CHAPTER VII

THE cot was hard and narrow, and it had sides of unpadded boards. For hours Fred lay pretending to be asleep, that he might shirk the sheer torture of conversation with his friend. Through partly closed eyelids he watched the railroad man as he sat in the doorway looking out at the rapidly shifting night view. When a station was reached the conductor would spring up, and with his lantern swinging in his hand he would descend to the ground and wave his light or call out an order to a switchman or the man at the brakes. Then the creaking, mechanical reptile would crawl along and speed away again. Several times the miserable passenger dozed off into most delectable dreams. In them he was always with Margaret in some fragrant spot among flowers, by flowing streams, and in wondrous sunshine. Once he saw General Sylvester and his grim old father in congenial converse together, while he and Margaret stood hand in hand near by, and then his beautiful, haughty sweetheart put her arms about the grizzled neck of the man who had never known affection and kissed him. But she was fading away, as was the erect old soldier, and the dreamer found himself before his father at the old man’s desk in the bank. And now Simon Walton’s face was dark as night. A ledger lay open before him. “Five thousand dollars of my hard-earned money!” the old man shrieked. “And you deliberately stole it from my vault! Thief! Thief! Thief!” Simon’s lips continued to move, but no sound save a dismal, mechanical rumbling issued. There was a long scream of the steam-whistle, a thunderous bumping of cars one against another, the rasping rattle of brake-chains, a glare of yellow light, and Fred saw Thomas standing over him, his lantern’s rays thrown downward.

“In the yard at last, old chap,” the conductor said, as he took his lantern apart and blew out the flame, “but don’t you get up. You haven’t had enough sleep, and it is only five o’clock. You didn’t rest well in that blamed bunk. You kept rolling and jabbering in your sleep. I’ve got to run up-town, but the cab will stand right here on the side-track all day, and you can leave it whenever you like. I’ll be about the general freight-office till noon, and if you want me, look me up.”

“All right. You are mighty good, Jack,” the wanderer said, appalled and stupefied by his sudden awakening to the grim reality of his condition.

When the conductor had left, and unable, through sheer mental agony, to go back to sleep, Walton crawled out of the bunk and stood up. His legs, arms, and neck were stiff, and twinges of pain darted through his muscles as he moved. Standing in the open door, he looked out over the vast stretch of railway tracks. The gray light of dawn shrouded everything. Over the tops of cars, heaps of old scrap-iron, blinking vari-colored signal-lights, and bridges which spanned the tracks he saw the spectre-like outlines of the State Capitol’s drab dome, and farther to the left the tall office-buildings in the centre of the city.

Just then a man came round the end of the car, and, with a start of surprise, recognized him. It was a railway mail-carrier who had once lived at Stafford. “Why, hello, Fred!” he cried, rubbing his eyes, for he had just risen from his bed. “What are you doing down this way at break of day?”

Walton hesitated; a tinge of color came into his pale face.

“Ran down for a trip with Jack Thomas,” he answered; “this is his cab.”

“Oh yes—I see. Where is Jack?”

“Had to go up-town.”

“You haven’t had your breakfast yet, I’ll bet. Come on and take a snack with me. There is a good all-night eating-house up by the Viaduct.”

“Thanks, I’ve got to hang around here for a while.”

“Well, so long!” the man said, with a backward look of perplexity, as he moved away. “I’ll see you uptown, I reckon.”

Walton stood down on the ground and looked about him; then he saw something that drove him back into the car. It was a policeman in uniform a hundred yards away. He seemed to emerge from the cattle-yard on the left, and was walking along slowly, looking under cars and trying their sliding doors. He would stoop to the cross-ties and peer carefully at the trucks, and move on again to repeat the process at each car of the long train, the engine of which was fired for leaving. Walton sank to a seat on the cot; the man was searching for him. There would be no escape. Presently a feeling of relief came to him in the reflection that his fears were ungrounded, for his father, not having read the letter he had left on his desk, could not yet know of his flight. The old man never went to the bank earlier than eight in the morning, and it could not now be later than five. Yes, the officer was looking for some one else. The fugitive breathed more freely for a few minutes; then another shock quickly followed the first. It was now plain—horribly plain. His father, having sent him to the bank for a statement of his account the evening before, had waited up for him, his impatience and suspicion growing as the hours passed. Old Simon could not have slept while a matter of that nature remained unsettled. He had waited, pacing the floor of his room, till nine; till ten; till eleven; and then, full of gravest alarm as to the safety of his funds, he had gone down to the bank to ascertain the cause of the delay. In his mind’s eye, Fred saw the grim old financier as he stalked muttering through the silent streets of the slumbering town. He saw him open the big door of the bank, and heard his disappointed growl as he faced the darkness. Old Simon, with fumbling hands, found and struck a match; then he groped his way back to his office and lighted the gas. Fred saw him as he stared round the room, and, with the gasp of an animal, pounced on the letter he had written; he saw, as if he had been on the spot, the distorted, terrified face of the bewildered old miser. Then what had he done? He had gone quaking and whimpering to the home of the sheriff near by; he had waked the officer by pounding on the door, and ordered the immediate pursuit of his son as an absconding thief. The telegram had left Stafford before midnight; it had passed the fugitive as he slept, and the policeman now looking under the cars was only one of scores who were bent upon hunting him down. Yes, it was all over. There was nothing left now but to be taken back to Stafford, handcuffed as a common felon. He crept to the car door and looked out. The policeman had paused in his search, and was coming directly across to him. A feeling of odd and almost soothing resignation came over the young man; at any rate, he would not hide like a coward. He was guilty, and he would take his punishment. So he sank upon the bench at the door and calmly eyed the officer as he crossed the tracks, playfully swinging the polished club which was strapped to his wrist.

“Good-morning!” the man said, looking up. “You are not the conductor of this train, are you?”

“No,” Fred answered, wonderingly; “he’s just gone up-town.”

The policeman swung his club. “Got a match in your pocket? I want to smoke so bad I can taste it.”

Walton fumbled in his pocket and produced some matches, and, still wondering, he reached over and put them into the extended hand. The man in uniform was young, clear of skin and eye, and had a good face—a face which Walton no longer dreaded, which, indeed, he felt that he could like.

“Tough job I’m on now, you can bet your life,” the policeman said, as he struck the match on the iron ladder of the car and applied it to a half-smoked cigar.

“What sort of job is it?” Walton asked.

“Why, you see,” the man explained, “the railroads of the State have had no end of trouble with hoboes here lately. The dirty tramps are forever stealing rides. At this time of year they are as thick as flies on the trucks, brakes, and bumpers. They fall off when they get to sleep, and are killed; they break in the cars, and steal the freight; and a gang of them have been known to throw rocks at the train-crew, and raise hell generally. So, as a last resort, the roads determined to make cases against every one that could be caught, and they are sending them up by the hundreds, and for good long terms, too. They are never able to pay the fines, you see, and they have to work it out in the coal-mines or turpentine camps. Now and then a big mistake is made, of course; for many a good man has been sent up for only trying to reach a place where he could get honest employment. But the law is no respecter of persons. Let a man without money to pay his fine be caught stealing a ride through this town, and nothing in God’s world will save him. The feathers of a jail-bird stick mighty tight, you know, and after one gets out he never makes any headway.”

“They are not well treated, either, I have heard,” Walton put in.

“You bet they are not,” the policeman said, looking across the tracks. “Gee! did you see that? I think I’ve got one now. I saw a fellow peep out right over there.”

He darted off, club in hand, and Walton saw him disappear between two cars, and heard his stern voice cry: “Come out of there, young man! Don’t make me crawl under after you! Come on, the game is up!”

Walton descended to the ground and crossed over to the policeman just as a young man with a grimy face and tousled hair emerged from behind the heavy wheels. He did not appear to be more than twenty years of age, and his clothing, even to his hat and necktie, indicated that he was not an ordinary tramp. He stared in a bewildered way at the blue coat, brass buttons, and helmet-shaped hat.

“For God’s sake, don’t send me up, policeman!” he pleaded, in a piteous tone. “I am out of money, and want to get through by way of New Orleans to Oklahoma. I am out of work and trying to reach Gate City, where I can get a job.”

“I’ve got nothing to do with that,” the policeman said, curtly. “I’m put here to arrest you fellows—that’s my duty, and I’ve caught you in the act.”

“O God, have mercy!” Walton heard the boy muttering to himself. “I can’t stand it! I’d rather die, and be done with it!”

He looked at the officer again, and his lips seemed to be trying to frame some further appeal, but, as if realizing the utter futility of such a course, he simply hung his head and was silent.

Walton, who liked the boy’s looks, suddenly felt a rebellious impulse rise and struggle within him. It was the quality which, in spite of his faults, had endeared him to his many friends.

“Look here, old man,” he said to the policeman, “law or no law, duty or no duty, you can’t take the responsibility of this thing on your shoulders. I’m a fair judge of men, and I am sure it would be wrong to send this boy up. You know he is only doing what you or I would do if hard luck drove us to it. Say, old man, I’m dead broke myself, I haven’t a dollar in my pocket, and I am out of a job besides; but I’ve got a good solid gold watch in my pocket, and if you will let him go I’ll give it to you.”

The officer wavered; he stared, speechless, for a moment, colored high, then shrugged his shoulders.

“I reckon my duty does allow me to sorter discriminate,” he faltered. “I haven’t seen the chap actually riding, either. But I won’t take any bribes—I wouldn’t take one from you, anyway. You are about as white a chap as I’ve run across in many a day, and I’m going to drop the dang thing. God knows, I don’t want your watch! But, say, don’t get me into trouble. I’ve got a family to support, and I must hold my job. Get the fellow out of the freight-yards before the town wakes up. There are cops on our force who would drag him in by the heels. Car-grease like he’s got smeared all over him is a dead give-away. Say, young man, take a fool’s advice: get out on the country roads. You’ll make it all right among the farms.”

“You won’t take the watch, then?” Fred held the timepiece toward him, its golden chain swinging.

“No, I don’t want it. But hurry up! Get him out of the yards!”

“Come on, and I’ll show you the way,” Walton said to the boy, when the officer had gone. And without a word, so overjoyed was he by the sudden turn in his favor, the begrimed youth dumbly followed his rescuer across the tracks to a quiet little street bordered by diminutive cottages.

On they trudged through street after street till, just as the first rays of sunlight were breaking through the clouds, they found the open country before them. For miles and miles it stretched away to blue hills in the vague, misty distance.

“I can make out all right now,” the boy said, with a grateful glance at his rescuer, as they paused. “I don’t want to take you farther out of your way. God knows, I’ll not forget your kindness till my dying day. You don’t know what you’ve saved me from. I’d have killed myself rather than be sent up. I’ve heard what those places are like. If you will tell me your name and where your home is, I’ll write back to you.”

Walton’s eyes met those of his companion. “Huh!” he said, gloomily, “I’m as homeless as you are, my boy. The truth is, I don’t know where to turn, myself, and really the thought of parting with you, for some reason or other, hurts me. I need a companion worse than I ever did in my life. Say, will you let me go with you?”

“Will I?” and the grimy face filled with emotion, the big brown eyes glistened with unshed tears. “God knows, I’d rather have you than any one else, and I certainly am lonely enough!” The blackened hand went out and clasped Walton’s, and, face to face, these new friends in adversity stood and silently vowed fidelity. “What is your name?” Fred asked.

“Dick Warren,” the younger said. “I am from Kentucky—Louisville. I’ve got no close kin, and no money. I was a telegraph operator in Memphis till a month ago, but lost my job. Long-distance telephone is killing my business. I heard of Gate City—they say it is booming. I want to go there.”

“I’ll join you,” Walton said. “I’ve heard of it, too. Those, new towns are all right.”

“You didn’t tell me your name,” Dick suggested.

“Oh, I forgot; why, it’s Fred—it’s Frederic Spencer.” He had given the seldom-used part of his Christian name, that of his maternal grandfather. “Some day I’ll tell you all about myself, but not now—not now. Are you hungry, Dick?”

The boy nodded slowly. It looked as if he were afraid that an admission of the whole truth might further discommode his new friend. “A little bit,” he said, “but I can make out for a while.”

“We’ll try a farm-house farther on,” Walton said, with an appreciative glance at the weary face before him. “I’ll have to have a cup of coffee or I’ll drop in my tracks.”

The sun, now above the tree-tops, was beginning to beat fiercely upon them, and threatening much in the way of heat and sultry temperature later in the day. The activity of his mind and sympathies in behalf of his companion had in a measure dulled Walton’s sense of his own condition, but as he trudged along by his companion the whole circumstance of his flight and the far-reaching consequences of his act came upon him anew. The agony within him now seemed to ooze from his body like a material substance, clogging his utterance and shackling his feet.