Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

[Illustration: "Quick as a flash the Kid had my arm."]

DANGER SIGNALS

Remarkable, Exciting And Unique Examples Of The Bravery,
Daring And Stoicism In The Midst Of Danger Of
TRAIN DISPATCHERS AND RAILROAD ENGINEERS

By

JOHN A. HILL
and
JASPER EWING BRADY

ABSORBING STORIES OF MEN WITH NERVES OF STEEL,
INDOMITABLE COURAGE AND WONDERFUL ENDURANCE

Fully Illustrated

CHICAGO
JAMIESON-HIGGINS CO.
1902

Copyright 1898, 1899
By S. S. McClure Co.

Copyright 1899
By Doubleday & McClure Co.

Copyright 1900
By Jamieson-Higgins Co.

CONTENTS

PART I.                                                           PAGE

Jim Wainright's Kid                                                 7

An Engineer's Christmas Story                                       35

The Clean Man and the Dirty Angels                                  57

A Peg-legged Romance                                                75

My Lady of the Eyes                                                 97

Some Freaks of Fate                                                151

Mormon Joe, the Robber                                             191

A Midsummer Night's Trip                                           227

The Polar Zone                                                     253

PART II.

CHAPTER

    I. Learning the Business--My First Office                        1

   II. An Encounter with Train Robbers                              11

  III. In a Wreck                                                   12

   IV. A Woman Operator Who Saved a Train                           25

    V. A Night Office in Texas--A Stuttering Despatcher             33

   VI. Blue Field, Arizona, and an Indian Scrimmage                 42

  VII. Taking a Whirl at Commercial Work--My First
       Attempt--The Galveston Fire                                  52

 VIII. Sending a Message Perforce--Recognizing
       an Old Friend by His Stuff                                   62

   IX. Bill Bradley, Gambler and Gentleman                          68

    X. The Death of Jim Cartwright--Chased off a Wire by a Woman    80

   XI. Witnessing a Marriage by Wire--Beating a
       Pool Room--Sparring at Long Range                            87

  XII. How a Smart Operator was Squelched--The Galveston Flood      96

 XIII. Sending My First Order                                      104

  XIV. Running Trains by Telegraph--How It is Done                 111

   XV. An Old Despatcher's Mistake--My First Trick                 125

  XVI. A General Strike--A Locomotive Engineer for a Day           137

 XVII. Chief Despatcher--An Inspection Tour--Big River Wreck       147

XVIII. A Promotion by Favor and Its Results                        160

  XIX. Jacking up a Negligent Operator--A Convict
       Operator--Dick, the Plucky Call Boy                         168

   XX. An Episode of Sentiment                                     185

  XXI. The Military Operator--A Fake Report that
       Nearly Caused Trouble                                       192

 XXII. Private Dennis Hogan, Hero                                  203

XXIII. The Commission Won--In a General Strike                     222

 XXIV. Experiences as a Government Censor of Telegraph             237

  XXV. More Censorship                                             246

 XXVI. Censorship Concluded                                        257

XXVII. Conclusion                                                  269

List of Illustrations

PART I.

"Quick as a flash the Kid had my arm."                    Frontispiece

                                                               TO FACE
"I noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the
reverse-lever"                                                      22

"It was a strange courting ... there on that engine"                70

"We carried him into the depot"                                    100

"He was the first man I ever killed"                               176

"'Mexican,' said I"                                                236

"What seemed to be a giant iceberg...."                            282

"A white city ... was visible for an instant"                      292

PART II.

Facsimile of a completed train-despatcher's order                    1

"Two of the men tied my hands in front of me"                       16

"After many efforts I finally reached the lowest cross-arm"         30

"One of them picked up the lantern, and swaggering over to
where I sat all trembling...."                                      38

"He looked at me ... then catching me by the collar...."           100

"... Half lying on the table, face downward, dead by his own hand" 128

"'See here, who is going to pull this train?'"                     144

"Are you not doing it just because I am a woman?"                  190

"... Dennis, lying under the telegraph line. His left hand
still grasped the instrument"                                      219

DANGER SIGNALS.

PART I.

JIM WAINRIGHT'S KID

As I put down my name and the number of the crack engine of America--as
well as the imprint of a greasy thumb--on the register of our roundhouse
last Saturday night, the foreman borrowed a chew of my fireman's
fine-cut, and said to me:

"John, that old feller that's putting on the new injectors wants to see
you."

"What does he want, Jack?" said I. "I don't remember to have seen him,
and I'll tell you right now that the old squirts on the 411 are good
enough for me--I ain't got time to monkey with new-fangled injectors on
_that_ run."

"Why, he says he knowed you out West fifteen years ago."

"So! What kind o' looking chap is he?"

"Youngish face, John; but hair and whiskers as white as snow.
Sorry-looking rooster--seems like he's lost all his friends on earth,
and wa'n't jest sure where to find 'em in the next world."

"I can't imagine who it would be. Let's see--'Lige Clark, he's dead;
Dick Bellinger, Hank Baldwin, Jim Karr, Dave Keller, Bill Parr--can't be
none of them. What's his name?"

"Winthrop--no, Wetherson--no, lemme see--why, no--no, Wainright; that's
it, Wainright; J. E. Wainright."

"Jim Wainright!" says I, "Jim Wainright! I haven't heard a word of him
for years--thought he was dead; but he's a young fellow compared to me."

"Well, he don't look it," said Jack.

After supper I went up to the hotel and asked for J. E. Wainright.

Maybe you think Jim and I didn't go over the history of the "front."
"Out at the front" is the pioneer's ideal of railroad life. To a man who
has put in a few years there the memory of it is like the memory of
marches, skirmishes, and battles in the mind of the veteran soldier. I
guess we started at the lowest numbered engine on the road, and
gossiped about each and every crew. We had finished the list of
engineers and had fairly started on the firemen when a thought struck
me, and I said:

"Oh, I forgot him, Jim--the 'Kid,' your cheery little cricket of a
firesy, who thought Jim Wainright the only man on the road that could
run an engine right. I remember he wouldn't take a job running
switcher--said a man that didn't know that firing for Jim Wainright was
a better job than running was crazy. What's become of him? Running, I
suppose?"

Jim Wainright put his hand up to his eyes for a minute, and his voice
was a little husky as he said:

"No, John, the Kid went away--"

"Went away?"

"Yes, across the Great Divide--dead."

"That's tough," said I, for I saw Jim felt bad. "The Kid and you were
like two brothers."

"John, I loved the--"

Then Jim broke down. He got his hat and coat, and said:

"John, let's get out into the air--I feel all choked up here; and I'll
tell you a strange, true story--the Kid's story."

As we got out of the crowd and into Boston Common, Jim told his story,
and here it is, just as I remember it--and I'm not bad at remembering.

"I'll commence at the beginning, John, so that you will understand. It's
a strange story, but when I get through you'll recall enough yourself to
prove its truth.

"Before I went beyond the Mississippi and under the shadows of the Rocky
Mountains, I fired, and was promoted, on a prairie road in the Great
Basin well known in the railway world. I was much like the rest of the
boys until I commenced to try to get up a substitute for the link
motion. I read an article in a scientific paper from the pen of a
jackass who showed a Corliss engine card, and then blackguarded the
railroad mechanics of America for being satisfied with the link because
it was handy. I started in to design a motion to make a card,
but--well, you know how good-for-nothing those things are to pull loads
with.

"After my first attempt, I put in many nights making a wooden model for
the Patent Office. I was subsequently informed that the child of my
brain interfered with about ten other motions. Then I commenced to
think--which I ought to have done before. I went to studying _what had
been done_, and soon came to the conclusion that I just knew a
little--about enough to get along running. I gave up hope of being an
inventor and a benefactor of mankind, but study had awakened in me the
desire for improvement; and after considerable thought I came to the
conclusion that the best thing I could do was to try to be the best
runner on the road, just as a starter. In reality, in my inmost soul, my
highest ideal was the master mechanic's position.

"I was about twenty-five years old, and had been running between two or
three years, with pretty good success, when one day the general master
mechanic sent for me. In the office I was introduced to a gentleman,
and the G. M. M. said to him in my presence:

"'This is the engineer I spoke to you of. We have none better. I think
he would suit you exactly, and, when you are through with him, send him
back; we are only lending him, mind,' and he went out into the shop.

"The meaning of it all was that the stranger represented a firm that had
put up the money to build a locomotive with a patent boiler for burning
a patent fuel--she had an improved valve motion, too--and they had asked
our G. M. M. for a good engineer, to send East and break in and run the
new machine and go with her around the country on ten-day trials on the
different roads. He offered good pay, it was work I liked, and I went. I
came right here to Boston and reported to the firm. They were a big
concern in another line, and the head of the house was a relative of our
G. M. M.--that's why he had a chance to send me.

"After the usual introductions, the president said to me:

"'Now, Mr. Wainright, this new engine of ours is hardly started yet.
The drawings are done, and the builders' contract is ready to sign; but
we want you to look over the drawings, to see if there are any practical
suggestions you can make. Then stay in the shops, and see that the work
is done right. The inventor is not a practical man; help him if you can,
for experience tells us that ten things fail because of bad _design_
where one does because of bad manipulation. Come up into the
drawing-room, and I will introduce you to the inventor.'

"Up under the skylight I met the designer of the new engine, a mild
little fellow--but he don't figure in this story. In five minutes I was
deep in the study of the drawings. Everything seemed to be worked out
all right, except that they had the fire-door opening the wrong way and
the brake-valve couldn't be reached--but many a good builder did that
twenty years ago. I was impressed with the beauty of the drawings--they
were like lithographs, and one, a perspective, was shaded and colored
handsomely. I complimented him on them.

"'They are beautiful, sir,' he said; 'they were made by a lady. I'll
introduce you to her.'

"A bright, plain-faced little woman with a shingled head looked up from
her drawing-board as we approached, shook hands cordially when
introduced, and at once entered into an intelligent discussion of the
plans of the new record-beater.

"Well, it was some months before the engine was ready for the road, and
in that time I got pretty well acquainted with Miss Reynolds. She was
mighty plain, but sharp as a buzz-saw. I don't think she was really
homely, but she'd never have been arrested for her beauty. There was
something 'fetching' about her appearance--you couldn't help liking her.
She was intelligent, and it was such a novelty to find a woman who knew
the smoke stack from the steam chest. I didn't fall in love with her at
all, but I liked to talk to her over the work. She told me her story;
not all at once, but here and there a piece, until I knew her history
pretty well.

"It seems that her father had been chief draughtsman of those works for
years, but had lately died. She had a strong taste for mechanics, and
her father, who believed in women learning trades, had taught her
mechanical drawing, first at home and then in the shop. She had helped
in busy times as an extra, but never went to work for regular wages
until the death of her father made it necessary.

"She seemed to like to hear stories of the road, and often asked me to
tell her some thrilling experience the second time. Her eyes sparkled
and her face kindled when I touched on a snow-bucking experience. She
often said that if she was a man she'd go on the railroad, and after
such a remark she would usually sigh and smile at the same time. One
day, when the engine was pretty nearly ready, she said to me:

"'Mr. Wainright, who is going to fire the Experiment?'

"'I don't know. I had forgot about that; I'll have to see about it.'

"'It wouldn't be of much use to get an experienced man, would it--the
engine will burn a new fuel in a new way?'

"'No,' said I, 'not much.'

"'Now,' said she, coloring a little, 'let me ask a favor of you. I have
a brother who is just crazy to go out firing. I don't want him to go
unless it's with a man I can trust; he is young and inexperienced, you
know. Won't you take him? Please do.'

"'Why, I'll be glad to,' said I. 'I'll speak to the old man about it.'

"'Don't tell him it's my brother.'

"'Well, all right.'

"The old man told me to hire whoever I liked, and I told Miss Reynolds
to bring the boy in the morning.

"'Won't you wait until Monday? It will be an accommodation to me.'

"Of course I waited.

"The next day Miss Reynolds did not come to the office, and I was busy
at the shop. Monday came, but no Miss Reynolds. About nine o'clock,
however, the foreman came down to the Experiment with a boy, apparently
about eighteen years old, and said there was a lad with a note for me.

"Before reading the note I shook hands with the boy, and told him I knew
who he was, for he looked like his sister. He was small, but wiry, and
had evidently come prepared for business, as he had some overclothes
under his arm and a pair of buckskin gloves. He was bashful and quiet,
as boys usually are during their first experience away from home. The
note read:

     "'DEAR MR. WAINRIGHT.--This will be handed you by brother George. I
     hope you will be satisfied with him. I know he will try to please
     you and do his duty; don't forget how green he is. I am obliged to
     go into the country to settle up some of my father's affairs and
     may not see you again before you go. I sincerely hope the
     "Experiment," George, and his engineer will be successful. I shall
     watch you all.

     "'G. E. REYNOLDS.'

"I felt kind of cut up, somehow, about going away without bidding Old
Business--as the other draughtsman called Miss Reynolds--good-by; but I
was busy with the engine.

"The foreman came along half an hour after the arrival of young
Reynolds, and seeing him at work cleaning the window glass, asked who he
was.

"'The fireman,' said I.

"'What! that kid?'

"And from that day I don't think I ever called young Reynolds by any
other name half a dozen times. That was the 'Kid' you knew. When it came
quitting time that night, I asked the Kid where they lived, and he said,
Charlestown. I remarked that his voice was like his sister's; but he
laughed, and said I'd see difference enough if they were together; and
bidding me good-night, caught a passing car.

"We broke the Experiment in for a few days, and then tackled half a
train for Providence. She would keep her water just about hot enough to
wash in with the pump on. It was a tough day; I was in the front end
half the time at every stop. The Kid did exactly what I told him, and
was in good spirits all the time. I was cross. Nothing will make a man
crosser than a poor steamer.

"We got to Providence in the evening tired; but after supper the Kid
said he had an aunt and her family living there, and if I didn't mind,
he'd try to find them. I left the door unlocked, and slept on one side
of the bed, but the Kid didn't come back; he was at the engine when I
got there the next morning.

"The Kid was such a nice little fellow I liked to have him with me, and,
somehow or other (I hardly noticed it at the time), he had a good
influence on me. In them days I took a drink if I felt like it; but the
Kid got me into the habit of taking lemonade, and wouldn't go into
drinking places, and I soon quit it. He gave me many examples of
controlling my temper, and soon got me into the habit of thinking before
I spoke.

"We played horse with that engine for four or five weeks, mostly around
town, but I could see it was no go. The patent fuel was no good, and the
patent fire-box little better, and I advised the firm to put a standard
boiler on her and a pair of links, and sell her while the paint was
fresh. They took my advice.

"The Kid and I took the engine to Hinkley's, and left her there; we
packed up our overclothes, and as we walked away, the Kid asked: 'What
will you do now, Jim?'

"'Oh, I've had a nice play, and I'll go back to the road. I wish you'd
go along.'

"'I wouldn't like anything better; will you take me?'

"'Yes, but I ain't sure that I can get you a job right away.'

"'Well, I could fire for you, couldn't I?'

"'I'd like to have you, Kid; but you know I have a regular engine and a
regular fireman. I'll ask for you, though.'

"'I won't fire for anybody else!'

"'You won't! What would you do if I should die?'

"'Quit.'

"Get out!'

"'Honest; if I can't fire for you, I won't fire at all.'

"I put in a few days around the 'Hub,' and as I had nothing to do, my
mind kept turning to Miss Reynolds. I met the Kid daily, and on one of
our rambles I asked him where his sister was.

"'Out in the country.'

"'Send word to her that I am going away and want to see her, will you,
Kid?'

"'Well, yes; but Sis is funny; she's too odd for any use. I don't think
she'll come.'

"'Well, I'll go and see her.'

"'No, Sis would think you were crazy.'

"'Why? Now look here Kid, I like that sister of yours, and I want to see
her.'

"But the Kid just stopped, leaned against the nearest building, and
laughed--laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. The next day he
brought me word that his sister had gone to Chicago to make some
sketches for the firm and hoped to come to see us after she was through.
I started for Chicago the day following, the Kid with me.

"I had little trouble in getting the Kid on with me, as my old fireman
had been promoted. I had a nice room with another plug-puller, and in a
few days I was in the old jog--except for the Kid. He refused to room
with my partner's fireman; and when I talked to him about saving money
that way, he said he wouldn't room with any one--not even me. Then he
laughed, and said he kicked so that no one could room with him. The Kid
was the butt of all the firemen on account of his size, but he kept the
cleanest engine, and was never left nor late, and seemed more and more
attached to me--and I to him.

"Things were going along slick enough when Daddy Daniels had a row with
his fireman, and our general master mechanic took the matter up.
Daniels' fireman claimed the run with me, as he was the oldest man, and,
as they had an 'oldest man' agreement, the master mechanic ordered
Smutty Kelly and the Kid changed.

"I was not in the roundhouse when the Kid was ordered to change, but he
went direct to the office and kicked, but to no purpose. Then he came to
me.

"'Jim,' said he, with tears in his eyes, 'are you satisfied with me on
the 12?'

"'Why, yes, Kid. Who says I'm not?'

"'They've ordered me to change to the 17 with that horrible old ruffian
Daniels, and Smutty Kelly to go with you.'

"'They have!' says I. 'That slouch can't go out with me the first time;
I'll see the old man.'

"But the old man was mad by the time I got to him.

"'That baby-faced boy says he won't fire for anybody but you; what have
you been putting into his head?'

"'Nothing; I've treated him kindly, and he likes me and the 12--that's
the cleanest engine on the--'

"'Tut, tut, I don't care about that; I've ordered the firemen on the 12
and 17 changed--and they are going to be changed.'

"The Kid had followed me into the office, and at this point said, very
respectfully:

"'Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Wainright and I get along so nicely together.
Daniels is a bad man; so is Kelly; and neither will get along with
decent men. Why can't you--'

"'There! stop right there, young man. Now, will you go on the 17 _as
ordered_?'

"'Yes, if Jim Wainright runs her.'

"'No _ifs_ about it; will you go?'

"'No, sir, I won't!'

"'You are discharged, then.'

"'That fires me, too,' said I.

"'Not at all, not at all; this is a fireman row, Jim.'

"I don't know what struck me then, but I said:

"'No one but this boy shall put a scoop of coal in the 12 or any other
engine for me; I'll take the poorest run you have, but the Kid goes with
me.'

"Talk was useless, and in the end the Kid and I quit and got our time.

"That evening the Kid came to my room and begged me to take my job back
and he would go home; but I wouldn't do it, and asked him if he was sick
of me.

"'No, Jim,' said he. 'I live in fear that something will happen to
separate us, but I don't want to be a drag on you--I think more of you
than anybody.'

"They were buying engines by the hundred on the Rio Grande and Santa Fé
and the A. & P. in those days, and the Kid and I struck out for the
West, and inside of thirty days we were at work again.

"We had been there three months, I guess, when I got orders to take a
new engine out to the front and leave her, bringing back an old one. The
last station on the road was in a box-car, thrown out beside the track
on a couple of rails. There was one large, rough-board house, where they
served rough-and-ready grub and let rooms. The latter were stalls, the
partitions being only about seven feet high. It was cold and bleak, but
right glad we were to get there and get a warm supper. Everything was
rough, but the Kid seemed to enjoy the novelty. After supper I asked the
landlord if he could fix us for the night.

"'I can jest fix ye, and no more,' said he; 'I have just one room left.
Ye's'll have to double up; but this is the kind o' weather for that;
it'll be warmer.'

"The Kid objected, but the landlord bluffed him--didn't have any other
room--and he added: 'If I was your pardner there, I'd kick ye down to
the foot, such a cold strip of bacon as ye must be.'

"About nine o'clock the Kid slipped out, and not coming in for an hour,
I went to look for him. As I went toward the engine, I met the watchman:

"'Phy don't that fireman o' yourn sleep in the house or on the caboose
floor such a night as this? He'll freeze up there in that cab wid no
blankets at all; but when I tould him that, he politely informed meself
that he'd knowed men to git rich mindin' their own biz. He's a sassy
slip of a Yankee.'

"I climbed up on the big consolidation, and, lighting my torch, looked
over the boiler-head at the Kid. He was lying on a board on the seat,
with his overcoat for a covering and an arm-rest for a pillow.

"'What's the matter with you, Kid?' I asked. 'What are you doing
freezing here when we can both be comfortable and warm in the house? Are
you ashamed or afraid to sleep with me? I don't like this for a cent.'

"'Hope you won't be mad with me, Jim, but I won't sleep with any one;
there now!'

"'You're either a fool or crazy,' said I. 'Why, you will half freeze
here. I want some explanation of such a trick as this.'

"The Kid sat up, looked at me soberly for a few seconds, reached up and
unhooked his door, and said:

"'Come over and sit down, Jim, and I'll tell you something.'

"I blew out the torch and went over, half mad. As I hooked the door to
keep out the sharp wind I thought I heard a sob, and I took the Kid's
head in my hands and turned his face to the moonlight. There were big
tears in the corner of each tightly closed eye.

"'Don't feel bad, Kid,' said I. 'I'm sure there's some reason keeps you
at such tricks as this; but tell me all your trouble--it's imaginary, I
know.'

"There was a tremor in the Kid's voice as he took my hand and said, 'We
are friends, Jim; ain't we?'

"'Why, of course,' said I.

"'I have depended on your friendship and kindness and manhood, Jim. It
has never failed me yet, and it won't now, I know. I have a secret, Jim,
and it gnaws to be out one day, and hides itself the next. Many and many
a time I have been on the point of confessing to you, but something held
me back. I was afraid you would not let me stay with you, if you knew--'

"'Why, you ain't killed any one, Kid?' I asked, for I thought he was
exaggerating his trouble.

"'No--yes, I did, too--I killed my sister.'

"I recoiled, hurt, shocked. 'You--'

"'Yes, Jim, there is no such person to be found as my sister,
Georgiana--_for I am she_!''

"'You! Why, Kid, you're crazy!'

"'No, I'm not. Listen, Jim, and I will explain.'

"'My father was always sorry I was not a boy. Taught me boyish tricks,
and made me learn drawing. I longed for the life on a locomotive--I
loved it, read about it, thought of it, and prayed to be transformed
into _something_ that could go out on the road. My heart went out to
you early in our acquaintance, and one day the thought to get started as
a fireman with you shot into my brain and was acted upon at once. After
the first move there was no going back, and I have acted my part well; I
have even been a good fireman. I am strong, healthy, and happy when on
the road with you. I love the life, hard as it is, and can't think of
giving it up, and--and you, Jim.'

"And then she broke down, and cried as only a woman can.

"I took both her hands in mine and kissed her--think of kissing your
fireman on the engine--and told her that we could be happy yet. Then I
told her how I had tried to get a letter to the lost sister, and how
they never came back, and were never answered--that I loved the sister
and loved her. She reminded me that she herself got all the letters I
had sent, and was pretty sure of her ground when she threw herself on my
protection.

"It was a strange courting, John, there on that engine at the front, the
boundless plains on one side, the mountains on the other, the winds of
the desert whirling sand and snow against our little house, and the moon
looking coldly down at the spectacle of an engineer making love to his
fireman.

"That night the Kid slept in the bed in the house, and I stayed on the
engine.

"When we got back to headquarters the Kid laid off to go home, and I
made a trip or two with another fireman, and then I had to go to
Illinois to fix up some family business--Kid and I arranged that.

"We met in St. Louis, the Kid hired a ball dress, and we were married as
quiet as possible. I had promised the Kid that, for the present at
least, she could stay on the road with me, and you know that the year
you were there I done most of the heavy firing while the Kid did the
running. We remained in the service for something like two years--a
strange couple, but happy in each other's company and our work.

"I often talked to my wife about leaving the road and starting in new,
where we were not known, as man and wife, she to remain at home; but she
wouldn't hear of it, asking if I wanted an Irishman for a side-partner.
This came to be a joke with us--'When I get my Irishman I will do
so-and-so.'

"One day, as our 'hog' was drifting down the long hill, the Kid said to
me, 'Jim, you can get your Irishman; I'm going to quit this trip.'

"'Kind o' sudden, hey, Kid?'

"'No, been hating to give up, but--' and then the Kid came over and
whispered something to me.

"John, we both quit and went South. I got a job in Texas, and the Kid
was lost sight of, and Mrs. J. E. Wainright appeared on the scene in
tea-gown, train, and flounces. We furnished a neat little den, and I was
happy. I missed my kid fireman, and did indeed have an Irishman. Kid had
a struggle to wear petticoats again, and did not take kindly to
dish-washing, but we were happy just the same.

"Our little fellow arrived one spring day, and then our skies were all
sunshiny for three long, happy years, until one day Kid and I followed a
little white hearse out beyond the cypress grove and saw the earth
covered over our darling, over our hopes, over our sunshine, and over
our hearts.

"After that the house was like a tomb, so still, so solemn, and at every
turn were reminders of the little one who had faded away like the
morning mist, gone from everything but our memories--there his sweet
little image was graven by the hand of love and seared by the
branding-iron of sorrow.

"Men and women of intelligence do not parade their sorrows in the
market-place; they bear them as best they can, and try to appear as
others, but once the specter of the grim destroyer has crossed the
threshold, his shadow forever remains, a dark reminder, like a
prison-bar across the daylight of a cell. This shadow is seen and
recognized in the heart of a father, but it is larger and darker and
more dreadful in the mother heart.

"At every turn poor Kid was mutely reminded of her loss, and her heart
was at the breaking point day by day, and she begged for her old life,
to seek forgetfulness in toil and get away from herself. So we went
back to the old road, as we went away--Jim Wainright and Kid
Reynolds--and glad enough they were to get us again for the winter work.

"Three years of indoor life had softened the wiry muscles of the Kid,
and our engine was a hard steamer, so I did most of the work on the
road. But the work, excitement, and outdoor life brought back the color
to pale cheeks, and now and then a smile to sad lips--and I was glad.

"One day the Kid was running while I broke up some big lumps of coal,
and while busy in the tank I felt the air go on full and the reverse
lever come back, while the wheels ground sand. I stepped quickly toward
the cab to see what was the matter, when the Kid sprang into the gangway
and cried 'Jump!'

"I was in the left gangway in a second, but quick as a flash the Kid had
my arm.

"'The other side! Quick! The river!'

"We were almost side by side as she swung me toward the other side of
the engine, and jumped as we crashed into a landslide. I felt Kid's
hand on my shoulder as I left the deck--just in time to save my life,
but not the Kid's.

"She was crushed between the tank and boiler in the very act of keeping
me from jumping to certain death on the rocks in the river below.

"When the crew came over they found me with the crushed clay of my poor,
loved Kid in my arms, kissing her. They never knew who she was. I took
her back to our Texas home and laid her beside the little one that had
gone before. The Firemen's Brotherhood paid Kid's insurance to me and
passed resolutions saying: 'It has pleased Almighty God to remove from
our midst our beloved brother, George Reynolds,' etc., etc.

"George Reynolds's grave cannot be found; but over a mound of
forget-me-nots away in a Southern land, there stands a stone on which is
cut: 'Georgiana, wife of J. E. Wainright, aged thirty-two years.'

"But in my heart there is a golden pyramid of love to the memory of a
fireman and a sweetheart known to you and all the world but me, as 'Jim
Wainright's Kid.'"

AN ENGINEER'S CHRISTMAS STORY

In the summer, fall, and early winter of 1863, I was tossing chips into
an old Hinkley insider up in New England, for an engineer by the name of
James Dillon. Dillon was considered as good a man as there was on the
road: careful, yet fearless, kindhearted, yet impulsive, a man whose
friends would fight for him and whose enemies hated him right royally.

Dillon took a great notion to me, and I loved him as a father; the fact
of the matter is, he was more of a father to me than I had at home, for
my father refused to be comforted when I took to railroading, and I
could not see him more than two or three times a year at the most--so
when I wanted advice I went to Jim.

I was a young fellow then, and being without a home at either end of the
run, was likely to drop into pitfalls. Dillon saw this long before I
did. Before I had been with him three months, he told me one day, coming
in, that it was against his principles to teach locomotive-running to a
young man who was likely to turn out a drunkard or gambler and disgrace
the profession, and he added that I had better pack up my duds and come
up to his house and let "mother" take care of me--and I went.

I was not a guest there: I paid my room-rent and board just as I should
have done anywhere else, but I had all the comforts of a home, and
enjoyed a thousand advantages that money could not buy. I told Mrs.
Dillon all my troubles, and found kindly sympathy and advice; she
encouraged me in all my ambitions, mended my shirts, and went with me
when I bought my clothes. Inside of a month, I felt like one of the
family, called Mrs. Dillon "mother," and blessed my lucky stars that I
had found them.

Dillon had run a good many years, and was heartily tired of it, and he
seldom passed a nice farm that he did not call my attention to it,
saying: "Jack, now there's comfort; you just wait a couple of
years--I've got my eye on the slickest little place, just on the edge of
M----, that I am saving up my pile to buy. I'll give you the 'Roger
William' one of these days, Jack, say good evening to grief, and me and
mother will take comfort. Think of sleeping till eight o'clock,--and no
poor steamers, Jack, no poor steamers!" And he would reach over, and
give my head a gentle duck as I tried to pitch a curve to a front corner
with a knot: those Hinkleys were powerful on cold water.

In Dillon's household there was a "system" of financial management. He
always gave his wife just half of what he earned; kept ten dollars for
his own expenses during the month, out of which he clothed himself; and
put the remainder in the bank. It was before the days of high wages,
however, and even with this frugal management, the bank account did not
grow rapidly. They owned the house in which they lived, and out of her
half "mother" had to pay all the household expenses and taxes, clothe
herself and two children, and send the children to school. The oldest, a
girl of some sixteen years, was away at normal school, and the boy,
about thirteen or fourteen, was at home, going to the public school and
wearing out more clothes than all the rest of the family.

Dillon told me that they had agreed on the financial plan followed in
the family before their marriage, and he used to say that for the life
of him he did not see how "mother" got along so well on the allowance.
When he drew a small month's pay he would say to me, as we walked home:
"No cream in the coffee this month, Jack." If it was unusually large, he
would say: "Plum duff and fried chicken for a Sunday dinner." He
insisted that he could detect the rate of his pay in the food, but this
was not true--it was his kind of fun. "Mother" and I were fast friends.
She became my banker, and when I wanted an extra dollar, I had to ask
her for it and tell what I wanted it for, and all that.

Along late in November, Jim had to make an extra one night on another
engine, which left me at home alone with "mother" and the boy--I had
never seen the girl--and after swearing me to be both deaf, dumb, and
blind, "mother" told me a secret. For ten years she had been saving
money out of her allowance, until the amount now reached nearly $2,000.
She knew of Jim's life ambition to own a farm, and she had the matter in
hand, if I would help her. Of course I was head over heels into the
scheme at once. She wanted to buy the farm near M----, and give Jim the
deed for a Christmas present; and Jim mustn't even suspect.

Jim never did.

The next trip I had to buy some underclothes: would "mother" tell me how
to pick out pure wool? Why, bless your heart, no, she wouldn't, but
she'd just put on her things and go down with me. Jim smoked and read at
home.

We went straight to the bank where Jim kept his money, asked for the
President, and let him into the whole plan. Would he take $2,100 out of
Jim's money, unbeknown to Jim, and pay the balance of the price of the
farm over what "mother" had?

No, he would not; but he would advance the money for the purpose--have
the deeds sent to him, and he would pay the price--that was fixed.

Then I hatched up an excuse and changed off with the fireman on the
M---- branch, and spent the best part of two lay-overs fixing up things
with the owner of the farm and arranging to hold back the recording of
the deeds until after Christmas. Every evening there was some part of
the project to be talked over, and "mother" and I held many whispered
conversations. Once Jim, smiling, observed that, if I had any hair on my
face, he would be jealous.

I remember that it was on the 14th day of December, 1863, that payday
came. I banked my money with "mother," and Jim, as usual, counted out
his half to that dear old financier.

"Uncle Sam'd better put that 'un in the hospital," observed Jim, as he
came to a ragged ten-dollar bill. "Goddess of Liberty pretty near got
her throat cut there; guess some reb has had hold of her," he continued,
as he held up the bill. Then laying it down, he took out his pocket-book
and cut off a little three-cornered strip of pink court-plaster, and
made repairs on the bill.

"Mother" pocketed her money greedily, and before an hour I had that very
bill in my pocket to pay the recording fees in the courthouse at M----.

The next day Jim wanted to use more money than he had in his pocket, and
asked me to lend him a dollar. As I opened my wallet to oblige him, that
patched bill showed up. Jim put his finger on it, and then turning me
around towards him, he said: "How came you by that?"

I turned red--I know I did--but I said, cool enough, "'Mother' gave it
to me in change."

"That's a lie," he said, and turned away.

The next day we were more than two-thirds of the way home before he
spoke; then, as I straightened up after a fire, he said: "John
Alexander, when we get in, you go to Aleck (the foreman) and get changed
to some other engine."

There was a queer look on his face; it was not anger, it was not
sorrow--it was more like pain. I looked the man straight in the eye, and
said: "All right, Jim; it shall be as you say--but, so help me God, I
don't know what for. If you will tell me what I have done that is wrong,
I will not make the same mistake with the next man I fire for."

He looked away from me, reached over and started the pump, and said:
"Don't you know?"

"No, sir, I have not the slightest idea."

"Then you stay, and I'll change," said he, with a determined look, and
leaned out of the window, and said no more all the way in.

I did not go home that day. I cleaned the "Roger William" from the top
of that mountain of sheet-iron known as a wood-burner stack to the back
casting on the tank, and tried to think what I had done wrong, or not
done at all, to incur such displeasure from Dillon. He was in bed when
I went to the house that evening, and I did not see him until breakfast.
He was in his usual spirits there, but on the way to the station, and
all day long, he did not speak to me. He noticed the extra cleaning, and
carefully avoided tarnishing any of the cabfittings;--but that awful
quiet! I could hardly bear it, and was half sick at the trouble, the
cause of which I could not understand. I thought that, if the patched
bill had anything to do with it, Christmas morning would clear it up.

Our return trip was the night express, leaving the terminus at 9:30. As
usual, that night I got the engine out, oiled, switched out the cars,
and took the train to the station, trimmed my signals and headlight, and
was all ready for Jim to pull out. Nine o'clock came, and no Jim; at
9:10 I sent to his boarding-house. He had not been there. He did not
come at leaving time--he did not come at all. At ten o'clock the
conductor sent to the engine-house for another engineer, and at 10:45,
instead of an engineer, a fireman came, with orders for John Alexander
to run the "Roger William" until further orders,--I never fired a
locomotive again.

I went over that road the saddest-hearted man that ever made a maiden
trip. I hoped there would be some tidings of Jim at home--there were
none. I can never forget the blow it was to "mother;" how she braced up
on account of her children--but oh, that sad face! Christmas came, and
with it the daughter, and then there were two instead of one: the boy
was frantic the first day, and playing marbles the next.

Christmas day there came a letter. It was from Jim--brief and cold
enough--but it was such a comfort to "mother." It was directed to Mary
J. Dillon, and bore the New York post-mark. It read:

     "Uncle Sam is in need of men, and those who lose with Venus may win
     with Mars. Enclosed papers you will know best what to do with. Be a
     mother to the children--you have _three_ of them.

     "JAMES DILLON."

He underscored the three--he was a mystery to me. Poor "mother!" She
declared that no doubt "poor James's head was affected." The papers with
the letter were a will, leaving her all, and a power of attorney,
allowing her to dispose of or use the money in the bank. Not a line of
endearment or love for that faithful heart that lived on love, asked
only for love, and cared for little else.

That Christmas was a day of fasting and prayer for us. Many letters did
we send, many advertisements were printed, but we never got a word from
James Dillon, and Uncle Sam's army was too big to hunt in. We were a
changed family: quieter and more tender of one another's feelings, but
changed.

In the fall of 64 they changed the runs around, and I was booked to run
in to M----. Ed, the boy, was firing for me. There was no reason why
"mother" should stay in Boston, and we moved out to the little farm.
That daughter, who was a second "mother" all over, used to come down to
meet us at the station with the horse, and I talked "sweet" to her; yet
at a certain point in the sweetness I became dumb.

Along in May, '65, "mother" got a package from Washington. It contained
a tin-type of herself; a card with a hole in it (made evidently by
having been forced over a button), on which was her name and the old
address in town; then there was a ring and a saber, and on the blade of
the saber was etched, "Presented to Lieutenant Jas. Dillon, for bravery
on the field of battle." At the bottom of the parcel was a note in a
strange hand, saying simply, "Found on the body of Lieutenant Dillon
after the battle of Five Forks."

Poor "mother!" Her heart was wrung again, and again the scalding tears
fell. She never told her suffering, and no one ever knew what she bore.
Her face was a little sadder and sweeter, her hair a little whiter--that
was all.

I am not a bit superstitious--don't believe in signs or presentiments or
prenothings--but when I went to get my pay on the 14th day of December,
1866, it gave me a little start to find in it the bill bearing the
chromo of the Goddess of Liberty with the little three-cornered piece of
court-plaster that Dillon had put on her wind-pipe. I got rid of it at
once, and said nothing to "mother" about it; but I kept thinking of it
and seeing it all the next day and night.

On the night of the 16th, I was oiling around my Black Maria to take out
a local leaving our western terminus just after dark, when a tall, slim
old gentleman stepped up to me and asked if I was the engineer. I don't
suppose I looked like the president: I confessed, and held up my torch,
so I could see his face--a pretty tough-looking face. The white mustache
was one of that military kind, reinforced with whiskers on the right and
left flank of the mustache proper. He wore glasses, and one of the
lights was ground glass. The right cheek-bone was crushed in, and a red
scar extended across the eye and cheek; the scar looked blue around the
red line because of the cold.

"I used to be an engineer before the war," said he. "Do you go to
Boston!"

"No, to M----."

"M----! I thought that was on a branch."

"It is, but is now an important manufacturing point, with regular trains
from there to each end of the main line."

"When can I get to Boston?"

"Not till Monday now; we run no through Sunday trains. You can go to
M---- with me to-night, and catch a local to Boston in the morning."

He thought a minute, and then said, "Well, yes; guess I had better. How
is it for a ride?"

"Good; just tell the conductor that I told you to get on."

"Thanks; that's clever. I used to know a soldier who used to run up in
this country," said the stranger, musing. "Dillon; that's it, Dillon."

"I knew him well," said I. "I want to hear about him."

"Queer man," said he, and I noticed he was eying me pretty sharp.

"A good engineer."

"Perhaps," said he.

[Illustration: "I noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the
reverse-lever."]

I coaxed the old veteran to ride on the engine--the first coal-burner I
had had. He seemed more than glad to comply. Ed was as black as a negro,
and swearing about coal-burners in general and this one in particular,
and made so much noise with his fire-irons after we started, that the
old man came over and sat behind me, so as to be able to talk.

The first time I looked around after getting out of the yard, I noticed
his long slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever. Did you ever notice
how it seems to make an ex-engineer feel better and more satisfied to
get his hand on the reverse-lever and feel the life-throbs of the great
giant under him? Why, his hand goes there by instinct--just as an
ambulance surgeon will feel for the heart of the boy with a broken leg.

I asked the stranger to "give her a whirl," and noticed with what eager
joy he took hold of her. I also observed with surprise that he seemed to
know all about "four-mile hill," where most new men got stuck. He caught
me looking at his face, and touching the scar, remarked: "A little love
pat, with the compliments of Wade Hampton's men." We talked on a good
many subjects, and got pretty well acquainted before we were over the
division, but at last we seemed talked out.

"Where does Dillon's folks live now?" asked the stranger, slowly, after
a time.

"M----," said I.

He nearly jumped off the box. "M----? I thought it was Boston!"

"Moved to M----."

"What for?"

"Own a farm there."

"Oh, I see; married again?"

"No."

"No!"

"Widow thought too much of Jim for that."

"No!"

"Yes."

"Er--what became of the young man that they--er--adopted?"

"Lives with 'em yet."

"So!"

Just then we struck the suburbs of M----, and, as we passed the cemetery,
I pointed to a high shaft, and said: "Dillon's monument."

"Why, how's that?"

"Killed at Five Forks. Widow put up monument."

He shaded his eyes with his hand, and peered through the moonlight for a
minute.

"That's clever," was all he said.

I insisted that he go home with me. Ed took the Black Maria to the
house, and we took the street cars for it to the end of the line, and
then walked. As we cleaned our feet at the door, I said: "Let me see, I
did not hear your name?"

"James," said he, "Mr. James."

I opened the sitting-room door, and ushered the stranger in.

"Well, boys," said "mother," slowly getting up from before the fire and
hurriedly taking a few extra stitches in her knitting before laying it
down to look up at us, "you're early."

She looked up, not ten feet from the stranger, as he took off his
slouched hat and brushed back the white hair. In another minute her
arms were around his neck, and she was murmuring "James" in his ear, and
I, like a dumb fool, wondered who told her his name.

Well, to make a long story short, it was James Dillon himself, and the
daughter came in, and Ed came, and between the three they nearly
smothered the old fellow.

You may think it funny he didn't know me, but don't forget that I had
been running for three years--that takes the fresh off a fellow; then,
when I had the typhoid, my hair laid off, and was never reinstated, and
when I got well, the whiskers--that had always refused to grow--came on
with a rush, and they were red. And again, I had tried to switch with an
old hook-motion in the night and forgot to take out the starting-bar,
and she threw it at me, knocking out some teeth; and taking it
altogether, I was a changed man.

"Where's John?" he said finally.

"Here," said I.

"No!"

"Yes."

He took my hand, and said, "John, I left all that was dear to me once,
because I was jealous of you. I never knew how you came to have that
money or why, and don't want to. Forgive me."

"That is the first time I ever heard of that," said "mother."

"I had it to buy this farm for you--a Christmas present--if you had
waited," said I.

"That is the first time I ever heard of that," said he.

"And you might have been shot," said "mother," getting up close.

"I tried my darndest to be. That's why I got promoted so fast."

"Oh, James!" and her arms were around his neck again.

"And I sent that saber home myself, never intending to come back."

"Oh, James, how could you!"

"Mother, how can you forgive me?"

"Mother," was still for a minute, looking at the fire in the grate.
"James, it is late in life to apply such tests, but love is like gold;
ours will be better now--the dross has been burned away in the fire. I
did what I did for love of you, and you did what you did for love of me;
let us all commence to live again in the old way," and those arms of
hers could not keep away from his neck.

Ed went out with tears in his eyes, and I beckoned the daughter to
follow me. We passed into the parlor, drew the curtain over the
doorway--and there was nothing but that rag between us and heaven.

THE CLEAN MAN AND THE DIRTY ANGELS

When I first went firing, down in my native district, where Bean is
King, there was a man on the road pulling a mixed train, by the name of
Clark--'Lige Clark.

Being only a fireman, and a new one at that, I did not come very much in
contact with Clark, or any of the other engineers, excepting my
own--James Dillon.

'Lige Clark was a character on the road; everybody knew "old 'Lige;" he
was liked and respected, but not loved; he was thought puritanical, or
religious, or cranky, by some, yet no one hated him, or even had a
strong dislike for him.

His honesty and straightforwardness were proverbial. He was always in
charge of the funds of every order he belonged to, as well as of the
Sunday-school and church.

He was truthful to a fault, but above all, just.

"'Cause 'tain't right, that's why," was his way of refusing to do a
thing, and his argument against others doing it.

After I got to running, I saw and knew more of 'Lige, and I think,
perhaps, I was as much of a friend as he ever had. We never were chums.
I never went to his house, and he never went to mine; we were simply
roundhouse acquaintances; used to talk engine a little, but usually
talked about children--'Lige had four, and always spoke about "doing the
right thing by them."

'Lige had a very heavy full beard, that came clear up to his eyes, and a
mass of wavy hair--all iron grey. His eyes were steel grey, and matched
his hair, and he had a habit of looking straight at you when he spoke.

On his engine he invariably ran with his head out of the side window,
rain or shine, and always bareheaded. When he stepped upon the
footboard, he put his hat away with his clothes, and there it stayed. He
was never known to wear a cap, excepting in the coldest weather.

Once in a while, when I was firing, I have seen him come in, in winter,
with his beard white with frost and ice, and some smoke-shoveling wit
dubbed him Santa Claus.

'Lige had a way of looking straight ahead and thinking of his work, and,
after he got to running express, would go through a town, where other
trains were sidetracked for him, looking at the track ahead, and at the
trains, but never seeming to care that they were there, never nodding or
waving a hand. Once in a while he would blink his eyes,--that was all.
The wind tossed his mane and hair and made him look for all the world
like a lion, who looks at, but appears to care nothing for the crowds
around his den. Someone noticed the comparison, and dubbed him "The
Lion," and the name clung to him. He was spoken of as "Old 'Lige, the
Lion." Just why he was called old, I don't know--he was little more than
forty then.

When the men on the road had any grievances, they always asked 'Lige to
"go and see the old man." 'Lige always went to lodge and to meetings of
the men, but was never known to speak. When the demands were drawn up
and presented to him, he always got up and said: "Them air declarations
ain't right, an' I wouldn't ask any railroad to grant 'em;" or, "The
declarations are right. Of course I'll be glad to take 'em."

When old 'Lige declined to bear a grievance it was modified or
abandoned; and he never took a request to headquarters that was not
granted--until the strike of '77.

When the war broke out, 'Lige was asked to go, and the railroad boys
wanted him to be captain of a company of them; but he declined, saying
that slavery was wrong and should be crushed, but that he had a sickly
wife and four small children depending on his daily toil for bread, and
it wouldn't be right to leave 'em unprovided for. They drafted him
later, but he still said it "wa'n't right" for him to go, and paid for a
substitute. But three months later his father-in-law died, up in the
country somewhere, and left his wife some three thousand dollars, and
'Lige enlisted the next, day, saying "'Tain't right for any man to stay
that can be spared; slavery ain't right; it must be stopped." He served
as a private until it was stopped.

Shortly after the war 'Lige was pulling the superintendent over the
road, when he struck a wagon, killing the driver, who was a farmer, and
hurting his wife. The woman afterward sued the road, and 'Lige was
called as a witness for the company. He surprised everybody by stating
that the accident was caused by mismanagement of the road, and explained
as follows: "I pull the regular Atlantic express, and should have been
at the crossing where the accident occurred, an hour later than I was;
but Mr. Doe, our superintendent, wanted to come over the road with his
special car, and took my engine to pull him, leaving a freight engine to
bring in the express. Mr. Doe could have rode on the regular train, or
could have had his car put into the train, instead of putting the
company to the expense of hauling a special, and kept the patrons of
the road from slow and poor service. We ran faster than there was any
use of, and Mr. Doe went home when he got in, showing that there was no
urgent call for his presence at this end of the line. If there had been
no extra train on the road this farmer wouldn't have been killed:
'twa'n't right."

The widow got pretty heavy damages, and the superintendent tried to
discharge 'Lige. But 'Lige said '"twa'n't right," and the men on the
road, the patrons and even the president agreed with him, so the irate
super gave the job up for the time being.

A couple of weeks after this, I went to that super.'s office on some
business, and had to wait in the outer pen until "His Grace" got through
with someone else. The transom over the door to the "Holy of Holies" was
open, and I heard the well-known voice of 'Lige "the Lion".

"Now, there's another matter, Mr. Doe, that perhaps you'll say is none
of my business, but 'tain't right, and I'm going to speak about it.
You're hanging around the yards and standing in the shadows of cars and
buildings half the night, watching employees. You've discharged several
yardmen, and I want to tell you that a lot of the roughest of them are
laying for you. My advice to you is to go home from the office. They'll
hurt you yet. 'Tain't right for one man to know that another is in
danger without warning him, so I've done it; 'twouldn't be right for
them to hurt you. You're not particularly hunting them but me, but you
won't catch me."

Mr. Doe assured "the Lion" that he could take care of himself, and two
nights later got sand-bagged, and had about half his ribs kicked loose,
over back of the scale house.

When the trouble commenced in '77, old 'Lige refused to take up a
request for increase of pay, to headquarters; said the road could afford
to keep us just where we were, which was more than some roads were
doing, and "'twa'n't right" to ask for more. Two months later they cut
us ten per cent., and offered to pay half script. Old 'Lige said
'"twa'n't right," and he'd strike afore he'd stand it;--and, in the end,
we all struck.

The fourth day after the strike commenced I met 'Lige, and he asked me
where I was going to hunt work. I told him I was going back when we won.
He laughed, and said there wa'n't much danger of any of us going back;
we were beat; mail trains all running, etc. '"Tain't right, Brother
John, to loaf longer'n you can help. I'm goin' out West to-morrer"--and
he went.

Some weeks afterward Joe Johnson and I concluded that, contrary to all
precedent, the road was going to run without us, and we also went West;
but by that time the country was full of men just like us. When I did
get a job, it was drying sand away out at the front on one of the new
roads. The first engine that come up to the sand house had a familiar
look, even with a boot-leg stack that was fearfully and wonderfully
made. There was a shaggy head sticking out of the side window, and two
cool grey eyes blinked at me, but didn't seem to see me; yet a cheery
voice from under the beard said: "Hello, Brother John, you're late, but
guess you'll catch on pretty quick. There's lots of 'em here that don't
know nothin' about railroading, as far as I can see, and they're running
engines, too. 'Tain't right."

The little town was booming, and 'Lige invested in lots, and became
interested in many schemes to benefit the place and make money. He had
been a widower for some years, and with one exception his children were
doing for themselves, and that one was with his sister, and well cared
for. 'Lige had considerable means, and he brought it all West. He
personally laid the corner-stone of the courthouse, subscribed more than
any other working man to the first church, and was treasurer of half the
institutions in the village. He ought to have quit the road, but he
wouldn't; but did compromise on taking an easy run on a branch.

'Lige was behind a benevolent scheme to build a hospital, to be under
the auspices of the church society, and to it devoted not a little time
and energy. When the constitution and by-laws were drawn up, the more
liberal of the trustees struck a snag in old 'Lige. He was bound that
the hospital should not harbor people under the influence of liquor, or
fallen women. 'Lige was very bitter against prostitution. "It is the
curse of civilization," he often said. "Prostitutes ruin ten men where
whiskey ruins one. They stand in the path of every young man in the
country, gilded tempters of virtue, honesty and manhood; 'tain't right
that they should be allowed in the country." If you attributed their
existence to man's passions, inhumanity or cruelty, or woman's weakness,
he checked you at once.

"Every woman that becomes a crooked woman does so from choice; she
needn't to if she didn't want to. The way to stop prostitution is for
every honest man and woman to refuse to have anything to do with them in
any way, or with those who do recognize them. 'Tain't right."

In this matter 'Lige Clark had no sympathy nor charity. "'Twa'n't
right"--and that settled it as far as he was concerned.

The ladies of the church sided with old 'Lige in his stand on the
hospital board, but the other two men wanted the doors of the
institution to be opened to all in need of medical attention or care,
regardless of who they were or what caused their ailment. 'Lige gave in
on the whiskey, but stood out resolutely against the soiled doves, and
so matters stood until midwinter.

Half the women in the town were outcasts from society--two dance-houses
were in full blast--and 'Lige soon became known to them and their
friends as the "Prophet Elijah, second edition."

The mining town over the hills, at the end of 'Lige's branch, was
booming, too, and wanted to be the county seat. It had its church,
dance-halls, etc., and the discovery of coal within a few miles bid fair
to make it a formidable rival.

The boom called for more power and I went over there to pull freight,
and 'Lige pulled passengers only. Then they put more coaches on his
train and put my engine on to help him, thus saving a crew's wages.
Passenger service increased steadily until a big snow-slide in one of
the gulches shut up the road. I'll never forget that slide. It happened
on the 26th of January. 'Lige and I were double-heading on nine coaches
of passengers and when on a heavy grade in Alder Gulch, a slide of snow
started from far up the mountain-side, swept over the track just ahead
of us, carrying trees, telegraph poles and the track with it. We tried
to stop, but 'Lige's engine got into it, and was carried sideways down
some fifty or sixty feet. Mine contented herself with simply turning
over, without hurting either myself or fireman--much to my satisfaction.

'Lige fared worse. His reverse lever caught in his clothing and before
he could get loose, the engine had stopped on her side, with 'Lige's
feet and legs under her. He was not badly hurt except for the scalding
water that poured upon him. As soon as we could see him, the fireman and
I got hold of him and forcibly pulled him out of the wreck. His limbs
were awfully burned--cooked would be nearer the word.

[Illustration: "It was a strange courting ... there on that engine."]

The passengers crowded around, but did little good. One look was enough
for most of them. There were ten or twelve women in the cars. They came
out slowly, and stood timidly away from the hissing boilers, with one
exception. This one came at once to the injured man, sat down in the
snow, took his head in her lap, and taking a flask of liquor from her
ulster pocket, gave poor 'Lige some with a little snow.

I got the oil can and poured some oil over the burned parts to keep the
air from them; we needed bandages, and I asked the ladies if they had
anything we could use for the purpose. One young girl offered a
handkerchief and another a shawl, but before they were accepted the cool
woman holding 'Lige's head got up quickly, laying his head down tenderly
on the snow, and without a word or attempt to get out of sight, pulled
up her dress, and in a second kicked out two white skirts, and sat down
again to cool 'Lige's brow.

That woman attended 'Lige like a guardian angel until we got back to
town late that afternoon. The hospital was not yet in shape, so 'Lige
was taken to the rather dreary and homeless quarters of the hotel.

As quick as it was known that Elijah Clark was hurt, he had plenty of
friends, male and female, who came to take care of him, but the woman
who helped him live at the start came not; yet every day there were
dainty viands, wine or books left at the house for him--but pains were
taken to let no one know from whom they came.

One day a month after the accident I sat beside 'Lige's bed when he told
me that he was anticipating quite a discussion there that evening, as
the hospital committee was going to meet to decide on the rules of the
institution. "Wilcox and Gorman are set to open the house to those who
have no part in our work and no sympathy with Christian institutions,
and 'tain't right," said he. "Brother John, you can't do no good by
prolonging the life of a brazen woman bent on vice."

"Don't you think, 'Lige," said I, "that you are a little hard on an
unfortunate class of humanity, who, in nine cases out of ten, are the
victims of others' wrong-doing, and stay in the mire because no hand is
extended to help them out? Think of the woman of Samaria. It's sinners,
not saints, that need saving."

"They are as a coiled serpent in the pathway of mankind, Brother John,
fascinating, but poisonous. There can be no good in one of those
creatures."

"Oh yes there is, I'm sure," said I. "Why, 'Lige, don't you know who the
woman was that gave you brandy, held your head, and used her skirts for
bandages when you were hurt?"

Old 'Lige raised up on his elbow, all eagerness. "No, John, I don't, but
she wa'n't one of them. She was too thoughtful, too tender, too womanly.
I've blessed her from that day to this, and though I don't know it, I
think she has sent me all these wines and fruits. She saved my life. Who
is she? Do you know?"

"Yes. She is Molly May, who keeps the largest dance-house in Cascade
City. She makes lots of money, but spends it all in charity; there has
never been a human being buried by the town since she has been there.
Molly May is a ministering angel to the poor and sick, but a bird of
prey to those who wish to dissipate."

The hospital was opened on Easter, and the first patient was a poor
consumptive girl, but lately an inmate of the Red-Light dance-house.
'Lige Clark did not run again; he became mayor of the little city, had
faith in its future, invested his money in land and died rich some years
ago.

'Lige must have changed his mind as he grew older, or at least abandoned
the idea that to crush out a wrong you should push it from all sides,
and thus compress and intensify it at the heart, and come to the
conclusion that the right way is to get inside and push out, thus
separating and dissolving it. For before me lies the tenth annual
prospectus of a now noted institution in one of the great cities of the
continent, and on its title page, I read through the dimmed glasses of
my spectacles: "Industrial Home and Refuge for Fallen Women. Founded by
Elijah Clark. Mary E. May, Matron."

A PEG-LEGGED ROMANCE

Some men are born heroes, some become heroic, and some have heroism
thrust upon them; but nothing of the kind ever happened to me.

I don't know how it is; but, some way or other, I remember all the
railroad incidents I see or hear, and get to the bottom of most of the
stories of the road. I must study them over more than most men do, or
else the other fellows enjoy the comedies and deplore the tragedies, and
say nothing. Sometimes I am mean enough to think that the romance, the
dramas, and the tragedies of the road don't impress them as being as
interesting as those of the plains, the Indians, or the seas--people are
so apt to see only the everyday side of life anyway, and to draw all
their romance and heroics from books.

I helped make a hero once--no, I didn't either; I helped make the
golden setting after the rough diamond had shown its value.

Miles Diston pulled freight on our road a few years ago. He was of
medium stature, dark complexion, but no beauty. He was a manly-looking
fellow, well-educated enough, sober, and a steady-going, reliable
engineer; you would never pick him out for a hero. Miles was young
yet--not thirty--but, somehow or other, he had escaped matrimony: I
guess he had never had time. He stayed on the farm at home until he was
of age, and then went firing, so that when I first knew him he had
barely got to his goal--the throttle.

A good many men, when they first get there, take great interest in their
work for a few months--until experience gives them confidence; then they
take it easier, look around, and take some interest in other things.
Most of them never hope to get above running, and so sit down more or
less contented, get married, buy real estate, gamble, or grow fat, each
according to the dictates of his own conscience or the inclinations of
his make-up. Miles figured a little on matrimony.

I can't explain it; but when a railroad man is in trouble, he comes to
me for advice, just as he would go to the company doctor for kidney
complaint. I am a specialist in heart troubles. Miles came to me.

Miles was like the rest of them. They don't come right down and say,
"Something's the matter with me; what would you do for it?" No, sir!
They hem and haw, and laugh off the symptoms, until you come right out
and tell them just how they feel and explain the cause; then they will
do anything you say. Miles hemmed and hawed a little, but soon came out
and showed his symptoms--he asked me if I had ever noticed the
"Frenchman's" girl.

"The Frenchman," be it known, was our boss bridge carpenter. He lived at
a small place half-way over my division--I was pulling express--and the
freights stopped there, changing engines. I knew Venot, the bridge
carpenter, very well; met him in lodge occasionally, and once in a
while he rode on the engine with me to inspect bridges. His wife was a
Canadian woman, and good-looking for her forty years and ten children.
The daughter that was killing Miles Diston, Marie Venot, was the eldest,
and had just graduated from some sisters' school. She was a very
handsome girl, and you could read the romantic nature of her being
through her big, round, gray eyes. She was vivacious, and loved to go;
but she was a dutiful daughter, and at once took hold to help her mother
in a way that made her all the more adorable in the eyes of practical
men like Miles.

Miles made the most of his opportunities.

But, bless you, there were other eyes for good-looking girls besides
those in poor Miles Diston's head, and he was far from having the field
to himself; this he wanted badly, and came to get advice from me.

I advised strongly against wasting energy to clear the field, and in
favor of putting it all into making the best show and in getting ahead
of all competitors. Under my advice, Miles disposed of some vacant
lots, and bought a neat little house, put it in thorough order, and made
the best of his opportunities with Marie.

Marie came to our house regularly, and I had good opportunity to study
her. She was a sensible little creature, and, to my mind, just the girl
for Miles; as Miles was just the man for her. But she had confided to my
wife the fact that she never, never could consent to marry and settle
down in the regulation, humdrum way; she wanted to marry a hero, some
one she could look up to--a king among men.

My wife told her that kings and heroes were scarce just then, and that a
lot of pretty good women managed to be comparatively happy with common
railroad men. But Marie wanted a hero, and would hear of nothing less.

It was during one of her visits to my house that Miles took Marie out
for a ride and (accidentally, of course) dropped around by his new
house, induced her to look at it, and told his story, asking her to
make the home complete. It would have caught almost any girl; but when
Miles delivered her at our door and drove off, I knew that there would
be a "For Rent" card on that house in a few days and that Marie Venot
was bound to have a hero or nothing.

Miles took his repulse calmly, but it hurt. He told me that Marie was
hunting for a different kind of man from him; said that he thought
perhaps if he would enlist, and go out to fight Sitting Bull, and come
home in a new, brass-bound uniform, with a poisoned arrow sticking out
of his breast, she would fall at his feet and worship him. She told him
she liked him better than any of the town boys; his calling was noble
enough and hard enough; but she failed to see her ideal hero in a man
with blue overclothes on and cinders in his ears. If any of Miles's
competitors had rescued a drowning child, or killed a bear with a
penknife, at this juncture, I'm afraid Marie would have taken him. But,
as I have indicated, it was a dull season for heroes.

About this time our road invested in some mogul passenger engines, and
I drew one. I didn't like the boiler sticking back between me and Dennis
Rafferty. I didn't like six wheels connected. I didn't like a
knuckle-joint in the side rod. I didn't like eighteen-inch cylinders. I
was opposed to solid-end rods. And I am afraid I belonged to a class of
ignorant, short-sighted, bull-headed engineers who didn't believe that a
railroad had any right to buy anything but fifteen by twenty-two
eight-wheelers--the smaller they were the more men they would want. I
got over that a long time ago; but, at the time I write of, I was cranky
about it. The moguls were high and short and jerky, and they tossed a
man around like a rat in a corn-popper. One day, as I was chasing time
over our worst division, holding on to the arm-rest and watching to see
if the main frame touched the driving-boxes as she rolled, Dennis
Rafferty punched me in the small of the back, and said: "Jahn, for the
love ave the Vargin, lave up on her a minit. Oi does be chasing that
dure for the lasth twinty minits, and dang the wan'st has I hit it
fair. She's the divil on th' dodge."

Dennis had a pile of coal just inside and just outside of the door, the
forward grates were bare, the steam was down, and I went in seven
minutes late, too mad to eat--and that's pretty mad for me. I laid off,
and Miles Diston took the high-roller out next trip.

Miles didn't rant and write letters or poetry, or marry some one else to
spite himself, or take the first steamer for Burraga, or Equatorial
Africa, as rejected lovers in stories do. It hurt, and he didn't enjoy
it, but he bore up all right, and went about his business, just as
hundreds of other sensible men do every day. He gave up entirely,
however, rented his house, and said he couldn't fill the bill--there
wasn't a hero in his family as far back as he could remember.

Miles had been making time with the Black Maria for about a week, when
the big accident happened in our town. The boilers in a cotton mill blew
up, and killed a score of girls and injured hundreds more. Miles was at
the other end of the division, and they hurried him out to take a
car-load of doctors down. They were given the right of the road, and
Miles tested the speed of that mogul--proving that a pony truck would
stay on the track at fifty miles an hour, which a lot of us "cranks" had
disputed.

A few miles out there is a coaling-station, and at that time they were
building the chutes. One of the iron drop-aprons fell just before Miles
with the mogul got to it; it smashed the headlight, dented the stack,
ripped up the casing of the sand-box and dome, cut a slit in the jacket
the length of the boiler, tore off the cab, struck the end of the first
car, and then tore itself loose, and fell to the ground.

The throttle was knocked wide open, and the mogul was flying. Miles was
thrown down, his head cut open by a splinter, and his foot pretty badly
hurt. He picked himself up instantly, and took a look back as he closed
the throttle. Everything was "coming" all right, he remembered the
emergency of the case, and opened the throttle again. A hasty
inspection showed the engine in condition to run--she only looked
crippled. Miles had to stand up. His foot felt numb and weak, so he
rested his weight on the other foot. He was afraid he would fall off if
he became faint, and he had Dennis take off the bell-cord and tie it
around his waist, throwing a loop over the reverse lever, as a measure
of safety. The right side of the cab and all the roof were gone, so that
Miles was in plain sight. The cut in his scalp bled profusely, and in
trying to wipe the blood from his eyes, he merely spread it all over
himself, so that he looked as if he had been half murdered.

It was this apparition of wreck, ruin, and concentrated energy that
Marie Venot saw flash past her father's door, hastening to the relief of
the victims of a worse disaster, forty miles away.

Her father came home for his dinner in a few minutes from his little
office in the depot. To his daughter's eager inquiry he said there had
been some big accident in town and the "extra" was carrying doctors
from up the road. But what was the matter with the engine, he didn't
know; it was the 170; so it was old man Alexander, he said--and that's
the nearest I ever came to being a hero.

Marie knew who was running the 170 pretty well; so after dinner she went
to the telegraph office for information, and there she learned that the
special had struck the new coal chute at Coalton and that the engineer
was hurt. It was time she ran down to see Mrs. Alexander, she said, and
that afternoon's regular delivered her in town.

Like all other railroaders not better employed, I dropped round to the
depot at train time to talk with the boys and keep track of things in
general. The regular was late, but Miles Diston was coming with a
special, and came while we were talking about it. Miles didn't realize
how badly he was hurt until he stopped the mogul in front of the general
office. So long as the excitement of the run was on, so long as he saw
the absolute necessity of doing his whole duty until the desired end was
accomplished, so long as he had a reputation to protect, his will power
subordinated all else. But when several of us engineers ran up to the
engine, we found Miles hanging to the reverse lever by his safety cord,
in a dead faint. We carried him into the depot, and one of the doctors
administered some restorative. Then we got a hack and started him and
the doctor for my house; but Miles came to himself, and insisted on
going to his boarding-house and nowhere else.

Mrs. Bailey, Miles's boarding-house keeper, had been a trained nurse,
but had a few years before invested in a rather disappointing
matrimonial venture. She was one of the best nurses and one of the
"crankiest" women I ever knew. I believe she was actually glad to see
Miles come home hurt, just to show how she could pull him through.

The doctor found that Miles had an ankle out of joint; the little toe
was badly crushed; there was a bad cut in the leg, that had bled
profusely; there was a black bruise over the short ribs on the right
side, and there was a button-hole in the scalp that needed about four
stitches. The little toe was cut off without ceremony, the ankle
replaced and hot bandages applied, and other repairs were made, which
took up most of the afternoon.

When the doctor got through, he called Mrs. Bailey and myself out into
the parlor, and said that we must not let people crowd in to see the
patient; that his wounds were not dangerous, but very painful; that
Miles was weak from loss of blood, and that his constitution was not in
particularly good condition. The doctor, in fact, thought that Miles
would be in great luck if he got out of the scrape without a run of
fever. Thereafter Mrs. Bailey referred all visitors to me. I talked with
the doctor and the nurse, and we all agreed that it would stop most
inquisitive people to simply say that the patient had suffered an
amputation.

That evening, when I went home, there were two anxious women-to receive
me, and the younger of them looked suspiciously as if she had been
crying. I told them something of the accident, how it all happened, and
about Miles's injuries. Both of them wanted to go right down and help
"do something," but I told them of the doctor's order and of his fears.

By this time the reporters came; and I called them into the parlor, and
then let them pump me. I detailed the accident in full, but declined to
tell anything about Miles or his history. "The fact is," said I, "that
you people won't give an engineer his just dues. Now, if Miles Diston
had been a fireman and had climbed down a ladder with a child, you would
have his picture in the paper and call him a hero and all that sort of
thing; but here is a man crushed, bleeding, with broken bones, and a
crippled engine, who stands on one foot, lashed to his reverse lever,
for eighty miles, and making the fastest time ever made over the road,
because he knew that others were suffering for the relief he brought."

"That's nerve," said one of the young men.

"Nerve!" said I, "nerve! Why, that man knows no more about fear than a
lion; and think of the sand of the man! This afternoon he sat up and
watched the doctor perform that amputation without a quiver; he wouldn't
take chloroform; he wouldn't even lie down."

[Illustration: "We carried him into the depot."]

"Was the amputation above or below the knee?" asked the reporter.

"Below" (I didn't state how far).

"Which foot?"

"Left."

"He is in no great danger?"

"Yes, the doctor says he will be a very sick man for some time--if he
recovers at all. Boys," I added, "there's one thing you might
mention--and I think you ought to--and that is that it is such heroes as
this that give a road its reputation; people feel as though they were
safe behind such men."

If Miles Diston had read the papers the next morning he would have died
of flattery; the reporters did themselves proud, and they made a whole
column of the "iron will and nerves of steel" shown in that "amputation
without ether."

Marie Venot was full of sympathy for Miles; she wanted to see him, but
Mrs. Bailey referred her to me, and she finally went home, still
inquiring every day about him. I don't think she had much other feeling
for him than pity. She was down again a week later, and I talked freely
of going to pick out a wooden foot for Miles, who was improving right
along.

Meanwhile, the papers far and near copied the articles about the "Hero
of the Throttle," and the item about the road's interest in heroes
attracted the attention of our general passenger agent--he liked the
free advertising and wanted more of it--so he called me in one day, and
asked if I knew of a choice run they could give Miles as a reward of
merit.

I told him, if he wanted to make a show of gratitude from the road, and
get a big free advertisement in the papers, to have Miles appointed
superintendent of the Spring Creek branch, where a practical man was
needed, and then give it out "cold" that Miles had been rewarded by
being made superintendent of the road. This was afterwards done, with a
great hurrah (in the papers).

The second Sunday after Miles was hurt, Marie was down, and I thought
I'd have a little fun with her, and see how she regarded Miles.

"There's quite a romance connected with Diston's affair," said I at the
dinner table, rather carelessly. "There is a young lady visiting here in
town--I hear she is very wealthy--who saw Miles when we took him off
his engine. She sends flowers every day, calls him her hero, and is just
crazy for him to get well so she can see him."

"Who is she, did you say?" asked my wife.

"I forgot her name," said I, "but I am here to tell you that she will
get Miles if there is any chance in the world. Her father is an army
officer, but she says that Miles Diston is a greater hero than the army
ever produced."

"She's a hussy," said Marie.

I don't know whether you would call that a bull or a bear movement on
the Diston stock, but it went up--I could see that.

A week later Miles was able to come down to our house for dinner, and my
wife asked Marie to come also. I met her at the depot, and after she was
safe in the buggy, I told her that Miles was up at the house. She nearly
jumped out; but I quieted her, and told her she mustn't notice or say a
word about Miles's game leg, as he was extremely sensitive about it.

My wife was in the kitchen, and I went to the barn to put out the horse.
Marie went to the sitting-room to avoid the parlor and Miles, but he was
there, I guess, and Marie found her hero, for when they came out to
dinner he had his arm around her. They were married a month later, and
went to Washington, stopping to see us on the way back.

As I came home that night with my patent dinner pail, and with two rows
of wrinkles and a load of responsibility on my brow, Marie shook her
fist in my face and called me "an old story-teller."

"Story-teller," said I; "what story?"

"Oh, what story? That _leg_ story, of course, you old cheat."

"What leg story?"

"Old innocence; that amputation below the knee--you know."

"Wa'n't it below the knee?"

"Yes, but it was only the little toe."

"John," said Miles, "she cried when she looked for that wooden foot and
only found a slightly flat wheel."

"That's just like 'em," said I. "Here Marie only expected a part of a
hero, and we give her a whole man, and she kicks--that's gratitude for
you."

"I got my hero all right, though," said Marie; "you told me a big fib
just the same, but I could kiss you for it."

"Don't you do that," said I; "but if the Lord should send you many
blessings, and any of 'em are boys, you might name one after me."

She said she'd do it--and she did.

MY LADY OF THE EYES

One morning, some years ago, I struck the general master mechanic of a
Rocky Mountain road for a job as an engineer--I needed a job pretty
badly.

As quick as the M. M. found that I could handle air on two hundred foot
grades, he was as tickled as I was; engineers were not plenty in the
country then, so many deserted to go to the mines.

"The 'III' will be out in a couple of days, and you can have her
regular, unless Hopkins comes back," said he.

I hustled around for a room and made my peace with the boarding-house
people before I reported to break in the big consolidation that was to
fall to my care.

She was big and black and ugly and new, and her fresh fire made the
asphalt paint on her fire-box and front-end stink in that peculiar and
familiar way given to recently rebuilt engines; but it smelt better to
me than all the perfumes of Arabia.

A good-natured engineer came out on the ash-pit track to welcome me to
the West and the road, and incidentally to remark that it was a great
relief to the gang that I had come as I did.

"Why," I asked, "are you so short-handed that you are doubling and
trebling?" "No, but they are afraid that some of 'em will have to take
out the 'III'--she is a holy terror."

Hadn't she been burned the first trip? Didn't she kill Jim O'Neil with
the reverse lever? Hadn't she lain down on the bed of the Arkansas river
and wallowed on "Scar Face" Hopkins, and he not up yet? Hadn't she run
away time and again without cause or provocation?

But a fellow that has needed a job for six months will tackle almost
anything, and I tackled the "holy terror."

In fixing up the cab, I noticed an extra bracket beside the steam gage
for a clock, and mentally noted that it would come in handy just as
soon as I had a twenty dollar bill to spare for one of those jeweled,
nickle-plated, side-winding clocks, that are the pride and comfort of
those particular engineers who want nice things, with their names
engraved on the case.

Before I had got everything ready to take the "three aces" over the
turn-table for her breaking-in trip, the foreman of the back-shop came
out with a package done up in a pair of old overalls, and said that here
was Hopkins's clock, which I might as well use until he got around
again--'fraid someone would steal it if left in his office.

Hopkins's clock was put on its old bracket.

Hopkins must have been one of those particular engineers; his clock was
a fine one; "S. H. Hopkins" was engraved on the case in German text. The
lower half of the dial was black with white figures, the upper half
white with black figures. But what struck me was part of a woman's face
burned into the enamel. Just half of this face showed, that on the
white part of the dial; the black half hid the rest.

It was the face, or part of the face, of a handsome young woman with
hair parted in the middle and waved back over the ears, a broad
forehead, and such glorious eyes--eyes that looked straight into yours
from every view point--honest eyes--reproving eyes--laughing
eyes--loving eyes. I mentally named the picture "Her Eyes."

Now, I was not and am not sentimental or superstitious. I'd been married
and helped wean a baby or two even then, but those eyes bothered me.
They hunted mine and looked at me and asked me questions and made me
forget things, and made me think and dream and speculate; all of which
are sheer suicide for a locomotive engineer.

I got a switchman and started out to limber up the "III." I asked him to
let me out on the main line, took a five-mile spin, and sidetracked for
a freight train. While the man was unlocking the switch, I looked into
the eyes and wondered what their owner was, or could be, or had been, to
"Scar Faced" Hopkins, and--ran off the switch. Then I wondered if
Hopkins was looking into those eyes when he and the "III" went into the
Arkansas river that dark night.

A few days after this the "III," Dennis Rafferty and I went into the
regular freight service of the road.

On the first trip, when half way up Greenhall grade, I glanced at the
clock and was startled. The "Eyes" were looking at me; there was a
scared, pained look, a you-must-do-something look in the eyes, or it
seemed to me there was.

"Damn that clock," said I to myself, "I'm getting superstitious or have
softening of the brain," and I reached over to open the front door, so
that the breeze could cool me off. In doing so my hand touched the water
pipe to the injector--it was hot. The closed overflow injector was new
to merit had "broke," and was blowing steam back to the tank that I
thought was putting water into the boiler. I put it to work properly and
"felt of the water:" there was just a flutter in the lower gage cock; in
five minutes the crown sheet and my reputation would have been burned
beyond recognition. Those eyes were good for something after all.

I looked at them and they were calm. "It's all right now, but be
careful," they said.

Dennis Rafferty had troubles of his own. The liner came off the new fire
door letting the door get red hot, but it wasn't half as hot as Dennis.
He hammered it with the coal pick and burned his hands and swore, and
Dennis was an artist in profanity. He stepped up into the cab wiping his
face on his sleeve, and ripping the English and profane languages into
tatters; but he stopped short in the middle of an oath and looked
ashamed, glanced at me, crossed himself and went back to his work
quietly. When he came back into the cab, I asked him what choked him so
sudden.

"Her," said he, nodding his head toward the clock. "Howly Mither, man,
she looked hurted and sorry-like, same's me owld mither uster, whin I
was noctious with the blasthfemry." So the "Eyes" were on Dennis, too.
That took some of the conceit out of me, I was getting foolish about the
eyes.

We had a time order against a passenger train, it would be sharp work to
make the next station, the train was heavy, the road and the engine new
to me, and I hesitated. The conductor was dubious but said the "204" or
Frosty Keeler could do it any day of the week. I looked at my watch and
then at the clock. The eyes looked "Yes, go, you can do it easily; the
'III' will do all you ask; trust her." I went, and as we pulled our
caboose in to clear and before the express whistled for the junction,
the eyes looked "Didn't I tell you; wasn't that splendid." Those eyes
had been over the road more than I had, and knew the "III" better. I
would trust the eyes.

On the return trip, a night run, I had a big train and a bad rail, but
the "III" did splendid work and made her time while "Her Eyes" approved
every move I made, smiled at me and admired my handling of the engine.
The conductor unbent enough to send over word that it was the best run
he'd ever had from a new man, but the "Eyes" looked, "That's nothing,
you can do it every time, I know you can."

Half over the division, we took a siding for the "Cannon Ball." We
cleared her ten minutes and I had time to oil around while Dennis
cleaned his fire. I climbed up into the cab, wiping the long oiler and
glanced at the clock. The "Eyes" were looking wild alarm--"do something
quick." The "Eyes" had the look, or seemed to me to have the look, you
might expect in those of a bound woman who sees a child at the stake
just before the fire is lighted--immeasurable pain, pity, appeal. I
tried the water, unconsciously; it was all right. I stepped into the
gangway and glanced back. Our tail-lights were "in" and the white light
of the switch flashed safely there, and we had backed in any way. I
glanced ahead. The switch light was white, the target showed main line
plainly, for my headlight shone on it full and clear. What could be the
matter with "Her Eyes."

As I turned to enter the cab the roar of the coming express came down
the wind on the frosty air and my eyes fell on the rail ahead. My God,
they were full to the siding! It was a stub-rail switch, and the stand
had moved the target and the light, but not the rails--the bridle-rod
was broken.

I yelled like a mad man, but the brakeman had gone to the caboose for
his lunch pail. I ran to the switch. It was useless. I fought it an
instant and then turned to the rails. Putting my foot against the main
line rail, I grasped the switch rail and throwing all my strength into
the effort, jerked it-over to the main line, but would it stay until the
train passed over? I felt sure it would not. I looked about for
something to hold it. Part of a broken pin was the only thing in sight.
The headlight of the express shone in my face, and something seemed to
say, "This is your trial, do something quick." I threw myself prone on
the ground, my head near the rails, and held the broken pin between the
end of the siding rail and the main line. The switch rails could not be
forced over without shearing off the pin. The corner of the pilot of
the flying demon caught my right sleeve and tore it off, and the cloth
threw the cylinder cocks open with a hiss, the wind and dust blinded and
shook me, and the rails hammered and bruised and pinched my hand, but I
held on. Twenty seconds later I sat watching the red lights of the tenth
sleeper whip themselves out of sight. Then I went back to the cab, and
"Her Eyes" glorified me. "God bless your dear eyes," said I, "where
would we have all been now but for you?"

But the "Eyes" deprecated my remarks, and looked me upon a pedestal, but
the company doctor dressed my hand the next day, and the superintendent
gave the whole crew ten days for backing into that siding.

Another round trip, and I fear I watched "Her Eyes" more than the
signals and the track ahead. "Her Eyes" decided for me, chose for me,
approved and disapproved. I was running by "Her Eyes."

In a telegraph office they asked me if I could do something in a certain
time and I was dazed. I didn't give my usual quick decision, my
judgment was wobbly and uncertain. I must look at my clock--and "Her
Eyes." I went out to the "III" to consult them, lost my chance and was
"put in the hole" all over the division by the disgusted dispatcher.

Then I got to thinking and moralizing and sitting in judgment on my
thraldom. Was I running the "III" or was "Her Eyes?" Did the company pay
me for my knowledge, judgment, experience and skill in handling a
locomotive, or for obeying orders from "Her Eyes." Any fool could obey
orders.

Then I declared for liberty, but I kept away from "Her Eyes." I declared
for liberty in the roundhouse.

I am a man of decision, and no sooner had I taken this oath than I got a
screw driver, climbed into the cab of the "III," without looking at "Her
Eyes," held my hand over the face of the clock and took it down. I
wrapped it up and took it back to the foreman.

"Why, yes," said he, "'Scar Face' was here for it this morning. He's
round somewhere yet. Ain't goin' to railroad no more, goin' into the
real estate business. He's got money, so's his wife--daffool he didn't
quit long ago."

"If 'Scar Face' Hopkins puts that clock over his desk and trusts 'Her
Eyes,' he'll get rich," thought I. Perhaps, though, those eyes don't
reach the soul of "Scar Face" Hopkins; perhaps he don't see them change
as I did; men are conceited that way.

During the next month I got acquainted with "Scar Face" Hopkins, who was
a first-class fellow, with a hand-clasp like a polar bear, a heart like
a steam pulsometer, and a face that looked as if it might have been used
for the butting post at the end of the world.

"Scar Face" Hopkins got all his scars in the battle of life. Men who
command locomotives on the firing line often get hurt, but Hopkins had
votes of thanks from officials and testimonials from men, and
life-saver's medals from two governments to show that his scars were the
brands of honorable degrees conferred by the Almighty on the field for
brave and heroic deeds well done.

"Scar Face" Hopkins was a fellow you'd like to get up close to of a
night and talk with, and smoke with, and think with, until unlawful
hours.

One day I went into his office and the clock was there, and his old
torch and a nickle-plated oiler, mementoes of the field. I looked at the
clock, and "Her Eyes" smiled at me, or I thought they did, and said,
just as plain as words, "Glad to see you, dear friend; sit down." But I
turned my back to that clock; I can resist temptation when I know where
it is coming from.

One day, a few weeks later, I stopped before a store window in a crowd
to examine some pictures, satisfied my curiosity, and in stepping back
to go away, put the heel of my number ten on a lady's foot with that
peculiar "craunch" that you know hurts. I turned to make an apology, and
faced the original of the picture on the clock. A beautiful pair of
eyes, the rest of the face was hidden by a peculiar arrangement of veil
that crossed the bridge of the nose and went around the ears and neck.

Those eyes, full of pain at first, changed instantly to frank
forgiveness, and, bowing low, I repeated my plea for pardon for my
clumsy carelessness, but was absolved so absolutely and completely, and
dismissed so naturally, that I felt relieved.

I sauntered up to Hopkins' office. "Hopkins," said I, "I just met your
wife."

"You did?"

"Yes, and I stepped on her foot and hurt her badly, I know." Then I told
him about it.

"What did she say?" asked Hopkins, and I noticed a queer look. I thought
it might be jealousy.

"Why, well, why I don't know as I remember, but it was very kindly and
ladylike."

There was a queer expression on Hopkins' face.

"Of course--"

"Sure she spoke?" asked Hopkins. "How did you know it was my wife
anyway?"

"Because it was the same face that is pictured on your clock, and some
one in the crowd said it was Mrs. Hopkins. You know Hop., I ran by that
clock for a few weeks, and I noticed the eyes."

"Anything queer about 'em?" This was a challenge.

"Yes, I think there is. In the first place, I know you will understand
me when I say they are handsome eyes, and I'm free to confess that they
had a queer influence on me, I imagined they changed and expressed
things and--"

"Talked, eh."

"Well, yes." Then I told Hopkins the influence the "Eyes" had on me.

He listened intently, watching me; when I had finished, he came over,
reached out his hand and said:

"Shake, friend, you're a damned good fellow."

I thought Hopkins had been drinking--or looking at "Her Eyes." He pulled
up a chair and lit a cigar.

"John," said he, "it isn't every man that can understand what my wife
says. Only kindred spirits can read the language of the eyes. _She
hasn't spoken an audible word in ten years_, but she talks with her
eyes, even her picture talks. We, rather she, is a mystery here; people
believe all kinds of things about her and us; but we don't care. I want
you to come up to the house some evening and know her better. We'll be
three chums, I know it, but don't ask questions; you will know things
later on."

Before I ever went to Hopkins' house, he had told her all about me, and
when he introduced us, he said:

"Madeline, this is the friend who says your picture talked to him."

I bowed low to the lady and tried to put myself and her at ease.

"Mrs. Hopkins, I'm afraid your husband is poking fun at me, and thinks
my liver is out of order, but, really, I did imagine I saw changing
expression in your eyes in that picture--in fact, I named you 'My Lady
of the Eyes.'"

She laughed--with her eyes--held out her hands and made me welcome.

"That name is something like mine," said Hopkins, "I call her Talking
Eyes.'"

Then Hopkins brought in his little three-year-old daughter, who
immediately climbed on my knee, captured my watch, and asked:

"What oo name?"

"John," said I.

"Don, Don," she repeated; "my name Maddie."

"That's Daddy's chum," put in Hopkins.

"Tum," repeated Maddie.

"Uncle Chummy," said Hopkins.

"Untle Tummie."

And I was "Untle Tummie" to little Madeline and "Chummy" to Hopkins and
his wife from then on.

Mrs. Hopkins wore her veil at home as well as abroad, but it was so
neatly arranged and worn so naturally that I soon became entirely used
to it, in fact, didn't notice it. Otherwise, she was a well-dressed,
handsomely set up woman, a splendid musician and a capital companion.
She sat at her work listening, while Hopkins and I "railroaded" and
argued about politics, and religion and everything else under the sun.
Mrs. Hopkins took sides freely; a glance at her eyes told where she
stood on any question.

Between "Scar Face" Hopkins and his handsome wife there appeared to be
perfect sympathy and confidence. Sitting in silence, they glanced from
one to the other now and again, smiled, nodded--and understood.

I was barred from the house for a month during the winter because little
Madeline had the scarlet fever, then epidemic, but it was reported a
light case and I contented myself with sending her toys and candy.

One day I dropped into Hopkins' office to make inquiry, when a clerk
told me Hopkins had not been to the office for several days. Mrs.
Hopkins was sick. I made another round trip and inquired again, and got
the same answer; then I went up to the house.

The officious quarantine guard was still walking up and down in front of
the Hopkins residence. To a single inquiry, this voluble functionary
volunteered the information that the baby was all right now, but the
lady herself was very sick with scarlet fever. Hopkins was most crazy,
no trained nurses could be had for love nor money, the doctor was coming
three times a day, and did I know that Mrs. Hopkins was some kind of a
foreign Dago, and the whole outfit "queer?"

Hopkins was in trouble; I pushed open the gate and started up the walk.

"Hey, young feller, where yer goin'," demanded the guard.

"Into the house, of course."

"D'ye know if you go in ye got to stay for the next two weeks?"

"Perfectly."

"Then go on, you darned fool."

And I went on.

Hopkins met me, hollow-eyed and haggard.

"Chum," said he, "you've come to prison, but I'm glad. Help is out of
reach. If you can take care of Maddie, the girl will do the cooking and
I will--I will do my duty."

And night and day he did do his duty, being alone with his wife except
for the few moments of the doctor's calls.

One evening, after my little charge had been put to sleep downstairs by
complying with her invariable order to "tell me a 'tory 'bout when oo
was a 'ittle teenty weenty boy," the doctor came down with a grave face.

"Our patient has reached the worst stage--delirium. The turn will come
to-night. Poor Hopkins is about worn out, and I'm afraid may need you.
Please don't go to bed; be 'on call.'"

One hour, two hours, I sat there without hearing a sound from upstairs.
I was drowsy and remembering that I had missed my evening smoke I
lighted my pipe, silently opened the front door and stepped out upon the
porch to get a whiff of fresh air. It was a still dark night, and I
tiptoed down to the end that overlooked the city and stood looking at
the lights and listening to the music of the switch engines in the yards
below the hill. The porch was in darkness except the broad beam of
light from the hall gas jet through the open door.

The lights below made me think of home and my wife and little ones
sleeping safely, I hoped, close to the coastwise lights of the Old
Colony.

I thought I heard a stealthy footfall behind me, and turned around to
face an apparition that made the cold chill creep up my back. If ever
there was a ghost, this must be one, an object in white not six feet
from me.

I'm not at all afraid of ghosts when I reach my second wind, and I
grabbed at this one. It moved backward silently and as I made a quick
step toward it that specter let out the most blood-curdling yell I ever
heard--the shriek of a maniac.

I stepped quicker now, but it moved away until it stood in the flood of
light from the doorway, and then I saw a sight that took all the
strength out of me. The most awful and frightful face I ever beheld,
and,--it was the face of Madeline Hopkins.

The neck and jaw and mouth were drawn and seamed and scarred in a
frightful and hideous manner, the teeth protruded and the mouth was
drawn to one side in a frightful leer; above that was all the beauty of
"My Lady of the Eyes."

For a moment I was dumb and powerless, and in that moment Hopkins
appeared with a bound, and between us we captured my poor friend's wife
and struggled and fought with her up the long stairs and back to her
bed.

Sitting one on either side, we had all we could do to hold her hands.
She would lift us both to our feet, she was struggling desperately, and
the eyes were the eyes of a tigress.

When this strain was at its worst and every nerve on edge, another
scream from behind us cut our ears like a needle, the eyes of the
tigress as well as ours sought the door, and there in her golden curls
and white "nightie" stood little Madeline. The eyes of the tigress
softened to tenderest love, and with a bound, the baby was on her
mother's breast, her arms around her neck, and she was saying, "Poor
Mama, what they doin' to poor Mama?"

"My darling, my darling," said the mother in the sweetest of tones.

I unconsciously released my hold upon the arm I held, and she drew the
sheet up and covered her face as I was wont to see it, and held it
there. With the other, she gently stroked the baby curls.

I watched this transformation as if under a spell.

Suddenly she turned her head toward Hopkins, her eyes full of tenderness
and pity and love, reached out her hand and said:

"Oh, Steadman, my voice has come back, God has taken off the curse."

But poor Hopkins was on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in his
arms, his strong shoulders heaving and pitiful sobs breaking from his
very heart.

A couple of months afterward I resigned to go back to God's country, the
home of the east wind, and where I could know my own children and speak
to my own wife without an introduction, and the Hopkins invited me to a
farewell dinner.

"My Lady of the Eyes" presided, looking handsomer and stronger than
usual, but she didn't eat with us. But with eyes and voice she
entertained us so royally and pleasantly that Hopkins and I did eating
enough for all.

After supper, Hop. and I lighted our cigars and "railroaded" for awhile,
then "Her Eyes" went to the piano and sang a dozen songs as only a
trained singer can. Her voice was wonderfully sweet and low. They were
old songs, but they seemed the better for that, and while she sang
Hopkins's cigar went out and he just gazed at her with pride and joy in
every lineament of his scarred and furrowed face.

Little Maddie was allowed to sit up in honor of "Untle Tummy," but after
awhile the little head bobbed quietly and the little chin fell between
the verses of her mother's song, and "My Lady of the Eyes" took her by
the hand and brought her over to us.

"Tell papa good-night and Uncle Chum my good-bye, dear, and we'll go to
bed."

Hopkins kissed the baby, and I got my hug, and another to take to my
"ittle dirl," and Mrs. Hopkins held out both her hands to me.

"Good-bye, dear Chum," said she, "my love to you and yours, now and
always."

Hopkins put his arm around his wife, kissed her forehead and said:

"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell Chum a story."

"And don't forget the hero," said she, and turning to me, "Don't believe
all he says, and don't blame those that he blames, and remember that
what is, is best, and seeming calamities are often blessings in
disguise."

Hopkins and I looked into each other's faces and smoked in silence for
ten minutes, then he turned to his secretary and, opening a drawer, took
out a couple of cases and opened them. They contained medals. Then he
opened a package of letters and selected one or two. We lighted fresh
cigars and Hopkins began his story.

"My father was a pretty well-to-do business man and I his only child. My
mother died when I was young. I managed to get through a grammar school
and went to college. I wanted to go on the road from the time I could
remember and had no ambition higher than to run a locomotive. That was
my ideal of life.

"My father opposed this very strenuously, and offered to let me go to
work if I'd select something decent--that's the way he put it. He used
to say, 'Try a brick-yard, you might own one some day, you'll never own
a railroad.' I had my choice, college or something decent,' and I took
the college, although I didn't like it.

"The summer before I came of age my father died suddenly and my college
life ended."

Here Hopkins fumbled around in his papers and selected one.

"Just to show you how odd my father was, here is the text of his will,
leaving out the legal slush that lawyers always pack their papers in:

"'To my son, Steadman Hudson Hopkins, I leave one thousand dollars to be
paid immediately on my demise. All the residue of my estate consisting
of etc., etc.'--six figures, Chum, a snug little wad--'shall be placed
in the hands of three trustees'--naming the presidents of three
banks--'to be invested by them in state, municipal or government bonds,
principal and interest accruing to be paid by said trustees to my son
hereinbefore mentioned when he has pursued one calling, with average
success, for ten consecutive years, and not until then. All in the best
judgment of the trustees aforenamed.

"'To my son I also bequeath this fatherly advice, knowing the waste of
money by heirs who have done nothing to produce it, and knowing that had
I been given a fortune at the beginning of my career, it would have been
lost for lack of business experience, and knowing too, the waste of time
usually made by young men who drift from one employment or occupation to
another'--having wasted fifteen years of my own life in this way--I
make these provisions in this my last will and testament, believing that
in the end, if not now, my son will see the wisdom of this provision,
etc., etc.'

"The governor had a long, clear head and he knew me and young men in
general, but bless you, I thought he was a little mean at the time.

"I turned to the trustees and asked what they would consider as
fulfilling the requirements of the will.

"'Any honorable employment,' answered the oldest man of the trio.

"The next day, I went to see Andy Bridges, general superintendent of the
old home road, who had been a friend of father's, and told him I wanted
to go railroading. He offered to put me in his office, but I insisted on
the footboard, and to make a long story short, was firing inside of
three weeks and running inside of three years.

"I was the proudest young prig that ever pulled a throttle. I always
loved the work and--well, you know how the first five years of it
absorbs you if you are cut out for it and like it and intend to stay at
it.

"I had been running about two years, and had paid about as much
attention to young women as I had to the subject of astronomy, until
Madelene Bridges came out of a Southern convent to make her home with
her uncle, our 'old man.'

"The first time I saw her I went clean, stark, raving, blind, drunken
daft over her. I tried to argue and reason myself out of it, but it was
no go. I didn't even know who she was then.

"But I was in love and, being so, wasn't hardly safe on the road.

"Then I spruced up and started in to see if I couldn't interest her in
me half as much as I was interested in her.

"I didn't have much trouble to get a start, for Andy Bridges had come up
from the ranks and hadn't forgotten it--most of 'em do--and welcomed any
decent young man in his house, even if he was a car hand. Madelene had a
couple of marriageable cousins then and that may account for old Andy.

"I got on pretty well at first, for I was first in the field. I got in a
theatre or two before the other young fellows caught on. About this time
there was a dance, and I lost my grip. I took Madelene but couldn't
dance, and all the others could, especially Dandy Tamplin, one of the
train despatchers.

"I took private dancing lessons, however, and squared myself that way.

"Singing was a favorite mode of passing the evenings with the young
folks at the Bridges's home, and I cursed myself for being tuneless.

"It finally settled down to a race between Tamplin and myself, and each
of us was doing his level best. I was so dead in earnest and so truly in
love that I was no fit company for man or beast, and I'm afraid I was
twice as awkward and dull in Madelene's presence as in any other place.

"Dandy Tamplin was a handsome young fellow, and a formidable rival, for
he was always well-dressed, a good talker and more or less of a lady's
man. Besides that, he was on the ground all the time and I had to be
away two-thirds of the time on my runs.

"I came in one trip determined to know my fate that very evening--had my
little piece all committed to memory.

"As I registered I heard one of the other despatchers, behind a
partition, telling some one that he was going to work Dandy's trick
until eleven o'clock, and then the two entered into a discussion of
Dandy's quest of the 'old man's' niece, one of them remarking that all
the opposition he had was Hopkins and that wasn't worth considering. I
resolved to get to Bridges's ahead of Tamplin.

"But man--railroad man, anyway--proposes and the superintendent
disposes. I met Bridges at the door.

"'Hopkins,' said he, 'I want you to do me a personal favor.'

"'Yes, sir,'

"'I want you to double out in half an hour on some perishable freight
that's coming in from the West; there isn't one available engine in.
Will you do it?'

"'Yes,' I answered, slowly, showing my disappointment. 'But, Mr.
Bridges, I was particularly anxious to go up to your house to-night; I
intend to ask--'

"'I know, I know,' said he kindly, taking my hand; 'It'll be all right I
hope; there ain't another young chap I'd like to see go up _and stay_
better than you, but my son, _she will keep_, and this freight wont. You
go out, and I'll promise that no one shall get a chance to ask ahead of
you.' This was a friend at court and a strong one.

"'It means a lot to me,' said I

"'I know it my boy, and I'm proud to have you say so right out in
meeting, but--well, you get those fruit cars in by moonlight, and I'll
have you back light, and you can have the front parlor for a week.'

"On my return trip, I found a big Howe truss bridge on fire and didn't
get in for two days. The road was blocked, everything out of gear and I
had to double back again, whether or no.

"I was 'chewing the rag' with a roundhouse foreman about it when Old
Andy came along.

"'Go on, Hopkins,' said he, 'and you can lay off when you get back. I'm
going South with my car _and will take the girls with me_!'

"That was hint enough, and I said yes.

"It was in the evening, and while the fireman and I got our supper, the
hostler turned my engine, coaled her up, took water and stood her on the
north branch track, next the head end of her train, that had not yet
been entirely made up.

"This north branch came into the south and west divisions off a very
heavy grade and on a curve, the view being cut off at this point by
buildings close to the track. The engine herself stood close to the
office building, and after oiling around, I backed on to the train,
bringing my cab right opposite a window in the despatcher's office. Just
before this open window and facing me sat Dandy Tamplin at his key. I
hated Dandy Tamplin.

"It was dark outside and in the cab, the conductor had given me my
orders and said we'd go just as quick as the pony found a couple of
cars more and put them on the hind end. Dennis had put in a big fire for
the hill, and then gone skylarking around the station, and I was in the
dark glaring at Dandy Tamplin in the light.

"The blow-off cock on this engine was on the right side and opened from
the cab. Ordinarily, you pulled the handle up, but the last time the
boiler was washed out they had turned the plug cock half over and the
handle stuck up through the deck among the oil cans ahead of the reverse
lever, and opened by pushing it down. I remember thinking it was
dangerous, as a man might accidentally open it. On the cock was a piece
of pipe to carry the hot water away from the paint work, and this stuck
straight out under the footboard, the cock leaked a little and the end
of the pipe dripped hot water and steam.

"While I glared at Tamplin, old man Bridges and the girls came into the
room. Bridges went up to the narrow, shelf-like counter, looked at the
register and asked Tamplin a question.

"Tamplin went up to the group, his back to me, and spoke to one after
the other. Madelene was the last in the row and, while the others were
talking, laid her gloves, veil and some flowers on the counter. Tamplin
spoke to her and I could see the color change in her face. Oh! if I only
had hold of Dandy Tamplin.

"Bridges hurried out into the hall behind the passage way, the girls
following. Tamplin turned around and espied Madelene's belongings. He
went up to them, smelled the flowers, then hurriedly took a note out of
his pocket and slipped it into one of the gloves. The other glove he put
in his breast pocket. It was well for Dandy Tamplin I didn't have a gun.

"Remember, all this happened quickly. Before Tamplin was fairly in his
seat and at work, Madelene came tripping back alone and made for her
bundle, but Tamplin left his key open and went over to her. I couldn't
hear what was said for by this time the safety valves of my engine were
blowing and drowned all sound. She evidently asked him what time it was
and leaned partly over the counter to hear his reply. He put his hand
under her chin and turned her face toward the clock, this with such an
air of assurance that my heart sank--but murder was in my soul. Then
quickly putting his hand behind her neck, he pulled her toward him and
kissed her. I was a demon in an instant.

"She sprang away from him and ran into the hall and he came back to his
chair with a smile of triumph on his thin lips.

"Somehow or other, just at this moment, I noticed the steam at the end
of that blow-off pipe, and all the devils in hell whispered at once 'One
move of your hand and your revenge is complete.' I wasn't Steadman
Hopkins then, I was a madman bent on murder, and I reached down for that
handle, holding on by the throttle with my left hand. The cock had some
mud in it and I opened it wide before it blew out and then with a roar
and a shriek it burst--and the crime was done.

"All the devils flew away at once and left me alone, naked with my
conscience. Murderer, murderer!' resounded in my ears; hisses, roars and
screams seemed to come to fill my brain and dance around my condemned
soul; voices seemed shrieking and crash upon crash seemed to smite my
ears. I thought I was dying, and I remember distinctly how glad I was. I
didn't let go of that valve, I couldn't--I'd go to hell with it in my
hand and let them do their worst.

"Then remorse took possession of me. Wasn't it enough to maim and
disfigure poor Tamplin, why cook him to death--I'd shut off that cock. I
fought with it, but it wouldn't close, and I called Dennis to help me.

"Some one stood behind me and put a cool hand on my brow, and a woman's
voice said, 'Poor brave fellow, he's still thinking of his duty; all the
heroes don't live in books.'

"I opened my eyes, and looked around. I was in St. Mary's Hospital, and
a nun was talking to herself.

"Well, John, I'd been there for more than six weeks, and it took six
more before I understood just what had happened and could hobble
around, for I had legs and ribs and an arm broken.

"It must have been at the moment I opened that blow-off cock that part
of a runaway train came down the north grade, backward, like a whirlwind
and buried my engine and myself, piling up an awful wreck that took
fire. I was rescued at the last moment by the crowd of railroad men that
collected and bodily tore the wreck apart to get at me. Every one
thought I tried to close that blow-off cock and hold the throttle shut.
I was a hero in the papers and to the men, and I couldn't get a chance
to tell the truth if I dared, and I was afraid to ask about Dandy
Tamplin.

"No word came from Madelene. One day Bridges came to see me, and brought
me this watch I wear now, a present from the company. I determined to
tell Bridges--but he wouldn't believe me. Looked, too, as if he thought
I was off in my head yet and I must have looked crazy, for most of these
brands I got that night. To be sure I've added to the collection here
and there, but I never was pretty after that roundup.

"At last I mustered up courage and asked: 'How is Tamplin?' 'All right,
working right along, but takes it hard,' said Bridges.

"'Was he laid up long? Is he as badly disfigured as I am?'

"'Why, man, he wasn't touched. He had gone to the other end of the room
for a drink of water. I'm afraid, my boy, its Madelene he's worried
about.'

"'She has refused him then?'

"'Well, I don't know that. She is still in bed, badly hurt. She has not
seen a soul but her nurse, the doctor and my wife, and denies herself to
all callers, even her best friends, even to me.'

"Chum, I won't tell you what I said or suffered. Madelene had come into
the room again for her belongings, and had faced the dagger of steam
sent by the hand of a man who would give his immortal soul to make her
well again.

"I couldn't get around much, but I wrote her a brief note asking if I
might call and sent it by a messenger.

"She replied that she could not see me then. I waited. I hadn't the
heart to write a confession I wanted to make in person, so after a week
or two I went to the house.

"Madelene sent down word that she couldn't see me then and could not
tell when she would see me.

"I thought the nurse, who acted as messenger, did not interpret either
my message or hers as they were intended--I would write a note.

"I stepped into the library on one side of the hall, made myself at home
and wrote Madelene a note, a love letter, begging for just one
interview. Taking blame for all that had happened and confessing my love
and devotion to her.

"It was a long letter and just as I finished it, I heard some one in the
hall. I thought it was a servant and started for the doorway to ask her
to carry my message. It was the nurse.

"I was partly concealed by the portieres. She was facing the door, her
finger on her lips, and before her stood Dandy Tamplin.

"'It's all right' she whispered, 'be still,' and both of them tiptoed
upstairs.

"This, then was why I could not see Madelene. Dandy Tamplin was her
accepted lover.

"That night I left the old home for good to seek my fortunes and
forgetfulness far away. I didn't care where, so long as it was a great
way off.

"At New York I found some engineers going out to run on the Meig's road
in Peru. I signed a contract and in two days was on the Atlantic, bound
for the Isthmus of Panama.

"I ran an engine in Peru until the war broke out with Chili. I was sent
to the front with a train of soldiers one day and got on the battle
field. Our side was getting badly worsted, and I got excited and jumping
off the engine, armed myself and lit into the fight. A little crowd
gathered around me and I found myself the leader, no officer in sight.
There was a charge and we didn't run--surprised the Chilians. I got
some of these blue brands on my left cheek there and made a new
reputation. Before I knew it, I had on a uniform and dangled a sword.
They nicknamed me the 'Fighting Yankee.'

"Peru had lots of trouble and I saw a good deal of it. When it was all
over, I found myself in command of a gun boat, just a tug, but she was
alive and had accounted for herself several times.

"The president sent me on a special mission to Chili just after the
close of the war, and, all togged out in a new uniform, I went on board
of an American ship at Callao bound for Valparaiso. I thought I was some
pumpkins then. I'd lived a rough and tumble life for about three years
and was beginning to like it--and to forget.

"I used to do the statuesque before the passengers, my scars attested my
fighting propensities, and there were several Peruvian liars aboard that
knew me by reputation, and enlarged on it.

"We touched at Coquimbo and an American civil engineer and family came
aboard, homeward bound.

"That afternoon I was lolling in the smoking-room on deck, when I was
attracted by the sound of ladies talking on the promenade just outside
the open port where I sat. It was the engineer's wife and daughter.

"'Mamma,' said the young lady. 'I must read you Madelene's letter. Poor,
dear Madelene, it's just too sorrowful and romantic for anything.'

"Madelene! I hadn't heard that name pronounced for three years. It was
wrong, I knew it, but I listened.

"'Poor dear, she was awfully hurt and disfigured in a railroad wreck.'

"It was _my_ Madelene they were talking about. Wild horses could not
have dragged me from the spot.

"The girl read something like this. I know for I've read that letter a
hundred times. It's in this pile here.

"'Dear Lottie: Your ever welcome'--'no, not that.'

"'Uncle Andrew is going'--'let me see, Oh! yes, here it is, now listen
Mamma,' said the girl.

"'Dear Schoolmate. I have never told a soul about my troubles or my
trials, for long I could not bear to think of them myself. But lately I
have seen it in its true light, and have come to the conclusion that I
have no right to moan my life away. I'm past all that, there is nothing
for me to live for in myself, but my life is spared for some purpose,
and I propose to devote it to doing good to others'--'isn't she a sweet
soul, mamma?'

"'After I came to live with Uncle Andrew, I was very happy, it seemed
like a release from prison. I saw much company, and in six months had
two lovers--more than I deserved. One of these was a plain, honest manly
man; he was one of Uncle Andrew's engineers. He wasn't handsome, but he
was the kind of man that sensible women love. The other was a handsome,
showy, witty man, also an employee of the railroad, considered 'the
catch' among the girls. Really, Lottie, both of them tried to propose
and I wouldn't let them, I didn't know which one of them I liked best.
But if things had taken the usual course, I should have married the
handsome one--and been sorry forever after.'

"My heart stood still--she hadn't married Dandy Tamplin after all."

"'The night of the wreck, I was going out on Uncle Andrew's private car.
The handsome man was on duty in the office. The plain man on an engine
that stood before the open window, I didn't know that then.