CHAPTER XIII. — TRAIN NO. 14
The fight for the possession of the Manchester and Truesdale Railroad divides itself naturally into two acts. During the first week, while it would be absurd to say that the acts of either side were legal, all the proceedings had worn the cloak of law. But now matters had come to a deadlock. Judge Grey was both able and willing to undo any or all of the acts of Judge Black, and conversely. The last event of the first act was the attempt on Tuesday morning of the C. & S.C. people, armed with writs from Black, to seize the books of the company. They were courteously received and the vaults were thrown open to their inspection; but as the books had been spirited away the night before, the search was fruitless. Porter and McNally had been beaten at their own game, and they withdrew their forces to Truesdale. The fight was to be kept up on other lines.
Wednesday morning, No. 7 on the C. & S.C. brought down a much larger number of passengers for Truesdale than ordinarily came on that train. They climbed down to the station platform from different cars, and regarded each other with studied indifference, but there was something homogeneous about the crowd that drew upon it the frankest stares of the station loafers. There were no women or children among them, they carried no baggage, and there was an air about them, carefully repressed but still discernible, which suggested that if any one were looking for trouble they were the men to whom to apply. They seemed to be trying to attract as little attention as possible, but they were followed by many curious glances, as they straggled in a long irregular line up the street toward the Truesdale Hotel.
Katherine had driven into town that morning, and from her high trap she watched the spectacle with amused interest. Seeing McNally coming out of the hotel office she pulled up her horses and nodded to him with a peremptory cordiality which left him no escape from coming to speak to her.
“So war is declared,” she said laughingly, nodding toward the rear guard who were disappearing in the hotel entrance. “I see you are massing your troops. Is that the entire army, or only a division?”
McNally tried to utter a protest, but she went on unheeding. “I think they're too absurdly comical for words. They try so hard to look as if they weren't spoiling for a fight.”
“Miss Porter,” said McNally, seriously, “your father's interests are at stake now and we must be discreet.”
“I suppose so,” she said; “but really those men are irresistibly funny.”
She gathered up the reins and the horses started, but as they moved away she turned and called back to him,—
“Be sure and come out to luncheon—that is, if you don't go to the front.”
The words troubled McNally. Only two days before he had been dragged out of his hiding-place in the Manchester station and kicked downstairs. This experience still occupied a large place in his thoughts, and he took Katherine's remark as a reflection on his personal courage. Though he had no idea of “going to the front,” he decided not to go to the Porters' for luncheon.
All that morning new people kept streaming into Truesdale. No. 22 brought in McDowell, a division superintendent on the C. & S.C. and other less important employees of the same road came in on every train. All over the city was the exciting premonition that something was going to happen. The army, as Katherine had called it, was reenforced by two fresh detachments brought in on the C. & S.C. from no one knew just where, but they were carefully guarded from being too much in evidence, and there was not the least disorder. When noon came and nothing had happened the tension relaxed a little, and the town returned to its accustomed quiet.
At the M. & T. station, however, the excitement increased, manifesting itself in many ways. The trains came in and went out on their scheduled time, and the routine work went on without variation, but there was a nervous alertness evident everywhere. Train crews stood in little knots about the platform and yards, speculating about the fight whose issue meant much to each of them, but in which they had not as yet been able to take a part. At one forty-five No. 14, which leaves Truesdale at two o'clock for Tillman City, St. Johns, and Manchester, backed down to the station to take on its passengers. Carse, the conductor, stood near the cab talking to the engineer and the fireman, keeping all the while an eye on the passengers.
“We're getting a big crowd to-day,” he observed. “That's McDowell of the C. & S.C. getting in the rear coach there. He's a mean brute. Ain't you glad we ain't under him, Downs?”
The engineer nodded emphatically, and climbing down from the cab, stood beside the conductor. “Seems to me,” he said, “there are a lot of C. & S.C. boys taking this train. I've spotted three or four already.”
“Say,” exclaimed Carse, “do you suppose they're going back to Manchester to have another shot at the old man? I brought them back from there yesterday on No. 5, and they were the sickest crowd you ever saw. The old man can give them just about all they want.”
He paused and glanced at his watch. “We pull out in thirty seconds,” he said. And at two o'clock No. 14 started northward on what was to prove a most eventful run in the history of the M. & T. The train rattled over the yard switches, slid creaking under the brakes down to the river, rumbled across the bridge, and then toiled up the first of the long grades between Truesdale and Sawyerville.
Carse was collecting tickets in the second car when suddenly it thrilled and trembled, and the train, with grinding squealing brakes, came to a stop. The conductor was all but thrown from his feet, but he staggered to the platform, and leaping down ran toward the engine, followed by an excited crowd of passengers.
“What's the matter?” he demanded of Downs, whom he found clambering out of the cab.
“That's what I want to know,” answered the engineer. “Didn't you pull the signal cord?”
“No,” said Carse, looking puzzled. “I wonder what's up.”
At that moment a man came forward from the group of passengers: it was McDowell. “I signalled you to stop,” he said.
Carse waited an instant for him to go on, and then asked impatiently, “Well, what's wrong?”
“Nothing that I know of,” said McDowell, easily. “I wanted the train to stop.”
Carse stepped toward him angrily. “I don't know whether you're drunk or not,” he said, “but that's a damned poor kind of a joke. You'll find that out as soon as we get to Sawyerville.”
“Oh, no, I won't,” said McDowell. “I'm superintendent of this road, and the first thing I'm going to do is to fire you. Haven,”—he called to one of the group behind him,—“you can take this train to Manchester.”
Another man pushed into the circle. He was Stewart, the sheriff of Evelyn County. “Mr. McDowell is quite right. Mr. Frederick McNally, the receiver of the road, appointed him this morning. And I now serve on you a writ from Judge Black—”
“See here,” interrupted Carse, “are you sheriff of Evelyn County or of the whole United States? You'd better keep out of this; the county line's about half a mile back.”
“We're wasting time,” said McDowell, shortly. “James and Mangan, take the engine. We'll take charge of this train, sir, county or no county.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Carse, under his breath. Then shouting, “Get away, boys; don't mind me,” he sprang upon McDowell, hitting out swift and hard, and in a second the two men were clinched and rolling in the sand. Downs took the hint and, leaping into the cab, let off the air brake and seized the throttle, while Berg, his big fireman, wrenched free from the two men who tried to hold him and rushed toward the cab. For a moment it looked as though No. 14 was going to get away.
But the first detachment of Mr. McNally's army was not at hand for nothing. Berg was pulled down from the step he had succeeded in reaching, and a blow from behind stretched him unconscious beside the track. Downs caught up the shovel which lay at his feet, and brought it down hard on a man who was climbing over the tender; then without turning he drove the handle squarely into the face of another who was standing on the step and trying to clutch his legs. But the odds were too great, and in a moment he was rushed back against the fire-box, and his arms were pinioned fast. McDowell had been freed from his assailant by two of his brawny supporters, and he rose to his feet with some difficulty; the blood was streaming down his face, but he was quite cool. Seeing that resistance was at an end, he called to the men in the engine:—
“Let up on that man; we don't want to kill him. Bring him down here.”
A moment later, he said: “Put bracelets on all three of them and take them into the smoker. Some of you stay around and see that they don't do any more mischief.” Then turning to the men he had already ordered to take charge of the train, he said: “All right, boys, let her go. We're nearly ten minutes late.”
McNally's plans were well laid; so well laid that McDowell's mistake in not stopping the train soon enough did not prevent their being carried out successfully. The sheriff of Malden County had been told what was expected of him, and he was waiting on the platform of the Sawyerville station when No. 14 pulled in. There had been no warning, there was no possibility of resistance, and everything moved as smoothly as clockwork. The writs were served, the telegraph office seized, and the M. & T. employees about the station replaced by McDowell's “boys” almost before the dazed incumbents knew what was happening. The new telegraph operator wired to McNally, who had already taken possession of the Truesdale terminal, telling him briefly of the fight for the train and the capture of Sawyerville. McNally sent back brief instructions for the conduct of the rest of the raid. They were told to make no attempt to keep schedule time, but to go slowly and cautiously, and to use as little violence as possible. Altogether McDowell had reason to feel well satisfied when he came out on the station platform ready to take his train on its unique journey up the road.
There stood near him a number of passengers gathered in an excited group, discussing the fight, the delay of the train, and the somewhat remote chance of getting to Manchester. One of them, a very stout man with deep-set, watery eyes and a florid complexion, recognized the Superintendent and turned to him.
“Are we likely to have to wait as long as this at every station?” he asked.
“I guess so,” answered McDowell, shortly.
“This is an outrage,” exclaimed the other, angrily. “I took this train for the purpose of getting to Manchester.”
“You'd better get aboard then,” said McDowell. “We're going to start now.”
His coolness exasperated the stout man, and he shouted after the Superintendent, “I won't submit to this. I tell you, you'll be sorry for it before I get through with you.”
McDowell paid no heed to the threat, and nodded Haven to go ahead; but a young telegraph operator, whose services were to be required further up the road, heard the words and shouted to the angry man:—
“If you don't want to take the train, there's probably a livery stable here, or else you can go to the hotel. It's a gold cure, but I guess they'd take you in.”
McDowell laughed and went into the car. He did not hear what his former passenger answered, and he did not care. He would probably have been less amused if he had known that the man was none other than State Senator “Sporty” Jones. It does not pay to enrage any man wantonly, and especially not a man who makes it his main principle in life to get even. And as any of his circumspect associates could inform you, Senator Sporty Jones was just such a man.
It was nearing six o'clock when No. 14 slowed down in the southern outskirts of Tillman City. The army, though depleted, was jubilant, and more than made up in esprit du corps what it had lost in numbers. The raid had so far been completely successful: all the stations had been seized, and the south-bound trains they had met had been held up and placed in charge of C. & S.C. employees. There had been no resistance worth mentioning, and they had prevented any warning of their coming from going up the line ahead of them. Tillman City was lying an unsuspecting prey, though fairly in their clutches.
Bill Stevens, the agent at Tillman, knew that something had gone wrong, for No. 14 was later than usual, and had not been reported from the last two stations; so when the drooping semaphore told him that she was in the block, he went out on the platform to find out what had happened. As the train came panting up to the station he saw two strange men in the cab instead of Downs and Berg, and this puzzled him more than ever.
The sheriff was the first man off the train; he walked straight up to the agent, and in two minutes the formalities were over. Stevens and his subordinates were discharged, and the ticket office and baggage room put in charge of the new employees with a celerity born of practice. A number of deputies under McDowell's orders scattered out to take possession of the roundhouse, the freight depot, and the yards.
Still standing on the platform in an excited crowd of raiders, former employees, and station loafers, was the agent. He was thinking fast, for he saw the importance of getting word to Manchester of what was happening along the line. The telegraph line was in the hands of the enemy, but a locomotive—It was worth a trial, anyway. There were three at Tillman: 33 that had just brought in No. 14, 7 on a siding waiting to take the train to Manchester, and 10, the regular yard engine. The two passenger engines were out of the question, for they were already well guarded, but the little switching locomotive lay at the northern end of the yard, and had not as yet been seized by the deputies. In the confusion, and aided by the gathering dusk of the early October evening, something might be done.
Glancing around, Stevens saw Murphy, the hostler, standing at his elbow. Without turning toward him he spoke softly.
“Murphy,” he said, “slip out of this crowd and follow me. I'm going to try to get away on 10. I want you to throw a switch for me.”
The hostler nodded without a word, and threaded his way after the agent to the edge of the platform. Once out of the glare of the station lights there was less need for caution, and the two men set out at a rapid walk toward the north end of the yards.
Suddenly a deputy came out from behind a freight car and laid a detaining hand on the agent's arm.
“What are you up to?” he demanded.
There was no word of reply, but Murphy's fist shot out, landing dully on the man's jaw, and without an outcry he sank inert on the sand.
The agent darted forward, keeping out of the heavy sand by bounding along the irregularly laid ties, and in a moment he was climbing into the cab of the switch engine.
“Thank God! there's steam and water,” he thought, and throwing over the reversing lever he grasped the throttle and came backing rapidly down the siding.
It was too dark for the men at the station to see perfectly what had happened, but they saw enough to excite their suspicion, and No. 33, which had already uncoupled from the train, ran up the main track to investigate. James and Mangan and a couple of deputies were in the cab.
Murphy had already thrown the switch and was standing beside it, holding a coupling pin in his hand, awaiting developments. The two locomotives were running right at each other, and unless somebody changed his mind very promptly a collision was inevitable; but the agent was in such a frame of mind that a smash-up was rather to his liking than otherwise, and he pulled the throttle a little wider open. He would waste no steam whistling, but grasping the hand rail he swung out from the cab and waved his free arm.
“Look out!” he yelled, “I'm coming.”
Furthermore it was obvious to the men in 33 that he meant to keep on coming, and as none of them had any wish to try conclusions, even with little No. 10, the big locomotive stopped short and went backing down the track, the deputies shouting to their comrades at the station for reenforcements.
No. 10 slowed down as she backed on to the main track, and as Murphy threw the switch she stopped and then moved forward. Stevens waited for Murphy, who left the switch open and climbed into the cab. Then with a clear track before her No. 10 went tearing down the long grade as fast as her dumpy little drivers would carry her.
Halfway to Byron is a milk shed with a short siding, and when they reached it Stevens shut down and stopped with a jerk.
“Get out,” he said to Murphy, “and throw over that switch and put out the lamp.”
As they started on again he said dryly, “When they strike that, it may teach 'em to go slow for the rest of the run.”
It was just six-seventeen by the station clock when Mason, the operator at Byron, heard No. 10 coming in. He ran out on the platform, but Stevens waved him back.
“Get in there,” he said as he dropped from the cab. “I want you to send a message quick.”
CHAPTER XIV. — A CAPTURE AT BRUSHINGHAM
On the same Wednesday morning Jawn Donohue was oiling the old switch engine preparatory to making up a train of coal cars. Since his ride with the President, Jawn had been even more silent than before. His work had been done with the same gruff independence, and his fireman had received the usual quota of stern rebukes; in fact, Jawn was outwardly so like his old self that none suspected him of emotion, but Jawn knew how thin was the veneer. It is hard upon a man to lose ground in the great struggle. Conscious of his ability, proud in his experience, Jawn grew daily more bitter at the prospect before him, and more hostile to his superiors. For a few days after the ride he had hoped for some word; he had felt that such an appeal as the one he had made to Jim Weeks should be productive of some notice, if not of a definite result. But as the week wore away, and no word came, his heart sank. Every day he rattled the dumpy little engine about the division yards, chewing the stem of his pipe, and hardening his heart against the world. He spent Sunday in his room at the boarding-house, for he had no family. Monday and Tuesday passed in worse than solitude, and when Wednesday morning came, and with it a message from the division superintendent, Jawn, in spite of his hopes, was taken by surprise. The message was addressed to the agent, and was very brief:—
Jawn and his fireman took 16 for Manchester. Beyond a brief word Jawn had said nothing, but his heart was disturbed. He was sure that it couldn't mean discharge, for they would not call him north for that—a word and a check would have settled it. It was hardly likely that one of the passenger engineers was to be reduced in his favor; Jawn knew the inside history of every man's connection with the road, and he could see no reason for a change. No, as he worked it over and over in his mind during the three-hour ride, he began to suspect that there was special work to be done.
If Jawn had been present at the brief scene in Mattison's office that morning, or if there had been a friend at court to tell him of it, he would have been a happy man. For while Jim Weeks, aggressive as ever, was organizing his forces for the defence of the road (Jim foresaw what Porter's next move in the natural course of events would be), Mattison had turned to the division superintendent, and said: “Who can you put on the engine, if we have to come to rough work? The nerviest man we've got.” And before the other could reply, Jim had turned from a conversation with Harvey to say: “Donohue's got to take out that train. He's on a switch engine at Tillman.”
Jim was continually surprising his subordinates with his intimate knowledge of the details of management. Mattison had long been accustomed to his ways, but he gave Jim a glance of wonder before he repeated the order to the division chief. And so Jawn was called to Manchester as the nerviest man on the road.
In the meantime a scene not unlike that at Truesdale was being enacted in and about the Manchester station. There was the same reticence, and the studied quiet and perfect discipline were even more pronounced; for with Jim and Harvey to issue orders, and with Mattison and Mallory to execute them, the chance of a slip or a misunderstanding was too slight to be considered. A long train of tourist cars was made up shortly after noon and backed into the train shed, where it lay awaiting orders. Jim had no very definite idea of using it, at least until force was the only expedient; but he had been through too many fights to be caught off his guard. Instructions were wired from the despatcher's office to the operators all along the line, ordering them to report promptly any irregularity or suspicious circumstance. Meanwhile the regular trains for Truesdale pulled out through the yards and went on their way.
When Jawn came into the Superintendent's office at two o'clock he found a group of men standing in nervous attitudes, all evidently awaiting orders. A boy stopped him and asked his business.
“I want to see Mr. Mattison,” said Jawn, removing his pipe and holding it awkwardly: Jawn, though at home on an engine, was ill at ease in an office.
“Can't see him,” snapped the boy; “he's busy.”
“He sent for me.”
“Name, please.”
“Donohue.”
“Sit down, Mr. Donohue.”
Jawn sat down in a corner and the boy disappeared. In a short time he returned and led Jawn to Mattison's desk. Mattison wasted no time, but told him the situation in a few sentences. “Now, Donohue,” he said, in conclusion, “you understand, do you, that we are putting a big responsibility on you? Mr. West will be in command, and you will be subject to his orders without question; but if for any reason you should have to act rapidly, or should be thrown on the defensive, I shall expect you to do what is best for the road. Run no unnecessary risks, but remember, we must hold the line at any cost—if we lose an engine doing it. Do you understand?”
Jawn, standing beside the oak desk, looked down at the Superintendent and nodded gravely. Mattison returned the look with a brief searching gaze, then he turned to his work, saying, “Very well, you may go.”
Harvey was all over the station. The strain of the last two days had told upon his nerves, but the prospect of a conflict buoyed him up. He had a long talk with Mallory, in which a campaign was mapped out as fully as was possible in the circumstances. It had been decided to hold the men ready to board the train at a moment's notice; but Harvey, as three o'clock came, ordered them aboard, for he realized that the longer the delay the greater would be the need of prompt action. So the long line filed out across the platform to the waiting cars, and the men made themselves comfortable for a long wait. Mallory stationed two of his own men in each car with orders to maintain strict discipline. In the baggage car were stored extra chains, hawsers, coupling links, crowbars, patent frogs, and every other device which, in Mattison's estimation, could be used in case of extreme circumstances, and there were chairs for Harvey and his lieutenants.
Later Harvey walked up to the engine, where Jawn and his fireman were oiling and polishing.
“Everything all right, Donohue?” he asked.
Jawn growled and looked back at the coal in the tender.
“She ain't much of an engine,” he replied.
Harvey looked her over. She was an ordinary light yard engine with a footboard in place of the pilot and with a sloping tank. He called to the yard master who stood near.
“Haven't you got a better engine than this, Pratt?”
Pratt came across the platform.
“I understood you wanted an old one,” he said.
“We do,” replied Harvey; “but we want one that will hold a little water, and one that can make time if necessary.”
“Shall I change, sir?”
“It rests with the engineer. Donohue, can you do anything with this engine?”
Jawn leaned against the cab and slowly shook his head.
“Get another, then,” said Harvey, and as the change was effected Jawn's heart was won. In an unreasoning way he promptly attributed his changed condition to Harvey; for in spite of his gruff shell the kernel of Jawn's nature was keenly susceptible to kindness, and to him a good engine and plenty of authority was the greatest kindness in life.
For two hours the train waited. Then, at five o'clock, a detail was sent into the restaurant, and the men were supplied with sandwiches and coffee, eating without leaving their seats. In half an hour all were fed, and they stretched out on the cane seats as comfortably as their crowded condition permitted. The long wait did not improve tempers, and it was a sullen, weary train load that counted the minutes on into the dusk. Jawn sat on his high seat and dozed.
The suspense was even more tense in the offices on the second floor of the station. Jim and Harvey spent most of the time in the private office, going over every possible combination of circumstances, Jim giving Harvey explicit directions for each case—when to use force, when not, when to call on the law, and when to send for aid. Occasionally Jim would call in Mattison to ask a question concerning some detail of the road, or he would send for Mallory to explain more fully his directions. It was plain that Jim desired to leave nothing to chance, now that the real struggle was on, but to throw all his available resources into the conflict. Mattison had a map drawn for Harvey, which showed every station, curve, switch, and siding; this Harvey studied during the lulls in the conversation, and as he already was familiar with all but the minor details of construction, he soon had his information upon a working basis. At six-fifteen Mattison came in.
“Mr. Weeks,” he said, “the despatcher reports something the matter. For two or three hours, he says, the local reports have been confused and unsatisfactory. A few minutes ago he called up Tillman City and hasn't yet succeeded in getting any reply. The local men are sending in train reports, but something isn't right. He's got a notion that they aren't our old men.”
“Tell them to try again,” said Jim. “Ask them something a new man wouldn't know.”
Mattison left the office and hurried to the stairway. On the landing he met a newsboy who was running up, calling:—
“Shcago Even' Papers! Extry! All about big railroad war!”
Mattison seized a paper and glanced at the headings. “Fight for M. & T.,” he read. “Trunk Line Gobbles Small Road.” His eye ran over the article; it was dated that afternoon from Truesdale. He turned and ran up the stairs, dashing into Jim's office and spreading the paper on the table.
“It's up to us,” he said. “They've been at work all the afternoon.”
As he spoke a boy came running into the office.
“Message from Byron, sir.”
Mattison snatched the paper and read aloud,—-
STEVENS.
“That's the Tillman agent,” said Mattison. “What's he doing at Byron?”
“Probably had to run for it,” responded Harvey, putting on his hat and buttoning his coat. “That means fast work. Clear the track for me, Mattison.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jim. “Have we any trains north of Byron?”
“No.”
“Then don't send any orders. They would warn the other side. No, go ahead and beat them if you have to break their heads.”
As Harvey dashed out of the office Jim's eyes sparkled. He liked to do his own fighting, and it was half regretfully that he turned to the Superintendent.
{Illustration: HARVEY'S MAP OF THE M. & T.}
“If they're as near as that, Mattison, it means trouble. You'd better collect another gang and send it out after West. Take men off the trains, out of the yards, anywhere you can get them.”
The wheels were soon in motion again, and another train backed under the iron roof and slowly filled with brawny men.
Harvey swung aboard his train and it started with a jerk, rolling rapidly over the network of tracks, past the switch tower, under the signal bridge, and out toward the open country. The little army was not sullen now. Figures sat erect, eyes flashed, young men spoke eagerly, older ones gruffly, and through the train ran a steady murmur of inquisitive wonder. Apparently, save for a few dozen sticks and clubs, the men were not armed, but many hip pockets bulged suspiciously.
In the baggage car Harvey and Mallory were talking earnestly. Mallory was for travelling slowly lest they should encounter a loose rail or an open switch, but Harvey disagreed. He spread the map out on a box and rested a finger on the dot marked Tillman City.
“There they are,” he said, “or were a few minutes ago, and they're coming right toward us. Now, to keep us from getting word they have to stop at every telegraph station, and that takes time. We've got a clear track and can travel fully twice as fast as they can. Here”—he moved his finger up the line of the road—“here at Brushingham is a long siding. I want to make that siding before they do.”
“Why?”
“Because we must pass them there.”
“They aren't going to lie up and let us run by.”
“Yes, they are,” said Harvey. “Wait a moment.” He called to a brakeman who stood at the door, “Go up to the engine and tell the engineer to get to the siding at Brushingham at full speed.”
The man nodded and ran forward. Another moment and those in the baggage car felt a jerk and a lift, and soon they were rattling over the rails with sway and roll. Harvey, meantime, was explaining to Mallory a plan which made that veteran chuckle merrily. His eyes wandered to the heap of chains, ropes, and iron piled on each side of the rear door, and he chuckled again. But Harvey's face was serious.
“It's something of a question whether we can get there in time, Mallory. It's a sixty-five mile run for us to thirty-eight for them. We have all the advantage, of course, but there won't be any time to spare.” He drew out his watch and timed the clicks of the rails. “He's hitting it up in good style.”
“What are we making?”
“About fifty, and pulling up all the time. It won't take us much over an hour at this rate, and I don't believe that they can make it in anything like that time. There are a lot of little stations north of Tillman, and they've got to stop at every one.”
Nevertheless, as the minute hand crept around the watch, the two men began to peer out through the side window. It was dark now, and as the landmarks were not too familiar either to Harvey or to Mallory, they were unable to get their bearings.
“Where are we?” Harvey called to the brakeman.
“Getting into St. Johns,” was the reply.
Sure enough, in another moment colored yard lights were whizzing by. There was a great clatter as they took the switches, then a row of streaked electric lights, a dim impression of streets and of clanging bells, a shriek from the locomotive, and again they were in the open. A few minutes later Harvey gave orders that a brakeman climb forward on the engine ready to throw the Brushingham switch. Soon the car jarred and struggled under the air brake, and then slowed down, grinding and pounding, almost to a stop. The brakes were released, and the train rolled easily out beyond the station on to the long siding. Harvey pulled the signal cord.
“Now, Mallory,” he said, as the train came to a standstill, “we can go ahead.”
Mallory picked up a patent frog from the floor, and with Harvey and the brakeman swung out of the car and ran down the track. From the windows projected a long row of heads, but no questions were asked as the three men ran forward. A short distance ahead of the engine they stopped. Away to the south a small bright light rounded into view.
“Here she comes,” said Mallory.
Harvey made no reply, and the frog was adjusted to the east rail of the main track. Then they went back and clambered aboard the engine. Mallory ordered a squad of men forward, and stationed some on the pilot and running board, others on the tender and front platform. The light grew slowly larger, sending out pointed rays and throwing a shine on the rails. There was the sound of a bell and of the exhaust, and the train pulled slowly toward the bleak little station. Suddenly, when within speaking distance, the approaching engine struck the patent frog and left the rails with a jar and a scrape, ploughing her nose into the slag.
“Go ahead,” said Harvey.
Jawn pulled the throttle lever, and the long train moved slowly southward. No. 14 was not full now. The process of dropping men at every station had left only about half the employees, who clustered in the forward cars and looked curiously at the passing train. At a shouted order from Mallory, one of his men dropped off with a squad at his back and took possession of the wreck, while Harvey, flushed with victory, moved on to undo the work of the afternoon.
CHAPTER XV. — DEUS EX MACHINA
As Senator Sporty Jones stood on the Sawyerville platform and watched No. 14 vanishing round a curve, his rage against the Superintendent cooled somewhat and hardened into a determination to make somebody pay. The more he thought of it the clearer it grew that the “somebody” should be a bigger man than McDowell, though Sporty meant to get even with him, too, some day. He knew, as did every one who had read the newspapers, the broad outlines of the fight between Weeks and Porter for the road. As he thought it over, the problem seemed to grow more complicated. The Senator hated the two men about equally and had a long score against each of them; for though both were lobbyists on a large scale, neither of them had thought him worth conciliating. He was afraid lest in trying to hurt one he might help the other.
He was capable of quick, clear thinking, and as he ran over in his mind what he knew of the fight, he saw that what encouraged these men so openly to resort to violence was a judicial deadlock. There was just one force which could profitably be appealed to now, the State Executive.
He walked slowly down the rickety wooden steps and across the road; then, after looking about irresolutely, he turned toward the weather-beaten little hotel.
Before he had gone far the deposed station agent overtook him. He was smoking a cigarette with short, nervous puffs, and he fell in step with the Senator, evidently relieved at having a chance to talk.
“What did you think of that?” he asked. “Pretty sudden, wasn't it?”
The Senator grunted a savage assent, and the agent went on:—
“Well, all I say is, these fellows needn't think they've got any cinch until Jim Weeks has had his innings. He's going to have it, too. This kind of a scrap is right in his line.”
The Senator seemed to be listening, and the agent was encouraged to try his hand at prophesying what would happen when Jim Weeks should come down the line. When they reached the hotel both men paused, and the Senator said affably,—
“Come in and have something.”
“All right, if you mean ginger ale,” laughed the agent. “It's a temperance house, with a gold cure on the side.”
The disgust of Senator Sporty Jones was expressed with such blasphemous force that the agent was moved to add,—
“You can get anything you want down in the next block.”
“All right,” grunted the Senator. “Wait a minute, though; I want to telephone.”
“There ain't a telephone in town,” said the agent. “The line goes up the other side of the river to Tillman. I don't believe you can find a 'phone nearer than Truesdale.”
“How far's that?” asked the Senator, after an expressive pause.
“'Bout fifteen miles by the river road. You have to go round by way of Oakwood. It's going to rain, too,” he added, glancing at the clouded sky.
The look of annoyance on the Senator's face settled into one of determination, and the agent began to fear lest the invitation to “have something” had slipped from the great man's mind.
The Senator asked slowly, “Is there such a thing as a livery stable in this”—he gulped—“in this town?”
“I guess old man Barnes could let you have some sort of a horse. He's got a place just the other side of Hogan's. I'll go down there with you if you like.”
The parley with Barnes took only a few minutes, and at half-past three the Senator drove down the main street and turned west toward the river road. His vehicle was a light delivery wagon with a canopy over it, and was drawn by a ragged old white horse, which, according to the livery man, was an exceptional animal.
“The General's an aristocrat, he is,” said Barnes. “I might say a thoroughbred. I hate like poison to let him out to a stranger, but I let you take him because I see you understand a horse.”
There was no flicker of intelligence in the agent's face as he heard the words, but when the Senator asked him to accompany him on the drive he declined. “I want to be on hand,” he explained, “when Jim Weeks comes down the line.” So Senator Jones started out alone on his drive to Truesdale, and the agent watched him from the door of Hogan's saloon. “Go along with him!” he thought. “I guess not. It'd be a circus, though, to see what happens when they get to the river bridge.” Then, as Barnes joined him on the steps, he added, “What do you suppose the General will do to him?”
“Oh, he won't hurt him,” answered Barnes. “He'll just turn around and come home when he gets good and ready. Come in and have something.”
The General took a violent dislike to the Senator. It annoyed him to have people try to make him go whither he would not, and he shook his head angrily in response to the impatient jerks at the reins. When the Senator tried to accelerate the pace by whacking his toughened flanks with the whip, he kicked up his heels derisively and then stumbled along more wearily if possible than before.
The miles crept by as slowly as he could wish, and he was pleased when they passed a fork of the road and he knew he was being driven to the river. He disliked rivers, and had long ago decided that he would never cross one. That his resolution had once been broken was not his fault, for they had dragged him over the Oakwood bridge at the end of a stout rope; but this only made him firmer in his determination, and people who drove him were wont to stay on the west side of the river.
Old man Barnes had given the Senator no hint of this prejudice of the aristocratic animal he was driving, so he had no foreboding of what was going to happen. Now that he had made up his mind that it was worse than useless to try to interfere with the General, he was jogging along in comparative comfort, regardless of the rain which had grown from a fine drizzle to a steady downpour. He thought the chances were in favor of his reaching Truesdale and a telephone by midnight. He smiled at the thought, for he had evolved a scheme that would disconcert both of the contestants for the M. & T. alike, and would show them that he, State Senator Sporty Jones, was not a man to be sneezed at.
About a half a mile above the Oakwood Club House and in full view of it the road crosses the river, and the Senator noticed the big, rambling building on top of the hill, and wondered if they had a telephone there. “I'll try and see, anyway,” he thought.
The General turned willingly up the approach to the bridge, increasing his speed to an almost respectable trot. When he reached the top he stopped in his tracks and stared with disfavor at the worn planks before him. The Senator snatched the whip from its socket and beat upon the General until his arms were tired. At every blow the horse would kick feebly, and then resume a droop-eared attitude, as though grieving over the depravity of man. The Senator looked around helplessly, but there was no aid in sight, so he climbed down from the wagon and walked around to the bridle. The General may have suspected another attempt at dragging, for a vicious snap of his yellow teeth caused the Senator to step back out of reach, completely baffled. He stared an instant at the solemn face before him and then shaking the whip he said,—
“You've got me down this time, damn you, but I'll—”
The Senator stopped, his favorite threat unuttered, threw the whip into the river and turning, walked slowly across the bridge, and as he went the story he meant to tell over the 'phone to the Governor grew to fearful proportions. As for the General, when he saw that the victory was won, he turned about and sauntered back to Sawyerville.
In the party of golfers whom the rain had driven from the links to the shelter of the Oakwood Club was Katherine. She had gone once around the short course and perversely enough her score was unusually good; but she could not get her mind off the more exciting game which she knew must be in progress along the railway line west of the river. Altogether she welcomed the rain, and was glad when its increasing violence drove them to the shelter of the club house. There at least she was near a telephone. She had no disposition to make one of the merry group of men and girls who were drying out before the crackling log fire, but after a moment of hesitation she joined the circle.
One of the men was standing by a window, peering through a field-glass at the more ardent and impervious enthusiasts who were still following the ball.
“The rain's letting up a bit,” he said at length. “You can really see things—hello!”
The group before the fire turned toward him, attracted by the long silence which followed the exclamation. They saw a look of puzzlement on his face which gradually gave place to a broad grin.
“What's up?” asked somebody.
“By George,” he exclaimed, lowering the glass, “that's funny.” He raised the glass again and this time his shoulders shook.
“I didn't know anybody out on the links could be as funny as that,” one of the girls observed.
“He isn't on the links,” answered the man with the glass, “he's on the bridge. And the horse is turning round and going back.” With which singularly lucid preface, the young man told what he had seen of the General's victory at the Oakwood bridge.
It was about fifteen minutes later when Sporty appeared, dripping and mud bespattered, but kept warm by glowing fires of indignation, and vigorously demanded of the attendant the use of the telephone. At the sound of his voice one of the older men turned quickly and approached him with a word of greeting. “But what's the matter with you, man?” he added, noting the Senator's sorry condition.
“They're having a riot on the railroad,” answered Sporty. “Can I use your 'phone?”
“Sure,” answered the other. “Right this way,” and the two men crossed the hall and disappeared in the office. A few minutes later the man came back and rejoined the group.
“He's State Senator Jones, Sporty Jones, you know. He says they're having no end of a time over on the railroad. When I left him he seemed to be trying to telephone all over the State at once.”
“I've heard of him,” said Katherine, “but I've never met him. I wish you'd bring him here after he gets through telephoning.” And the man with some surprise said he would.
The Senator did not reappear from the office for nearly an hour, and in that time he worked fast. He began by calling up Representative Jim Cleary of the Seventh District, a man with influence who happened to be in the capital on business. The Senator wasted no oratory on him, he simply told him what it was necessary to do. After that he talked with other men about the State, and repeated what he had said to Jim Cleary, suggesting to them the proper way for putting “pressure” on the Governor. Then, having prepared his avalanche, he telephoned to the executive mansion and asked for the Governor. He learned from the Secretary that the Governor was busy, but would be at liberty in a few minutes.
“All right,” said Sporty. “Let me know when he's ready to talk to me.”
He rang off and rose from his chair, stiffly, for the damp and the cold had struck through. The man he knew appeared at his elbow, and leading him in to the fire introduced him to those who were still grouped about it, to Katherine last of all.
“You must have had an afternoon full of experiences,” she said.
“Yes,” answered the Senator. “I enjoyed my drive over from Sawyerville immensely. The weather was somewhat unpleasant, but I had an excellent horse and we made very good time, until we got a hot-box. I was obliged to leave the vehicle with a farmer, and walked the last two miles.”
“Indeed?” said Katherine. “But please tell me about the riot. It must have been very exciting.”
“I hardly think it would interest a lady,” said Sporty, uneasily.
“Senator Jones,”—Katherine was speaking with much severity,—“I did not think when I first saw you that you could prove so disagreeable.”
Sporty beamed. “It wasn't very much of a riot,” he said. “They just hit the fireman behind the ear and put handcuffs on the engineer, and started out to grab the road. They'll have to fight for it.”
“Was what they did legal?” she asked.
“Oh, no; not at all. It's just a hold-up.”
The Senator was saying rather more than he meant to, and he was glad that the telephone bell broke off the conversation at this point. He excused himself abruptly and went to have a talk with the Governor.
Katherine walked to a window and stood staring out with unseeing eyes. At last she turned to a man who stood near her and said:—
“I don't believe it's going to rain any more. Will you have them bring up my trap, please?”