Kitabı oku: «Ralph of the Roundhouse: or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man», sayfa 3
CHAPTER VI-THE MASTER MECHANIC
A man appearing to be a railway official shouted up an order to the haggard engineer as he rushed by.
"Get out of this-there's twenty tons of powder in that car!"
Griscom dashed his hand across his eyes. He seemed to clear them partially, and strained his gaze ahead and took in the meaning of the scene, if not all its vivid outlines, and muttered:
"If that stuff goes off, the whole yards are doomed."
Ralph hung on the engineer's words and hovered at his elbow.
"We had better get out of this, Mr. Griscom," he suggested.
The engineer made a rough, impatient gesture with his arm, and then pulled his young helper to the window.
"Look sharp!" he ordered,
"Yes, Mr. Griscom."
"My-my eyes are pretty bad. When the smoke lifts-what's beyond the car yonder?"
"I can't make out exactly, but I think a clear track."
"How's the furnace?"
"Rushing."
"All right. Now then, you jump off. I'm going to let her go."
Ralph stared hard at the grim old veteran. He could see he was on the verge of physical collapse, and he wondered if his mind was not tottering too; his pertinacity had something weird and astonishing in it.
"Jump!" ordered Griscom, giving the lever a pull.
Ralph did not budge. As he clearly read his companion's purpose, he made up his mind to stick.
The prospect was something awful, and yet, after the previous experiences of that exciting half-hour, he had somehow become inured to danger, and reckless of its risks. The excitement and wild, hustling activity bore a certain stimulating fascination.
With a leap 99 bounded forward at the magic touch of the old king of the lever. It plunged headlong into a whirling vortex of smoke.
A groaning yell went up from the fugitive crowds in the distance, as the intrepid occupants, of the cab disappeared like lost spirits.
Only for the shelter of the cab roof, they would have been deluged with burning sparks.
A tongue of flame took Griscom across the side of his face, and he uttered an angry yell-it seemed to madden him that he could not see clearly. Then as they struck the car they were making for with a heavy thump, the shock and a spasm of weakness drove Griscom from the cushion, and he slipped to the floor of the cab.
Ralph's mind grasped the situation in all its details. He knew the engineer's purpose, and he felt that it was incumbent on him to carry it out if he could do so. He stepped over his recumbent companion, and placed his hand on the lever.
He could not now see ten feet ahead. They were in the very vortex of the fire. Suddenly they shot into the clear, cool air, bracing as a shower bath.
The cab roof was smoking, the cab floor was paved with burning cinders, and some oil waste was blazing back among the coal at the edge of the tender.
Ahead, the top and sides of the powder car were sheeted with flames, which the swift forward movement drove back in shroud-like form.
On the end of the car facing, the grim, black warning: "Powder! Danger!" stared squarely and menacingly into the eye of the pilot front.
Griscom struggled to his feet. He fell against Ralph. The latter thought he was delirious, for his lips were moving, and his tortured face working spasmodically. Finally he said weakly: "Put my hands on the gearing. We're out of it?"
"Yes, but the car is blazing."
"What's ahead?"
"Dead tracks for nearly a thousand feet."
"And the dump pit beyond?"
"It looks so," said Ralph, leaning from the window and glancing ahead anxiously. "Yes, it's rusted rails clear up to what looks like a slough hole, and no buildings beyond."
He held his breath as Griscom pulled the momentum up another notch. This last effort palsied the engineer, his fingers relaxed, and he slipped again to the floor, nerveless but writhing.
"Keep her going-full speed for five hundred feet," he panted. "Then stop her."
"Yes," breathed Ralph quickly. "Stop her-how," he projected, knowing in a way, but wanting to be sure, for the sense of crisis was strong on him, and the present was no time to make mistakes. Griscom's directions came quick and clear, and Ralph obeyed every indication with promptness.
Ninety-nine with its deadly pilot of destruction plunged ahead. Ralph estimated distance. He threw himself upon the lever, and reversed.
The wheels shivered to a sliding halt. He ran back rapidly five hundred feet, slowed down, and half hung out of the window, white as a sheet and limp as a rag.
A glance towards the burning shops had shown the firemen back at their work; the powder-car menace removed. Ralph, too, saw little crowds rounding the shops, and making towards them.
Then he fixed his eyes on the lone-speeding powder car.
It had been thrown at full-tilt impetus, and drove away and ahead, a living firebrand, reached the end of the rusted rails, ran off the roadbed, tilted, careened, took a sliding header, and disappeared from view.
Even at the distance of a thousand feet Ralph could hear a prodigious splash. A cascade of water shot up, and then a steamy smoke, and then there lifted, torrent-like, house-high above the pit, a Vesuvius of water, dirt, splinters and twisted pieces of iron. A reverberating crash and the end had come!
Griscom struggled to his feet. On his face there was a grimace meant for a smile, and he chuckled:
"We made it!"
He managed with Ralph's help to get into the engineer's seat.
"Mr. Griscom," said Ralph, "you're in bad shape. We can't get back the way we came, but if you could walk as far as the offices we might find a doctor."
"That's so, kid," nodded the old engineer, a little wearily. "I've got to get this junk and glassware out of my eyes if I run the 10.15 to-morrow."
Soon the advance stragglers of the curious crowd from the shops drew near. One little group was headed by a man of rather more imposing appearance than the section men in his train.
He was a big-faced individual who looked of uncertain temper, yet there were force and power in his bearing.
"Hello, there-that you, Griscom?" he sang out.
The engineer blinked his troubled eyes, and nodded curtly.
"It's what's left of me, Mr. Blake," he observed grimly.
Ralph caught the name and recognized the speaker-he was the master mechanic of the road.
"They're going to get the fire under control, I guess," continued Blake. "They wouldn't, though, if you hadn't got that car out of the way. Why, you're hurt, man!" exclaimed the official, really concerned as he caught a closer glimpse of the face of the engineer.
"Oh, a little scratch."
Ralph broke in. He hurriedly explained what had happened to the engineer's eyes, while the nervy Griscom tried to make little of it.
"Bring a truck out here," cried the master mechanic. "Why, man! you can't stand up! This is serious."
In about five minutes they had rolled a freight truck to the locomotive, and in ten more Griscom was under charge of one of the road surgeons, hastily summoned to a room in the yard office, where the sufferer was taken.
It took an hour to mend up the old veteran. It was lucky, the surgeon told him, that soot and putty had mixed with the glass in the explosion dose, or the patient would have been blinded for life.
Griscom could see quite comfortably when he was turned over to the master mechanic again, although his forehead was bandaged, and his cheeks dotted here and there with little criss-cross patches of sticking-plaster.
Ralph, waiting outside, had been forced to tell the story of the daring dash through the flames more than once to inquisitive railroad men. He quite obliterated himself in the recital.
The firemen had gained control of the flames, the exigency locomotives had all been sent back to the city. The master mechanic stood conversing with Griscom for a few moments after the latter left the surgeon's hands, and then approached Ralph with him. It was dusk now.
"We'll catch the 8.12, kid," announced Griscom. "That's him, Mr. Blake," he added, pointing Ralph out to his companion. "He did it, and I only helped him, and he's an all-around corker, I can tell you!"
Griscom slapped Ralph on the shoulder emphatically. The master mechanic looked at the youth grimly, yet with a glance not lacking real interest.
"From the Junction?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"What's the name?"
"Fairbanks-Ralph Fairbanks."
"Oh," said the master mechanic quickly, as if he recognized the name. "We'll remember you, Fairbanks. If I can do anything for you-"
"You can, sir." The words were out of Ralph's mouth before he intended it. "I want to learn railroading."
"Learn!" chuckled Griscom-"why! the way you worked that lever-"
"Which you needn't dwell on," interrupted the master mechanic, a harsh disciplinarian on principle. "He had no right in your locomotive, I suppose you know, and rules say you are liable for a lay off."
Griscom kept on chuckling.
"We'll forget that, though. Where do you want to start, Fairbanks?"
"Right at the bottom, sir," answered Ralph modestly.
"In the roundhouse?"
"Yes, sir."
The master mechanic drew a card from his pocket, wrote a few lines, and handed it to Ralph.
"Give that to Tim Forgan," he said simply.
To Ralph, just then, he was the greatest man in the world-he who could in ten words command the position that seemed to mean for him the entrance into the grandest realm of industry, ambition and opulence.
CHAPTER VII-AT THE ROUNDHOUSE
Ralph Fairbanks came out of the little cottage next morning after breakfast feeling bright as a dollar and happy as a lark.
He realized that a new epoch had begun in his young existence, and he stood fairly on the threshold of a fascinating experience.
Yesterday seemed like a variegated dream, and To-Day full of expectation, novelty and promise.
His mother's anxiety the evening previous had given way to pride and subdued affection, when he had appeared about ten o'clock after seeing the engineer home, and had told her in detail the story of the most eventful day of his life.
If Mrs. Fairbanks felt a natural disappointment in seeing Ralph forego the advantages of a finished education, she did not express it, for she knew that the best ambitions of his soul had been aroused, and that his loyal boyish nature had chosen a noble course.
Ralph went down to the depot and bought a Springfield morning paper. It contained a full account of the fire at the yards. It detailed the destruction of the powder car, and Griscom came in for full meed of praise. Ralph was not referred to, except as "the veteran engineer's heroic helper."
It did not take long, however, for Ralph to discover that word of mouth had run ahead of telegraphic haste.
He was hailed by a dozen acquaintances, including the depot master, the watchman, express messenger and others, who made him flush and thrill with pleasure as he guessed that old Griscom had managed to spread the real news wholesale.
"You're booked, sure!" declared More, giving his young favorite a hearty slap on the shoulder.
"Why, I imagine so myself," answered Ralph brightly, but thinking only of the master mechanic's card in his pocket.
"You're due for an interview with the president, you are," declared the enthusiastic More. "Why, you two saved the company half a million. And the pluck of it! Don't you be modest, kid. Hint for a good round reward and a soft-snap life position."
"All right," nodded Ralph gayly. "Only, I'll start at it where you told me yesterday."
"Eh?"
"Yes-at the roundhouse."
"Hold on, Fairbanks-circumstances alter cases-"
"Not in this instance. Good-bye. I expect to be in working togs before night, Mr. More."
Ralph went down the tracks, leaving the agent staring studiously after him.
He had often been inside the roundhouse, but with genuine interest stood looking about him for some minutes after stepping beyond the broad entrance of that dome-like structure.
Not much was doing at that especial hour of the morning. Three "dead" locomotives stood in their stalls, all furbished up for later employment.
A lame helper was going over one, just arrived, with an oiled rag.
In the little apartment known as the "dog house," a dozen men chatted, snoozed, or were playing checkers-firemen, engineers and brakemen, waiting for their run, or off duty and killing time.
Ralph finally made for a box-like compartment built in one section of the place. A man was sweeping it out.
"Can you tell me where I will find the foreman?" he asked.
"Oh, the boss?"
"Yes, sir-Mr. Forgan."
"You mean Tim. He's in the dog house, I guess. Was, last I saw of him."
Ralph went to the dog house. At a rough board nailed to the wall, and answering for a desk, a big-shouldered, gruff-looking man of about fifty was scanning the daily running sheet.
Two of the loungers, firemen, knew Ralph slightly, and nodded to him. He went up to one of them.
"Is that Mr. Forgan?" he inquired in a low tone.
"That's him," nodded the fireman-"and in his precious best temper this morning, too!"
Ralph approached the fierce-visaged master of his fate.
"Mr. Forgan," he said.
The foreman looked around at him, and scowled.
"Well?" he growled out.
"Could I see you for a moment," suggested Ralph, a trifle flustered at the rude reception.
"Take a good look. I'm here, ain't I?"
Some of the idle listeners chuckled at this, and Ralph felt a trifle embarrassed, and flushed up.
"Yes, sir, and so am I," he said quietly-"on business. I wish to apply for a position."
"Oh, you do?" retorted the big foreman, running his eye contemptuously over Ralph's neat dress. "Sort of floor-walker for visitors, or brushing up the engineers' plug hats?"
"I could do that, too," asserted Ralph, good-naturedly.
"Well, you won't do much of anything here," retorted the foreman, "for there's no job open, at present. If there was, we've had quite enough of kids."
Ralph wondered if this included Ike Slump. He had been surprised at not finding that individual on duty.
The foreman now unceremoniously turned his back on him. Ralph hesitated, then torched Forgan on the arm.
"Excuse me, sir," he said courteously, "but I was told to give you this."
Ralph extended the card given to him the evening previous by the master mechanic.
The foreman took it with a jerk, and read it with a frown. Ralph was somewhat astonished as he traced the effect upon him of the simple note, requesting, as he knew, that a place be made for him in the roundhouse.
The innocent little screed put the foreman in a violent ferment. His face grew angry and red, his throat throbbed, and his heavy jaw knotted up in a pugnacious way. He turned and glared with positive dislike and suspicion at Ralph, and the latter, quick to read faces, wondered why.
Then the foreman re-read the card, as if to gain time to get control of himself, and was so long silent that Ralph finally asked:
"Is it all right, sir?"
"Yes, it is!" snapped the foreman, turning on him like a mad bull. "I suppose Blake knows his business; I've been sent all the pikers on the line. Probably know what kind of material I want myself, though. Come again to-morrow."
"Ready for work?" asked Ralph, pressing his point.
"Yes," came the surly reply.
"What time, if you please, sir?"
"Seven."
"Thank you."
The foreman turned from him with an angry grunt, and Ralph started to leave.
One of the firemen he knew winked at him, another made an animated grimace at the surly boss. Ralph heard a third remark, in a low tone.
"What a liking he's taken to him! He'll have a fierce run for his money."
"Yes, it'll be a full course of sprouts. You won't have a path of flowers, kid."
"I shan't come here to raise flowers," answered Ralph quietly.
He trod the air as he left the roundhouse. The gruff, uncivil manner of the foreman had not daunted him a whit. He had met all kinds of men in his brief business experience, and he believed that honest, conscientious endeavor could not fail to win both success and good will in time.
Ralph went back to his friend More, at the express shed, and told his story.
"You're booked, sure enough," admitted the agent, though a little glumly. "I'd have struck higher."
"It suits me, Mr. More," declared Ralph. "And now, I want your good services of advice as to what I am expected to do, and what clothes I need."
Ralph left his friend, thoroughly posted as to his probable duties at the roundhouse. The agent advised him to purchase a cheap pair of jumpers, and wear old rough shoes and a thin pair of gloves the first day or two.
Ralph visited a dry-goods store, fitted himself out, and started for home.
He was absorbed in thinking and planning, and turning a corner thus engrossed almost ran into a pedestrian.
As he drew back and aside, a hand was suddenly thrust out and seized his arm in a vise-like grip.
"No, you don't!" sounded a strident voice. "I've got you at last, have I?"
In astonishment Ralph looked up, to recognize his self-announced captor. It was Gasper Farrington.
CHAPTER VIII-THE OLD FACTORY
Ralph pulled loose from the grasp of the crabbed old capitalist, fairly indignant at the sudden onslaught.
"Don't you run! don't you run!" cried Farrington, swinging his cane threateningly.
"And don't you dare to strike!" warned Ralph, with a glitter in his eye. "I'd like to know, sir, what right you have stopping me on the public street in this manner?"
"It will be a warrant matter, if you aint careful!" retorted Farrington.
"I can't imagine how."
"Oh, can't you?" gibed Farrington, his plain animosity for Ralph showing in his malicious old face. "Well, I'll show you."
"I shall be glad to have you do so."
"Do you see that building?"
Farrington pointed across the baseball grounds at the edge of which they stood, indicating the old unused factory.
A light broke on Ralph's mind.
"I own that building," announced Farrington, swelling up with importance-"it's my property."
"So I've heard."
"A window was broken there and you broke it!"
"I did," admitted Ralph.
"Oho! you shamefacedly acknowledge it, do you? Malicious mischief, young man-that's the phase of the law you're up against!"
"It was an accident," said Ralph-"pure and simple."
"Well, you'll stand for it."
"I intend to. I made a note of it in my mind at the time, Mr. Farrington, and if you had not said a word to me about it I should have done the right thing."
"What do you call the right thing?"
"Replacing the light of glass, of course," was Ralph's reply.
"Glad to see you've got some sense of decency about you. All right. It'll cost you just a dollar and twenty-five cents. Hand over the money, and I'll have my man fix it."
Ralph laughed outright.
"Hardly, Mr. Farrington," he said. "I can buy a pane of glass for thirty-five cents, and put it in for nothing. I will take this bundle home and attend to it at once."
Farrington looked mad and disappointed at being outwitted in his attempt to make three hundred per cent. However, if Ralph made good he could find no fault with the proposition. He mumbled darkly and Ralph passed on. Then a temptation he could not resist came to the boy, and turning he remarked:
"You'll be glad to know, perhaps, Mr. Farrington, that I have obtained steady work."
"Why should I be glad?"
"Because you advised it, and because it will enable us to pay you your interest promptly."
"Humph!" Then with an eager expression of face Farrington asked: "What are you going to work at?"
"Railroading."
"Very good-of course at the general offices at Springfield?"
"Of course not. I start in at the roundhouse here, to-morrow."
It was amazing how sour the magnate's face suddenly grew. Once more Ralph wondered why this man was so anxious to get them out of Stanley Junction.
Ralph proceeded homewards. It warmed his heart to see how thoroughly his mother entered into all his hopes and projects. She was soon busy in her quick, sure way, sewing on more strongly the buttons of jumper and overalls, and promised to have a neat light cap and working gloves ready for him by nightfall.
Ralph explained to her about the broken window, got a rule from his father's old tool chest, and went over to the vacant factory.
It was surrounded by a high fence, but at one place in seeking lost balls members of the Criterion Club had partially removed a gate. Ralph passed among the débris littering the yard, and went around the place until he found a door with a broken lock.
He gained the inside and went up a rickety stairs. Swinging open a door at their top, Ralph found himself in the compartment with the broken window.
The air was close and unwholesome, despite the orifice the baseball had made. A broken skylight topped the center of the room, and a rain of the previous night had dripped down unimpeded and soaked the flooring.
"The ball must be here somewhere," mused Ralph. "There it is, but-"
As he spied the ball about the center of the room, Ralph discerned something else that sent a quick wave of concern across his nerves.
He stood silent and spellbound.
Upon the floor was a human being, so grimly stark and white, that death was instantly suggested to Ralph's mind.
His eyes, becoming accustomed to the half-veiled light filtered through the dirt-crusted panes of the skylight, made out that the figure on the floor was that of a boy.
As he riveted his glance, Ralph further discovered that it was the same boy he had met at the depot the morning previous-the mysterious "dead-head" under the trucks of the 10.15 train.
He lay upon the rough boards face upwards, his limbs stretched out naturally, but stiff and useless-looking.
The rain had soaked his garments, and he must have lain there at least since last midnight. Ralph was shocked and uncertain. Then an abrupt thought made him tremble and fear.
The ball lay by the boy's side. Right above one temple was the dark circular outline of a depression.
It flashed like lightning through Ralph's mind that the stranger had been struck by the ball.
The theory forced itself upon him that in hiding from the pursuing depot watchman, the stranger had sought refuge in the factory.
He might have quite naturally needed a rest after his long and torturing ride on truck and crossbar-he must have been in this room when Ralph had swung the bat that had sent the baseball hurtling through the window with the force of a cannon shot.
"It is true-it is true!" breathed Ralph in a ghastly whisper, as the full consequence of his innocent act burst upon his mind.
He had to hold to a post to support himself, swaying there and looking down at the cold, mute face, sick at heart, and his brain clouded with dread.
It must have been a full five minutes before he pulled himself together, and tried to divest himself of the unnatural horror that palsied his energies.
He finally braced his nerves, and, advancing, knelt beside the prostrate boy.
Ralph placed his trembling hand inside the open coat, and let it rest over the heart. His own throbbed loud and strong with hope and relief, as under his finger tips there was a faint, faint fluttering.
"He is alive-thank heaven for that!" cried Ralph fervently.
He ran to the window. Through the broken pane he could view the baseball grounds and the clubhouse beyond.
Will Cheever was sitting outside of the house, and at a little distance another member of the Criterions was exercising with a pair of Indian clubs.
Ralph tried to lift the lower sash, but it would not budge.
He ripped out of place the loose side piece, and removed the sash complete.
"Will-boys!" he shouted loudly, "come-come quick!"
