, as he drew up his chair, and fell to.

“Yes,” she observed, dryly, “I’ve allers heerd that th’ way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Well, I’d rather have me heart in me belly than in me pocketbook,” retorted Jack. “Lucky I had on me old clothes,” he added; “they’ll niver be fit t’ wear agin.”

Mary sat down opposite him expectantly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Mebbe I kin wash ’em an’ patch ’em so’s they’ll be all right, Jack.”

“All right fer a scarecrow, mebbe, but not fer a swell like me. Now, Mary, you go ahead an’ tell me all that’s happened, while I finish me supper.”

“But there hain’t anything happened t’ me, Jack,” she protested, filling his empty cup. "I jest stayed at home, an’ seen Allan off, an’ got your supper. An’ then Dan Breen come an’ said you’d be late. He’d seen ye git on th’ accommydation an’ thought ? 177 ? mebbe you’d been called out on th’ road somewheres. So I put Mamie to bed, an’ then jest set an’ waited. It seemed an awful long time."

Jack pushed his empty plate away from him, and glanced at the clock, which was ticking merrily away on the mantelpiece.

“Why, it’s half-past one!” he cried, in mock amazement. “We must be gittin’ t’ bed, Mary. We won’t want t’ git up at all in th’ mornin’,” but Mary was not alarmed, for she saw him fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, and knew that the story would not be long delayed.

Nor was it. Once the pipe was started, the story started, too, and Mary listened to every word with rapt attention, only interrupting from time to time, as it progressed, with an exclamation of astonishment or anger. When he had finished, she jumped up and came around the table to him, and kissed him and hugged him and even cried over him a little, for she loved him with her whole big Irish heart.

“Why, Jack, darlint,” she cried, “you’re a reg’lar hayro—like one reads about in th’ story-books.”

“A hayro!” echoed Jack, with a roar of laughter which was promptly stilled for fear of waking Mamie. “Listen to ye! Jack Welsh a hayro!”

“You’re my hayro, anyway,” said Mary, softly, as they mounted the stairs together to their bedroom.

? 178 ?

One morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Schofield sat at his desk in his office, looking through his mail.

“You knew that Penlow is going to resign on the first?” he asked, glancing across at the chief-dispatcher, who sat facing him on the other side of the broad expanse of quartered oak.

“Yes—what’s the matter?”

“Well, he’s getting old. He’s been roadmaster nearly twenty years; and I guess he’s laid up a snug little fortune—enough to keep him the rest of his life. I think he’s sensible to quit when he’s got enough.”

“Yes—more sensible than lots of us who keep right on working till we drop. Who are you going to appoint in his place?”

“Well,” answered Mr. Schofield, slowly, “it will go naturally to one of the section-foremen—and I’m going to offer it to the best one on the road.”

The roadmaster, it may be remarked in passing, is a sort of magnified section-foreman. He has general supervision over a number of sections forming a subdivision, and all the foremen on that subdivision report to him. He has charge of all the track forces employed on his subdivision, and is responsible for keeping the track, fences, road-bed, bridges, culverts, and everything else pertaining to the roadway, in repair. He is supposed to spend most of his time out on his division, and to know every foot of it more intimately and minutely than ? 179 ? any one else. He must be sure that the men under him understand their duties and perform them properly; he must attend in person to the removal of landslides, snow, or other obstructions, and in case of accident must take the necessary force to the place and use every effort to clear the road. Officially, he is known as a supervisor, and it will be seen that his position is one of considerable importance and responsibility.

“I’m going to offer it to the best one,” repeated Mr. Schofield.

“I think I know who you mean,” said the chief-dispatcher, smiling. “He’ll be all right.”

“Yes, he’s a good man; and he’s done more for this road than most of us. I’d probably be a dead man by now and you’d be filling my shoes, if it hadn’t been for him. That may not seem to you a cause for unmitigated rejoicing, but it does to me. I’m not quite ready, yet, to pass in my checks. It was really he, you know, who prevented that accident at Byers. If it hadn’t been prevented, this road would have needed a whole new complement of general officers. The old ones would have been wiped out.”

The chief-dispatcher nodded.

“Found any trace of Nolan?”

“No—not a trace,” and Mr. Schofield’s face clouded. "I’ve had our detectives scouring that whole country, but he seems to have disappeared completely. I believe he has left for other parts. ? 180 ? I only hope he’ll stay there. If I could catch him, I’d have him back in the pen. in short order."

He looked up as some one entered, and saw that the newcomer was Jack Welsh, who came in with a slightly sheepish air, holding his cap in his hand.

“I dunno what Misther Schofield wants t’ see me fer,” he had said to his wife that morning, when the trainmaster’s message was delivered to him. “I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ t’ git hauled up on th’ carpet fer.”

“O’ course you ain’t,” agreed Mary, warmly, instantly championing his cause. “An’ don’t ye take none o’ his lip, Jack. Give him as good as he sinds.”

“All right, darlint,” and Jack chuckled. “O’ course it don’t matter if I lose me job. You kin take in washin’. An’ I’m feelin’ th’ need o’ resting fer a year or two, anyway. So I’ll slug him in th’ eye if he ain’t properly respectful.”

Yet the sheepishness in Jack’s demeanour, as he stood before the trainmaster, was not due to any feeling of subserviency or false modesty. It was rather embarrassment because of unfamiliar surroundings, and because of the many eyes centred upon him and the many ears straining to hear what would follow.

“Good morning, Welsh,” said Mr. Schofield, with a gruffness assumed for the occasion. “How is everything on Twenty-one?”

? 181 ?

“All right, so far as I know, sir,” answered Jack.

“So far as you know?”

“Well, ye see, sir, I ain’t been over it since yistidday evenin’. No tellin’ what’s happened in the night.”

“Does anything ever happen to it in the night?”

“Yes, sir; sometimes a hoss gits acrost a cattle-guard, and a train hits him an’ musses up the road-bed frightful. An’ them porters on th’ diners are allers throwin’ garbage off th’ back platform,—t’ say nothin’ o’ th’ passengers, who don’t seem t’ do nothin’ but stuff theirselves with oranges, an’ banannys an’ apples, an’ drop th’ remains out th’ windy. Th’ porters ort t’ be ordered t’ take their garbage int’ th’ terminals an’ git rid of it there, an’ th’ passengers ort t’ be pervided with waste-baskets t’ receive sech little odds an’ ends as they can’t swaller.”

“I’ll think of it,” said Mr. Schofield, making a note on a pad of paper at his elbow. “I don’t know but what the suggestion is a good one. And now, Welsh, I’m sorry to say that we’ll have to get a new foreman for Section Twenty-one.”

Jack blinked rapidly for a moment as though he had received a blow between the eyes. Then he pulled himself together.

“All right, sir,” he said, quietly. “When must I quit?”

“On the first. Who’s the best man in your gang?”

? 182 ?

“Reddy Magraw knows all th’ ins an’ outs o’ section-work, sir. He’d make a good foreman.”

Mr. Schofield made another note on the pad.

“Penlow’s also going to quit on the first,” he remarked, casually, without looking up.

“Not fired, sir?” asked Jack, quickly. “I know he’s old, but he’s a mighty good man.”

“No; he resigned. Going to take the world easy. You’re to take his place.”

For a moment, Jack seemed not to understand. Then his face turned very red; a profuse perspiration broke out across his forehead. He mopped it away with his big red handkerchief, and I dare say, dabbed his eyes once or twice, for his first thought was of Mary’s joy when she should hear the news.

“Ye could find a better man fer it, Mr. Schofield,” he said, at last.

“No, I couldn’t,” retorted the trainmaster; “not if I searched this division from end to end. You’re the best section-foreman we’ve got, Welsh, and you’ll make the best roadmaster we’ve ever had. And I may add that I’m mighty glad of the chance to give you a promotion which you richly deserve. There isn’t a man in the employ of this road—no, not from the superintendent down—who has done more for it than you have. The road never forgets such services.”

The dispatchers had come crowding to the door, and in the corridor outside a group of trainmen had stopped, attracted by this unusual orating. And ? 183 ? when the trainmaster stopped and wrung Welsh’s hand, there was a little burst of applause, for every man on the road knew and liked Jack Welsh. This public commendation completed his confusion, and he stumbled from the room and down the stairs, looking as though he had received a whipping. It was some time before he could gather courage to go home; and when he finally got there, he found the news had preceded him. Reddy Magraw had heard it and had rushed over to congratulate him—so Mary was waiting for him, her eyes alight, and she hugged him and kissed him and made much of him.

“Though it’s no more than ye deserve, Jack,” she said, at last. “Indade, it’s not so much. Why, Reddy tells me that Mr. Schofield stood up there before th’ whole crowd an’ said you was th’ best man on th’ road, from th’ sup’rintindint down.”

“I’ll break Reddy’s head when I ketch him,” threatened Jack. “But o’ course I was dissipinted that they didn’t make me gineral manager. I told Mr. Schofield so, an’ he said I should ’a’ had th’ job, only it didn’t happen t’ be vacant.”

Back in the offices, Mr. Schofield continued the work of going through his mail, another big batch of which had just been brought in. Among the letters he opened, was a long, portentous-looking one from general headquarters. He glanced through it and chuckled.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” he ? 184 ? remarked. “That narrow escape at Byers has convinced the general officers that we need a double track there. That shaking up they got did more good than all the talk we could have talked. We can go ahead with it as soon as we like,” and he tossed the letter across the desk to the chief-dispatcher, his face shining. “I don’t know anything that could have pleased me more,” he added. “It means so much to this division. Do you know, George, I’m glad things happened just as they did! Providence certainly had its eye on us that time!”