SNOW ON THE HEADLIGHT

BY CY WARMAN

 _A Story of the Great Burlington Strike_ 12mo. Cloth, $1. 25

 THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD (_The Story of the West Series. _) Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 50

 D. APPLETON & COMPANY NEW YORK

 SNOW ON THE HEADLIGHT

 A Story of the Great Burlington Strike

BY CY WARMAN

AUTHOR OF THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD, THEEXPRESS MESSENGER, TALES OF AN ENGINEER, FRONTIER STORIES, ETC. 

 NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY MDCCCXCIX

Copyright, 1899, by D. Appleton & Co. 

PREFACE

 _Here is a Decoy Duck stuffed with Oysters. The Duck is mere Fiction: The Oysters are Facts. _

_If you find the Duck wholesome, and the Oysters hurt you, it isprobably because you had a hand in the making of this bit of History, and in the creation of these Facts. _

THE AUTHOR

SNOW ON THE HEADLIGHT

CHAPTER FIRST

Good managers are made from messenger boys, brakemen, wipers andtelegraphers; just as brave admirals are produced in due time byplanting a cadet in a naval school. From two branches of the servicecome the best equipped men in the railroad world--from the motive-powerdepartment and from the train service. This one came from the mechanicaldepartment, and he spent his official life trying to conceal thefact--striving to be just to all his employees and to show no partialitytowards the department from whence he sprang--but always failing. 

"These men will not strike, " he contended: "The brains of the train arein the engine. "

"O, I don't think, " Mr. Josler, the general superintendent, would say;and if you followed his accent it would take you right back to the heartof Germany: "Giff me a goot conductor, an' I git over the roat. "

No need to ask where he came from. 

As the grievance grew in the hands of the "grief" committee, and thebelief became fixed in the minds of the officials that the employeeswere looking for trouble, the situation waxed critical. "Might as wellmake a clean job of it, " the men would say; and then every man who had agrievance, a wound where there had been a grievance or a fear that hemight have something to complain of in the future, contributed to thereal original grievance until the trouble grew so that it appalled theofficials and caused them to stiffen their necks. In this way the menand the management were being wedged farther and farther apart. Finally, the general manager, foreseeing what war would cost the company and theemployees, made an effort to reach a settlement, but the very effort wastaken as evidence of weakness, and instead of yielding something themen took courage, and lengthened the list of grievances. His predecessorhad said to the president of the company when the last settlement waseffected: "This is our last compromise. The next time we shall have tofight--my back is to the wall. " But, when the time came for thestruggle, he had not the heart to make the fight, and so resigned andwent west, where he died shortly afterwards, and dying, escaped thesorrow that must have been his had he lived to see how his old, much-loved employees were made to suffer. 

Now the grievance committee came with an ultimatum to the management. "Yes, or No?" demanded the chairman with a Napoleonic pose. But thegeneral superintendent was loth to answer. 

"Yes, or No?"

Mr. Josler hesitated, equivocated, and asked to be allowed to conferwith his chief. 

"Yes, or No?" demanded the fearless leader, lifting his hand like anauctioneer. 

"Vell, eef you put it so, I must say No, " said the superintendent andinstantly the leader turned on his heel. He did not take the trouble tosay good-day, but snapped his finger and strode away. 

Now the other members of the committee got up and went out, pausing tosay good morning to the superintendent who stood up to watch theprocession pass out into the wide hall. One man, who confirmed thegeneral manager's belief that there were brains among the engine-men, lingered to express his regrets that the conference should have ended soabruptly. 

The news of this man's audacity spread among the higher officials, sothat when the heads of the brotherhoods came--which is a lastresort--the company were almost as haughty and remote as the head of thegrievance committee had been. 

From that moment the men and the management lost faith in each other. More, they refused even to understand each other. Whichever side made aslight concession it was made to suffer for it, for such an act was sureto be interpreted by the other side as a sign of weakening. In vain didthe heads of the two organizations, representing the engine-men, striveto overcome the mischief done by the local committee, and to reach asettlement. They showed, by comparison, that this, the smartest road inthe West, was paying a lower rate of wages to its engine-men than waspaid by a majority of the railroads of the country. They urged theinjustice of the classification of engineers, but the management claimedthat the system was just, and later received the indorsement, on thispoint, of eight-tenths of the daily press. Eight out of ten of theseeditors knew nothing of the real merits or demerits of the system, butthey thought they knew, and so they wrote about it, the people readabout it and gave or withheld their sympathy as the news affected them. 

When the heads of the brotherhoods announced their inability to reachan agreement they were allowed to return to their respective homes, beyond the borders of the big state, and out of reach of the Illinoisconspiracy law. A local man "with sand to fight" was chosencommander-in-chief, and after one more formal effort to reach asettlement he called the men out. 

On a blowy Sunday afternoon in February the chief clerk received a wirecalling him to the office of the general manager. He found his chiefpacing the floor. As the secretary entered, the general manager turned, faced him, and then, waving a hand over the big flat-topped desk thatstood in the centre of his private office, said: "Take this all away, John. The engineers are going to strike and I want nothing to come to mydesk that does not relate to that, until this fight is over. "

Noting the troubled, surprised look upon the secretary's face themanager called him. 

"Come here John. Are you afraid? Does the magnitude of it all appalyou--do you want to quit? If you do say so now. "

As he spoke the piercing, searching eyes of the general manager sweptthe very soul of his secretary. The two men looked at each other. Instantly the shadow passed from the long, sad face of the clerk, and inits place sat an expression of calm determination. Now the manager spokenot a word, but reaching for the hand of his faithful assistant, pressedit firmly, and turned away. 

There was no spoken pledge, no vow, no promise of loyalty, but in thatmute handclasp there was an oath of allegiance. 

At four o'clock on the following morning--Monday, February the 27th, 1888, --every locomotive engineer and fireman in the service of theChicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad Company quit work. The fact thatnot one man remained in the service an hour after the order went out, shows how firmly fixed was the faith of the men in the ability of the"Twin Brotherhoods" to beat the company, and how universal was thebelief that their cause was just. All trains in motion at the momentwhen the strike was to take effect were run to their destination, or todivisional stations, rather, and there abandoned by the crew. 

The conductors, brakemen and baggagemen were not in the fight, and whendirected by the officials to take the engines and try to run them orfire them, they found it hard to refuse to obey the order. Some of themhad no thought of refusing, but cheerfully took the engines out, and--drowned them. That was a wild, exciting day for the officials, butit was soon forgotten in days that made that one seem like a pleasantdream. 

The long struggle that had been going on openly between the officialsand the employees was now enacted privately, silently, deep in the soulsof men. Each individual must face the situation and decide for himselfupon which side he would enlist. Hundreds of men who had good positionsand had, personally, no grievance, felt in honor bound to stand by theirbrothers, and these men were the heroes of the strike, for it isinfinitely finer to fight for others than for one's self. When a man hastoiled for a quarter of a century to gain a comfortable place it is notwithout a struggle that he throws it all over, in an unselfish effort tohelp a brother on. The Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers had grown tobe respected by the public because of almost countless deeds ofindividual heroism. It was deferred to--and often encouraged by railwayofficials, because it had improved the service a thousand per cent. Theman who climbed down from the cab that morning on the "Q" was as farahead of the man who held the seat twenty years earlier, as an Englishcaptain is ahead of the naked savage whose bare feet beat the sands ofthe Soudan. By keeping clear of entangling alliances and carefullyavoiding serious trouble, the Brotherhood had, in the past ten years, piled up hundreds of thousands of dollars. This big roll of the root ofall evil served now to increase the confidence of the leaders, and toencourage the men to strike. 

At each annual convention mayors, governors and prominent public menparaded the virtues of the Brotherhood until its members came to regardthemselves as just a little bit bigger, braver and better than ordinarymortals. Public speakers and writers were for ever predicting that in alittle while the Brotherhood would be invincible. [1] And so, hearingonly good report of itself the Brotherhood grew over-confident, andentered this great fight top-heavy because of an exaggerated idea of itsown greatness. 

[1] "_I dare say that the engineers' strike will end, as all strikeshave hitherto ended, in disaster to the strikers. But I am sure thatstrikes will not always end so. It is only a question of time, and of avery little time, till the union of labor shall be so perfect thatnothing can defeat it. We may say this will be a very good time or avery bad time; all the same it is coming. _"--_W. D. Howells, in Harper'sWeekly, April 21, 1888. _

The Engineers' Brotherhood was not loved by other organizations. Theconductors disliked it, and it had made itself offensive to the firemenbecause of its persistent refusal to federate or affiliate in any mannerwith other organizations having similar aims and objects. But now, finding itself in the midst of a hard fight, it evinced a desire tocombine. The brakemen refused to join the engine-men, thoughsympathizing with them, but the switchmen were easily persuaded. Theswitchman of a decade ago could always be counted upon to fight. Inbehind his comb, tooth-brush and rabbit's foot, he carried a neatlyfolded, closely written list of grievances upon which he was ready to dobattle. Peace troubled his mind. 

Some one signed a solemn compact in which the engineers bound themselvesto support the switchmen--paying them as often as the engine-men drewmoney--and the switchmen went out. They struck vigorously, and to aman, and remained loyal long after the Brotherhood had broken its pledgeand cut off the pay of the strikers. [2] In this battle the switchmenwere the bravest of the brave. 

[2] _At the annual convention held at Atlanta, in the autumn of thatyear (1888) the engineers dropped the sympathy-striking switchmen fromthe pay roll, at the same time increasing the pay of striking engineersfrom $40. 00 to $50. 00 a month. _

At the end of the first month of the strike the lines were pretty welldrawn. There was no neutral ground for employees. A man was either withthe company or with the strikers. 

CHAPTER SECOND

"Good morning, John, " said the general manager coming softly through thelittle gate that fenced off a small reservation in the outer office, andbeyond which the secretary and his assistants worked: "How goes thebattle?"

"Well, on the whole, " said the chief clerk, gathering up a batch oftelegrams that made up the official report from the various divisionsuperintendents; "it was a rough night. Three yard engines disabled inthe Chicago yards, freight train burned at Burlington, head-endcollision on the B. & M. Division, two engineers and one fireman killed, ware-house burned at Peoria, two bridges blown up in Iowa, two trainsditched near Denver, three--"

"Well! well!" broke in the general manager, "that will do. " The clerkstopped short, the office boy passed out through the open door and agreat swell of silence surged into the room. 

After taking a few turns up and down the office, the manager stopped atthe secretary's desk and added: "We must win this strike. The directorsmeet to-day and those English share-holders are getting nervous. Theycan't understand that this fight is necessary--that we are fighting forpeace hereafter; weeding out a pestilence that threatens, not only thefuture of railway corporations, but the sacred rights of Americancitizens--the right to engage in whatever business or calling one caresto follow, and to employ whom he will at whatever wages the employer andemployed may agree upon. Let these strikers win and we shall have astrike as often as the moon changes. When I endeavor to reach anagreement with them, they take it that the company is weakening, and theleaders will listen to nothing. I shudder to think what is in store forthem and what they must suffer before they can understand. "

With that the general manager passed into the private office and thechief clerk, who had been at his post all night, turned to a steamingbreakfast which the porter had just brought from a café across thestreet. The postman came in, grave-faced and silent, and left a bigbundle of letters on the secretary's desk. Most of the mail wasofficial, but now and then there came letters from personal friends whoheld similar positions on other roads, assuring the general manager oftheir sympathy, and that they would aid his company whenever they coulddo so secretly and without exciting their own employees. 

Many letters came from stockholders protesting vigorously against acontinuation of the strike. Some anonymous letters warned the companythat great calamity awaited the management, unless the demands of theemployees were acceded to and the strike ended. A glance into thenewspapers that came in, showed that three-fourths of the press of thecountry praised the management and referred to the strikers asdynamiters and anarchists. The other fourth rejoiced at each drop in thestocks and called every man a martyr who was arrested at the instigationof the railroad company. The reports sent out daily by the company andthose collected at the headquarters of the strikers agreed exactly as todate, but disagreed in all that followed. 

The secretary, somewhat refreshed by a good breakfast, waded through themail, making marks and notations occasionally with a blue pencil on theturned down corners of letters. 

Some of the communications were referred to the general traffic manager, some to the general passenger agent, others to the superintendent ofmotive power and machinery. They were all sorted carefully and depositedin wicker baskets, bearing the initials of the different departments. Many were dropped into the basket marked "G. M. " but most of the matterwas disposed of by the secretary himself, for the chief clerk of a greatrailway system, having the signature of the General Manager, is one ofthe busiest, and usually one of the brightest men in the company'semploy. 

The general manager in his private office pored over the morning papers, puffing vigorously now and then as he perused a paragraph that praisedthe strikers, but, when the literature was to his liking, smoked slowlyand contentedly, like a man without a care. 

Such were the scenes and conditions in and about the general offices ofthe Chicago Burlington & Quincy Railroad Company when a light foot-stepwas heard in the hall and a gentle voice came singing:

 "_Always together in sunshine and rain. Facing the weather_--"

"Good morning, Patsy, " said the chief clerk, looking up as Patsy pausedat the gate, removed his hat and bowed two or three short quick bowswith his head without bowing his body. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Patsy, "I thought you were alone. "

"Well, I am alone. "

"No you're not--I'm here. Always together--"

"Come! Come! Patsy don't get funny this morning. "

"Get funny! how can I get funny when I'm already funny? I was bornfunny--they had fun with me at the christening, and I expect they'llhave the divil's own time with me at the wake. Always--"

"Sh! Sh!--Be quiet, " said the secretary, nodding his head and his thumbin the direction of the door of the private office. 

"Is the governor in?" asked Patsy. 

"Yes. "

"Now that's lucky for me, for I wanted to ask a favor and I want itto-day, and if the governor was not in you would say, 'I'll have to seethe governor;' then when I came back you would say 'The governor hasleft the office, and I forgot it, ' but now that the governor is here youcan do it yourself. I want to go to Council Bluffs. "

"All right, Patsy, you can go if you can persuade those friends of yoursto allow us to run a train. "

"On the Q?"

"That's the only line we control. "

"Not on your salary. "

"Then you can't go, " said the clerk, as he resumed the work before him. 

"What's the matter with the North Western?" asked Patsy in an earnest, pleading tone. 

"You ought to know that we can't give passes over a competing line. "

"I do know it, but you can give me a letter over there. Just say:'Please give Patsy Daly transportation, Chicago to Council Bluffs andreturn;' that'll do the business. You might add a paragraph about mebeing an old and trusted employee and--"

"A bold and mistrusted striker, Patsy, would be nearer the card. "

"Now don't bring up unpleasant recollections, " said Patsy with a frownthat didn't make him look as cross as some men look when they laugh: "Itwill be a neat way of showing that the Q is big enough to be good to herold employees, even if her stock is a little down. What do you say--do Iget the pass--does mother see her railroad boy to-night?"

The door that was marked "Private" opened slowly and the general managercame in. The chief clerk shuffled the letters while Patsy made adesperate effort to look serious and respectful. 

"What brings you here, Patsy?" asked the head of the road, for he was byno means displeased at seeing one of the old employees in the office whowas not a member of a grievance committee. 

"I want to get a pass, if you please sir, to run down to the Bluffs andsee the folks. "

"Patsy wants a request for a pass over the North Western, " said theclerk, taking courage now that the subject was opened. 

"Ah! is that all? now suppose I ask you to take a passenger train outto-night, will you do it?" asked the general manager, turning to Patsy. 

"What's the matter with the regular conductor?"

"Joined the strikers, " was the reply. 

"But the papers say the strike is over. "

"It is! but a lot of you fellows don't seem to know it. "

"I'm glad of it, and now I must hurry back, so as to be ready to take myrun out. Do I get the pass?"

"And you expect, when the strike is off, to go back to your old place?"

"Sure, " said Patsy, "I don't intend to quit you as long as you have abrake for me to turn. "

"There's a lot of brakes that nobody is turning right now; come, youyoung rascal, will you go to work?"

"Now, " said the young rascal, "you know what it says at the bottom ofthe time-card: 'In case of doubt take the safe side. ' I'm waiting to seewhich side is safe. "

With that the manager went back to his desk and closed the door behindhim, and the secretary went on with his work. 

Patsy stood and looked out at the window for a while, and then said halfto himself, but so the clerk could hear him: "Poor little mother, howshe will miss me to-night. "

The secretary said nothing, but leaving his desk entered the office ofhis chief, and when they had talked over the business of the hour andread the story prepared by the passenger department for the press thatday, he asked what should be done for Patsy. 

"Oh! give him the letter, I suppose, but he's the only employee on theroad I would do so much for. "

"And he's the only one with nerve enough to ask it, " said thesecretary. 

"Yes, he is a bit nervy, John; but it isn't an offensive sort of nerve;and then he's so happy. Why, he really rests me when he comes in. He'ssmart, too, too smart to be a striker and he may be of some use to usyet. "

In a little while Patsy went singing himself out just as he had sunghimself in. The general manager sat watching the happy youth from theouter door of his room until the song and the sound of footsteps diedaway in the wide hall. Turning to his desk he sighed and said: "Ah, well! the English poet was right when he wrote:

 '_The world that knows itself too sad Is proud to keep some faces glad!_'"

CHAPTER THIRD

Patsy, the postman and the newsgatherers, who left the headquarters ofthe company and wandered over to the Grand Pacific where the strikersheld forth, must have been struck forcibly by the vast difference in theappearance of the two places upon this particular morning. At the firstplace all was neatness and order in spite of the deplorable condition ofaffairs outside; and a single man handled the almost endless flood ofletters and telegrams that fell like autumn leaves upon his desk. 

In fact, the office boy and the colored porter were the only peopleabout the company's headquarters who showed any real anxiety. 

At the headquarters of the strikers all was confusion and disorder. Theouter offices and ante-rooms were filled with a vast crowd of men whoidled about, smoked, swapped stories and swore; and some of them, I'msorry to say, chewed tobacco and flooded the floor with inexcusablefilth. Even Mr. Hogan's private office was not private. Leading strikersand men prominent in the Brotherhood loafed there as the others loafedoutside. Not more than half the men about the building had ever beenemployed by the Burlington company. There were scores of "tramp"switchmen and travelling trainmen, made reckless by idleness, as men aresometimes made desperate by hunger, with an alarmingly largerepresentation of real criminals, who follow strikes as "grafters"follow a circus. If a striker lost his temper and talked as he ought notto talk, this latter specimen was always ready to encourage him; forwhatever promised trouble for others promised profitable pastime for thecriminal. If the real workers could keep clear of this class, as well asthe idle, loafing element in their own profession, ninety per cent. Ofthe alleged labor outrages would never be committed. Very likely therewere a number of detectives moving among the strikers, and they, too, have been known to counsel violence in order to perpetuate a strugglebetween labor and capital that they themselves might not be idle. It isonly in the best organized agencies that detectives can be relied uponto take no undue advantage of those whom they are sent out to detect. Over in another part of the same building, where the firemen held forth, the scene was about the same, save that the men there were younger inyears and louder in their abuse of the railway officials; and generallyless discreet. 

 "_Always together in sunshine and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train_, "

sang Patsy as he strolled into the private office of Chairman Borphy, who was in charge of the firemen's end of the strike. Borphy greetedPatsy pleasantly as did the others in the office, with one exception. Over in a window sat fireman George Cowels, a great striker, and in theeyes of some of his enthusiastic friends a great man, and in his ownestimation a great orator. Removing his cigar in order to give theproper effect to the expression he was about to assume, Cowels gavePatsy a hard searching look as he asked:

"Does that song of yours mean yourself and the general manager?"

"An' if it does, " said Patsy, stepping close in front of his questioner:"What's it _to_ you?"

"Just this, " said Cowels: "You have been watched. You went to thegeneral office this morning the moment it was open, and took a messagefor Mr. Stonaker to the general manager of the C. & N. W. Does that fityour case? Perhaps you will favor us with the result of your mission!Come, will the North Western help your friend out?"

At the conclusion of this eloquent burst of indignation Cowels smiledtriumphantly, for, as Patsy paled into silence, the big fellow thoughthe had his man scared; but when Patsy took another step forward, forcinghis opponent back to the window, and asked between his closed teeth, ifCowels meant to accuse him of betraying the strikers to the companyevery one in the room realized that something was about to happen. Perhaps Cowels thought so, too, but he was in a hole and could onlyanswer Yes. The next instant Patsy drove his fist up under the orator'schin, and the back of that gentleman's head made a hole in the window. The bystanders, knowing the temper of both the men, sprang between thembefore any further damage could be done. 

If Patsy had the best of the fight he had the worst of the argument. Hehad been openly accused of being a "spotter" and had made no explanationof his conduct; so when it was reported that he had gone to CouncilBluffs over the North Western, the more ignorant and noisy of hisassociates were easily persuaded that such a favor to a striker couldonly be secured upon the request of Mr. Stonaker and that request wouldbe given only for services rendered; and Patsy Daly was from that daydoomed to walk under a cloud. 

 * * * * *

The long struggle was beginning to tell on the strikers. It wasevidenced in the shiny suits worn by the men who met daily at the hallin town to discuss the strike. It was seen again in the worn wraps ofmany a mother and in the torn shoes of school-children. These were onlythe outer signs, the real suffering was carefully covered up--hidden inthe homes where home comfort had become a reminiscence. The battle atfirst had been with the strong but now the brunt of it was being shiftedto the shoulders of the women, the wives and mothers of the strikers. These patient martyrs, whose business it had been to look after thehome, now suffered the humiliation of having door after door closed tothem and their children. Of a morning you might see them trampingthrough the snow from shop to shop trying to secure credit for the day. The strike would be over in a little while, they argued, but thestruggling shop-keeper had his own to look after. The wholesale houseswere refusing him credit and so he was powerless to help the hungrywives of worthy workmen. The men themselves were beginning to loseheart. Many a man who had not known what it was to be without a dollarnow saw those dearest to him in actual want and went away to look forwork on other roads. Finally, a monster union meeting was called for thepurpose of getting an expression of opinion as to the advisability ofmaking the best possible terms with the company and calling the strikeoff. Here the engine-men, trainmen and switchmen met, but the radicalelement was in the majority, and the suggestions of the heads of thevarious Brotherhoods that the strike be called off were howled down bythe unterrified. It was at this meeting that a tall, powerful, but mildmannered man, stood up in the face of all the opposing elements andadvised that the strike be ended at once. He did not suggest this from aselfish motive, he said. He was a single man and had money enough tokeep himself in idleness for a year, but there were hundreds of familieswho were in want, and it was for these he was pleading. The speaker wasinterrupted repeatedly, but he kept his place and continued to talkuntil the mob became silent and listened out of mere curiosity. "You cannever hold an army of hungry men together, " said the speaker; "you can'tfight gold with a famine. The company, we are told, has already lost amillion dollars. What of it? You forget that it has been making millionsannually for the past ten years. What have we been making? Lots ofmoney, I'll admit, but none of it has been saved. The company is rich, the brotherhoods are bankrupt. From the remotest corners of the countrycomes the cry of men weary of paying assessments to support us inidleness. To-day some sort of settlement might be made--to-morrow it maybe too late. "

At this juncture the mob howled the speaker down again. Men climbed overbenches to get at the "traitor. " A man who had been persuaded to leavethe company, and who had been taken into the order only the day before, tried to strike the engineer in the face. In the midst of theexcitement, George Cowels of the Fireman's Brotherhood leaped upon theplatform and at sight of him and the sound of his powerful voice therioters became quiet. 

"I think, " he began slowly to show how easy it was for a truly greatleader to keep cool in the hottest of the fight, "I think I can explainthe action of the last speaker. "

Here he paused and looked down into the frank face of Dan Moran andcontinued:

"Mr. Moran, as many of you know, has one of the best runs on the road. He has had it for a good many years and he loathes to leave it. Bydenying himself the luxury of a cigar and never taking a drink he hasmanaged to save up some money. He is a money-getter--a money-saver andit hurts him to be idle. I have been firing for him for five years andin all that time he has never been the man to say: 'Come, George, let'shave a drink or a cigar. ' Now I propose that we chip in and pay Mr. DanMoran his little four dollars a day. Let us fight this fight to afinish. Let there be no retreat until the proud banner of ourBrotherhood waves above the blackened ruins of the once powerfulBurlington route. Down with all traitors: on with the fight. "

At the conclusion of this speech the audience went wild. When order hadbeen partially restored a vote was taken, when it was shown thatseven-eighths of the men were in favor of continuing the strike. 

The engineers had really been spoiled by success. At the last annualconvention they had voted to exterminate the classification system, andhad passed a law making it impossible for the head of the organizationto make any settlement that included a continuation of classification. The scalps of the Atchison, the Alton, the Louisville and Nashville, anda number of other strong companies dangled at the belt of the big chiefof the Engineers' Brotherhood. These were all won by diplomacy, but themen did not know it. They believed that the show of strength had awedthe railway officials of the country and that the railway labororganizations were invincible. A little easing off by the Brotherhood, and a little forbearance on the part of the management might, at thestart, have averted the great struggle; but when once war had beendeclared the generals on both sides had no choice but to fight it out toa finish. 

CHAPTER FOURTH

"Can you spare me a little money, George?" asked Mrs. Cowels, adjustingher last year's coat. 

"What do you want of money?"

"Well--it's Christmas eve, and I thought we ought to have something forBennie. He has been asking me all evening what I expected from SantaClaus, never hinting, of course, that he expected anything. "

"Well, here's a dollar. "

Mrs. Cowels took the money and went over to the little store. 

There were so many things to choose from that she found it difficult tomake a selection. Finally she paid a quarter for a tin whistle and twobunches of noise--that was for the boy. With the remaining seventy-fivecents she bought a pair of gloves for her husband. 

"Anybody been here to-day?" asked Cowels of his wife when she came backfrom the store. 

"Yes, Mr. Squeesum, secretary of the Benevolent Building Association, was here to see you about the last two payments which are over-due, onthe house. "

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him that we had no money. "

"What did he say?"

"He said that was very strange, as the Brotherhoods were pouringthousands of dollars into Chicago to aid the strikers. What becomes ofall this money, George? You never seem to get any of it. "

"We pour it out again, " said Cowels, "to the army of engine-men who arecoming here from the Reading and everywhere to take our places. We hirethem--buy them off--bribe them, to prevent them from taking service withthe company, and yet it seems there is no end to the supply. For everyman we secure the company brings a score, and we are losing ground. Members of the Brotherhood everywhere are growing weary of the longstruggle. They have good jobs and object to paying from six to twelvedollars a month to support the strikers. Some have even refused to payassessments and have surrendered their charters. Anybody else here?"

"Yes, a man named Hawkins. He wanted room and board. "

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him we had never kept roomers or boarders, but he said he likedthe place--for me to speak to you, and he would call again. "

"Huh! he must like the place. Well, I guess we can get along some way, "said Cowels, and then he sat and looked into the fire for a whilewithout saying anything. When Mrs. Cowels had put the baby down she cameand sat near her husband and they began to discuss the future. They hadbought their little home a year and a half ago for twelve hundreddollars. They had lived economically and had been able to reduce thedebt to six hundred dollars. But when the strike came they were unableto keep up the payments and now the association had begun to push them. If they did not pay within the next thirty days the real estate companywith the soft sounding title would foreclose the mortgage. When they hadtalked this all over, Mrs. Cowels proposed that they take the strangerin, but her husband objected. "I didn't want to tell you, George, " saidthe brave little woman, "but there was another caller. The grocer andbutcher was here this morning and we can get no more meat or groceriesuntil we pay. He is a poor man, you know, and he can't keep up thefamilies of all the strikers. I didn't want to worry you with this, George, but since you are opposed to me helping by taking a lodger Iwill tell you that something must be done. "

Cowels lighted a fresh cigar. That was the third one since supper. Theycost all the way from two to five cents apiece, but Mrs. Cowels knewthat he was worried about lodge matters and if she thought anythingabout it at all, she probably reasoned that it was a good thing to beable to smoke and forget. 

"I made the speech of my life to-day, " said the striker, brushing theashes lightly from his cigar. "The hall was packed and the fellows stoodup on their chairs and yelled. One fellow shouted, 'Three cheers for thenext Grand Master, ' and the gang threw up their hats and hollered till Ithought they'd gone wild. Nora, if there was a convention to-morrow I'dwin, hands down. "

Mrs. Cowels smiled faintly, for to her way of thinking there were otherthings as important as her husband's election to the position of GrandMaster of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen, and she changed thesubject. Presently the door-bell sounded, so loud and piercing that thesound of it waked the baby. The man who had pulled the bell knew at oncethat he had made no mistake. He had noticed when he called that morningthat the bell upon the door had once done service in the cab of alocomotive, and had made a note of the fact. While Mrs. Cowels hushedthe baby her husband answered the bell and when Mr. Hawkins gave hisname and made his wants known, Cowels told him shortly that they did notkeep lodgers. He knew that, he said, and that was one of the reasons whyhe was so anxious to come, but Cowels, who liked to show his authorityat all times, shut the door, and the stranger was not taken in. 

That night when the orator was dreaming that he had been chosen GrandMaster of the Brotherhood, his wife stole out of the room and put thethings in Bennie's sock, and then, just to please Bennie, she put arubber rattle in the baby's little stocking. Her husband, being a greatthinker, would not consent to having his hosiery hung up, so she wouldwait till breakfast time and hide the gloves under his plate. Then shewent over to tuck the cover in around Bennie. He was smiling--dreaming, doubtless, of red sleds and firecrackers--and his mother smiled, too, and kissed him and went back to bed. 

CHAPTER FIFTH

It was a rough, raw, Chicago day. The snow came in spurts, cold andcutting from the north and the scantily dressed strikers were obliged todance about and beat their hands to keep warm. Special mounted policewere riding up and down the streets that paralleled the Burlingtontracks, and ugly looking armed deputies were everywhere in evidence. Theforced quiet that pervaded the opposing armies served only to increasethe anxiety of the observing. Every man who had any direct interest inthe contest seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. 

At ten o'clock the strike was to be extended to all connecting lines, the switching yards and stock yards. When the hour arrived the switchmenthrew up their caps and quit. Now the different companies made an effortto replace the strikers and trouble commenced. The deputies, who hadbeen aching to get a whack at the strikers for countless cursings whichthey had received, now used their guns unmercifully upon the unprotectedheads of the men, and the police, who disliked and refused to associatewith the deputies, used their clubs upon all who resisted them. Byeleven o'clock the whole city was in a state of riot and men bruised andbleeding were loaded into wagons and hurried away until the jails werefilled with criminals, bums, deputies and strikers. The police courtswere constantly grinding out justice, or decisions intended to take theplace of justice. Mothers were often seen begging the magistrates torelease their boys and wives praying for the pardon of their husbands. These prayers were often unanswered and the poor women were forced toreturn to a lonely home, to an empty cupboard and a cold hearth. 

In the midst of the rioting on this wild day came Patsy Daly strollingup the track singing:

 "_Always together in sunshine and rain Facing the weather atop o' th' train. Watching the meadows move under the stars Always together atop o' th' cars. _"

"Hello! there!" came from a box car. 

"Hello to you, " said Patsy as he turned out to see what the fellow wasin for. "Now, what the divil you doin' caged up in this car?"

"I'm hidin' from the strikers, " said the man, peeping cautiously out. 

"Faith, and I'm one of them myself, " says Patsy, "and I suppose you'reafter takin' my place, ye spalpeen; I have a right to swat your face foryou, so I have. "

"You couldn't do it if I was opposed, " said the stranger opening thedoor. 

"Oh! couldn't I? then let yourself drop to the ground till I take alittle of the conceit out of you. "

"No, I won't fight you, " said the man, "I like your face and I want youto help me out. "

"And I like your nerve; now, what's your pleasure? Have you beenworking in this strike?"

"I started to work this morning only to get something to eat on. "

"Are you a railroad man?"

"I'm a switchman. I was foreman in the yards at Buffalo, had a scrapwith the yard-master who had boasted that he would not have a switchmanhe couldn't curse, an' got fired. "

"Did you lick him?"

"Yes. "

"Good and plenty?"

"Yes. "

"Go on with your story. "

"Well, " said the man, seating himself in the door of the car, "I startedout to get work--had my card from the Union and felt sure of success. Ihad only been married a year, but of course I had to leave my wife inBuffalo until I got located. When I applied for work I was asked forreferences and I had none. I told them where I had worked; they askedme to call later, and I called, only to learn that they didn't need anymore men. This performance was repeated in every town I struck, until Ibegan to believe that I had been blacklisted. In time my money gave out. I wrote to my wife and she sent me money. When that was gone I sent formore, not stopping to think that she had to eat, too, and that I hadgiven her but ten dollars when I left home; but she sent me money. 

"Then there came a time when she could not send me anything; I could notkeep up my dues in the Union, so was expelled. After that I found ithard to get passes. Lots of times I had to steal them, and finally--forthe first time in my life--I stole something to eat. Say, pardner, didyou ever get so hungry that the hunger cramped you like cholera morbus?"

"No. "

"Then I reckon you've never stole, or what's worse, scabbed?"

"No. "

"Well--I've done both, though this is the first time I've scabbed. As Iwas sayin' I got down so low that I had to steal, and then I thought ofmy wife, of how terrible it would be if she should have to steal, ormaybe worse, and the thought of it drove me almost crazy. She was apretty girl when I married her, an orphan only eighteen and I wastwenty-eight. I determined to go home at once, but before I could getout of town I was arrested as a vag and sent up for sixty days. Ithought at that time that my punishment was great, --that the mental andphysical suffering that I endured in the workhouse was all that I couldstand, --but I've seen it beaten since. At last they told me that I couldgo, but that I would be expected to shake the city of Chicago before thesun rose on the following day, and I did. I hung myself up on the trucksof a Pullman on the Lake Shore Limited and landed in Buffalo just beforedawn. As I hurried along the old familiar streets I noticed a crowd ofpeople standing by a narrow canal and stopped to see what the excitementwas. I saw them fish the limp and lifeless form of a woman out of themuddy water and when the moonlight fell upon her face it startled me, for it was so like her face. A moment later I got near enough to seethat the victim was a blonde, and my wife was brunette. Presently I cameto the house where we had lived, but it was closed and dark. I aroused anumber of the neighbors, but none of them knew where the little womanhad gone. 

"'Shure, ' said an old woman who was peddling milk, 'I don't know phereshe's at at all, at all. That big good-fur-nothin' man o' hern has gonealong and deserted of her an' broke the darlint's heart, so 'e 'as an'the end uv it all will be that she'll be afther drownin' 'erself in thecanal beyant wan uv these foine nights. '

"All through the morning I searched the place for her, but not a tracecould I find. It seemed that she had dropped out of the world, utterly, and that no one had missed her. Finally I was so hungry that I begged abite to eat and went down by the canal and fell asleep. Here a strangething happened. I had a dreadful dream. I dreamed that I saw my wifebeing dragged from the dark waters of the canal. She had the same sad, sweet face, but not the same hair. I awoke in a cold sweat. I was nowseized with an irresistible longing to look once more upon the face ofthe dead woman whom I had seen them fish from the foul waters thatmorning, and I set out for the morgue. I entered unnoticed and there laythe dead woman with her white hands folded upon her dead breast. She hadthe same sad, sweet face, but not the same hair, but it was she--it wasmy wife. "

The vag let his head fall so that his eyes rested upon the ground. Patsyfished something from his vest and holding it out to the man, said:"Here's a one-dollar bill and a three-dollar meal ticket--which will youhave?"

"Gi' me the pie-card. "

"Which shows you're not a regular bum, " said Patsy. 

"No, " said the man, eyeing the meal ticket with its twenty-one unpunchedholes. "I never cared for liquor, only once in a while when a bum makesa lift I take a nip just to stop the awful gnawing, cramping pain ofhunger, but it only makes you feel worse afterwards. But it'sinteresting, " said the tramp, thoughtfully. "If it were not for thehunger and cold this new life that I have dropped into wouldn't be halfbad. You get a closer glimpse of the miseries of mankind and a betternotion of the causes that bring it all about. It educates you. Now takethis fight for instance. You fellows feel sure of success, but I knowbetter. Only two men of all the vast army of strikers have deserted sofar, but wait. Wait till the pain of hunger hits you and doubles you uplike a jack-knife, and it's sure to come. Behind the management thereare merciless millions of money: behind the strikers the gaunt wolf ofhunger stalks in the snow. Can you beat a game like that? Never. Andafter all what right have you and your people to expect mercy at thehands of organized capital? Does the Union show mercy to men like me? Toescape the blight of the black-list I changed my name. Three times Ifound work, but in each instance the company were forced to discharge meor have a strike. I was not a Union man and so had to steal a ride outof town. Once I asked a farmer for work and he set me to digging postholes and every time a man came by I hid myself in the grass. 'What youhidin' fur?' the farmer asked. Then I told him that I didn't belong tothe Union. 

"'What Union?' says he. 

"'The post-hole Union' says I--'in fact, I don't belong to any Union. '

"'They ain't no post-hole Union, ' says the farmer indignantly, 'an' youknow it. What you're givin' me is hog-wash--you've been stealin'. Here'sa quarter fur what you've done--now git. '

"I tried to reason with him, but he only shook his thick head and beganwhistling for his dog, and I got. Yes, pardner, it seems to me that thetyranny of organized capital and the tyranny of organized labor areclose competitors, and in their wake come the twin curses--theblack-list and the boycot. Hand in hand they go, like red liquor andcrime. But you can't right these wrongs the way you're headed now, " saidthe philosopher. "Everything is against you. Wealth works wonders. Thepress, the telephone through which the public talks back to itself, ishoarse with the repetition of the story of your wrong-doings. Until theGovernment puts a limit to the abuses of trusts and monopolies, andorganized labor has learned that there are other interests which haverights under the Constitution, there will be no peace on earth, no goodwill toward man. When the trusts are controlled, and labor submits itsgrievances to an impartial, unbiased board of arbitration, then therewill be peace and plenty. The wages that you are now losing and themoney squandered by vulgar and ignorant leaders, will then be used inbuilding up and beautifying homes. The time thrown away in uselessagitation and in idleness will be spent for the intellectual advancementof working men, and the millions of money lost in wrecked railroads willfind its way to the pockets of honest investors. "

While this lecture, which interested Patsy, was being delivered the twomen had become oblivious of their surroundings, but now the wild cry ofa mob in a neighboring street, the rattle of sticks and stones and theoccasional bark of a six-shooter brought them back to the businessbefore them. 

Wave after wave the rioters rolled against the little band of officers, but like billows that break upon a stony shore they were forced to rollback again. Like the naked minions of Montezuma, who hurled themselvesagainst the armored army of the Spaniards, the strikers and theirabetters were invariably beaten back with bruised heads and brokenbones. If a luckless striker fell he was trampled upon by the horses ofthe mounted police or kicked into unconsciousness by the desperatedeputies. 

"Can you get me out of this so I can have a go at this pie-card?" askedthe man. 

"Yas, " said Patsy, leaping into the car. "Skin off your coat. "

When the two men had exchanged coats and caps the vag strolled leisurelydown the track and in a little while Patsy followed. He had not gonethree cars before the mob saw him and with the cry of "The scab! thescab!" sent a shower of sticks and stones after the flying brakeman. Arock struck Patsy on the head and he fell to the ground. The cap, whichhe had worn well over his eyes, fell off, and he was recognized by oneof the strikers before his ribs could be kicked in. "Begad, " said theleader of the mob, "it's the singin' brakeman. Th' bum have robbed 'imuv 'es clothes an' giv' us the slip, " and they picked Patsy up andcarried him away to the hospital. 

CHAPTER SIXTH

Three kinds of meetings were held by the strikers. Public meetings, opento everybody, union meetings, open to any member of the severalorganizations engaged in the strike, and secret sessions held by thevarious Brotherhoods, to which only members of that particular orderwere admitted. 

Many things were said and done at these secret sessions that were neverprinted, or even mentioned outside the lodge-room, save when a detectivehappened to be a member, or when a member happened to be a detective. 

At one of these meetings, held by the striking firemen, the head of thatorganization startled the audience with the declaration that the strikewas going to end disastrously for the strikers. In fact, he said, thestrike was already lost. They were beaten. The only point to bedetermined was as to the extent of the thrashing. This red rag, flung inthe faces of the "war faction, " called forth hisses and hoots from theno-surrender element. A number of men were on their feet instantly, butnone with the eloquence, or even the lung power to shut the chief off. Many of the outraged members glanced over at Cowels, who always sat nearthe little platform at the end of the hall in order that he might notkeep his admirers waiting when they called for a speech. The greatestconfusion prevailed during the address of the head of the house. Cowels, the recognized leader of the war party, sat silently in his place, though frequently called upon to defend the fighters. As their chiefwent on telling them of the inevitable ruin that awaited the strikers, the more noisy began to accuse him of selling them out. One man wantedto know what he got for the job, but the master, feeling secure in thathe was doing his duty, gave no heed to what his traducers were saying. Amid all the turmoil Cowels sat so quietly that some of the moresuspicious began to guess, audibly, that he was "in with the play. " Butthere was no play, and if there had been Cowels would not have been inwith it. Cowels was thinking. Suddenly he leaped upon his chair andyelled: "Throw 'im out!" He did not use the finger of scorn upon themaster, or even look in his direction. He merely glared at the audienceand commanded it to "Throw 'im out!"

"We are fighting a losing fight, " repeated the chief, "and you who fighthardest here will be first to fall, " and he looked at Cowels as hespoke. "It could not be pleasant to me, even with your respectfulattention, to break this news to you. I do it because it is my duty. Butnow, having said what I had to say, let me assure you that if a majorityof you elect to continue the fight, I will lead you, and I promise thatevery man of you shall have his fill. "

This last declaration was rather a cooler for Cowels. It took a vastamount of wind out of his sails, but he was on his feet and so had tomake a speech. He was not very abusive, but managed to make it plainthat there were others ready and able to lead if their leader failed todo his duty. When he had succeeded in getting his train of thought outover the switches his hearers, especially the no-surrenderers, began toenthuse. His speech was made picturesque by the introduction of shortrhymes, misquotations from dead poets, and tales that had never beentold in type. "If, " he exclaimed dramatically, "to use a Shakesperiansimile, the galled wench be jaded, let him surrender his sword to someone worthy of the steel. "

The orator worked the Shakesperian pedal so hard that some of hishearers expressed a desire to know more about the distinguished poet. Finally, when he became too deep for them, a man with a strong clearvoice shouted a single word--the name of a little animal whose departurefrom a sinking ship makes sailors seek the shore--and Cowels closed likea snuff-box. 

Now the casual observer would say of the great orator: he has money; hisfamily is not in want. But the statement would have been incorrect. 

The Cowelses, like hundreds of other families, were without money, without credit, and would shortly be without food. The last money theyhad received from the Brotherhood had gone to pay the interest on themoney due the Benevolent Building Association, for fuel, and to pay themilkman who was bringing milk for the baby. It would be forty or fiftydays before another assessment could be made and the money collected. The outlook was gloomy. Mr. Hawkins had called again and offered tendollars a month for the little spare room on the second floor, butCowels would not consent. 

But at the very moment when he was making this speech his wife wasreturning empty-handed from the bakery. Bennie had been watching, waiting at the window for her, and when she saw him staring at her, sawthe tears come into his innocent eyes, she took him in her arms and weptas she had not wept before. They had breakfasted on bread and water. Itwas now past noon and they were all hungry. She gave Bennie some of thebaby's milk, and then sat down to think. The door-bell rung. "I was justpassing by, " said Mr. Hawkins, "and thought I'd stop and see if therewas any show to get that room. I work for the plumber in the next block, so you see it would be handy for me. "

"Would you pay in advance?" asked Mrs. Cowels. 

"I shouldn't mind, " said the plumber, "if it would be of any advantageto you. "

"Then you can have the room. "

"Very well, " said the man, apparently delighted with his bargain, and hegave her a crisp ten-dollar note. He also gave Bennie a big, red apple, and looked surprised when the boy began to bite great chunks out of it. 

That evening when Cowels came home he found the house filled with thefumes of boiled beef, and it put him in a good humor at once. He washungry, having had nothing all day but a glass of beer and a free lunch. 

"They's a man up-stairs, " said Bennie, shoving his empty plate up foranother load of boiled beef. Mrs. Cowels smiled a faint smile, and herhusband asked:

"Who is this fellow?"

"He's a plumber, " was the reply, "and he seems like a very nice man. "

"Did he pay a month in advance?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I don't like the idea of having strangers in the house, " saidCowels, "and I wish you had not taken him in. "

"I dislike it too, George, " said Mrs. Cowels, "but the baker had refusedme a loaf of bread, the children were hungry and you might as well knownow that I can never see my babies suffer for want of food, and youneed not be surprised at anything I may do to supply their wants. "

Cowels had never seen his wife display so much spirit and it surprisedhim. "It's all very well, " she went on, "to prate about honor andloyalty to the Brotherhood, but an obligation that entails the sufferingof innocent women and children is not an honorable obligation and oughtnot to exist. A man's first duty is to his family. My advice to youwould be to miss a few meetings and go and try to find something to do. Think how we have denied ourselves in order to have a place of our own, and now it's all to be taken from us, and all because of this senselessand profitless strike. "

"By George, she's a cracker-jack!" said Hawkins, who had been listeningdown the stove-pipe. 

Cowels made no reply to his wife, but he was thinking. In fact, he hadbeen thinking all the way home. He had been interrupted twice that daywhile addressing the meeting. One fellow had asked who the devilShakespeare was, and if he had ever done anything for the Union. Anotherman had said "rats, " and the orator was sore. 

Now, when he had thought it all over, he surprised his wife as much asshe had surprised him. "They're all a lot of unliterate ingrates, " saidCowels, "and for two cents I'd shake the whole show and go to work. Ifthey turn me down at the convention, and this strike is not settled, I'll take an engine. "

Mr. Hawkins gave a low whistle. 

"No, you must never do that, George, after all you've said against suchthings; it would not do. "

"Then they must not drive me to it, " said Cowels. "I've tried to showthem the way to success, even to lead them, and they have the nerve toguy me. I'll fool 'em yet if they trifle with me. "

"That's what I thought all along, " mused Hawkins. "It was not theBrotherhood that Mr. Cowels was working so hard for, but Mr. Cowels. Well, he will be just as eager to succeed in another direction--he'sambitious. "

CHAPTER SEVENTH

The great strike, like a receding sea, revealed heaps of queer wreckage. Men who had once been respected by their fellows, but who had drifteddown the river of vice now came to claim the attention of the strikersor the company. Most conspicuous among them was drunken Bill Greene. Three months ago he would have been kicked out of a company sectionhouse or passed by a Brotherhood man without a nod. Then he was "OldBill;" now they called him Billy. 

In his palmy days he had wooed, and won the heart of Maggie Crogan, apretty waitress in the railway eating-house at Zero Junction. Maggie wasbarely eighteen then, a strawberry blonde with a sunny smile and aperpetual blush. In less than a year he had broken her heart, wreckedher life and sent her adrift in the night. His only excuse was that hewas madly in love with Nora Kelly, but Nora, having heard the story ofMaggie's miserable life, turned her back on Greene and married GeorgeCowels, then a young apprentice in the shops. Inasmuch as it was aboutthe only commendable thing he ever did, it should be put to Greene'scredit that he did really love Nora Kelly; but, being a coward with aninherited thirst, he took to drink the day she turned him down; and now, after a few wasted years he and Maggie--old red-headed Mag they calledher--had drifted together, pooled their sorrows and often tried to drownthem in the same can of beer. She worked, when she worked at all, atcleaning coaches. He borrowed her salary and bought drink with it. Oncehe proposed marriage, and ended by beating her because she laughed athim. 

Before the strike he had been forced to keep sober four days out of aweek. Now he was comfortably tanked at all times. He had been amachinist and round-house foreman, and the company saw in him a fair"emergency" engineer, and was constantly watching for an opportunity totry him on one of the fast express trains. 

At last he was called to take out a passenger run. The round-houseforeman had gone personally to fetch "Billy" from the bar-room near theGrand Pacific where he was waiting for a Brotherhood man to drop in andbuy him a drink. When told that he was wanted to take out the Pacificexpress, the bum straightened up, hitched his suspenderless trousers andasked: "Who're you?"

"I'm the foreman; come and have a bite o' breakfast and let's be off. "

"Well--folks gen'ly drink afore they eat--come on, le's have a horn. Here, bar-keep, give us a couple o' slugs. "

"Got any dough?"

"Now don't git gay--I'm goin' down to take me run out--here's meforeman. "

"But you must not drink, " broke in the official, "when you are going outon an express train. "

"What?"

"You must not drink. "

"Then I don't work. Th' Brotherhood 'll pay me four dollars a day to sitright here and keep three gages an' a flutter in the stack--go on withyer damn ol' railroad--"

"Come now, Billy, " pleaded the foreman, "this is an opportunity--"

"Billy! Month ago Stonaker's nigger threw me down the steps. "

"Give 'm a drink, " said the foreman, and the bar-keeper set out twoglasses and a large red bottle. While the foreman's back was turned andthe bar-man waited upon another customer, Billy did the honors. Hefilled both glasses and had emptied one when the foreman, havingunearthed a quarter, turned and remarked to the liquor man that he didnot drink. The man was in the act of removing the glass when Billygrabbed it, and with a quick crook of his elbow pitched the whiskey downhis neck. 

"Now will you go and eat?"

"Naw--go t' work, " said Greene, hitching up his trousers. 

Off they went together, but at every saloon (and there are dozens ofthem in Chicago), the new engineer of the Pacific express insisted upondrinking. By hard coaxing the foreman had succeeded in passing three orfour of them when they were met by a couple of strikers. 

"Hello Billy, " said one of the men. "Where you goin'?"

"Goin' t' take me run out, " said Greene, with another hitch. 

"Now you fellows break away, " said the foreman, for the strikers hadturned and were walking with the others. 

"Reckon you don't own the sidewalk, do you?" said one of the men, andthe foreman was silent. 

"Didn't think you'd shake us like this Billy, " began the striker. "Weintended to take you into the order to-day an' end up with a good bigblow-out to-night. It's all right Billy. You go out on your run andwhen you get in come round to the Pacific an' we'll square you with theboys. "

"An' we'll have a bowl together, eh?" said Billy, for the liquor wasbeginning to make him happy. 

The foreman was white with rage, but he was powerless. 

"You bet we will, Billy, " said the man who had done the talking. 

"Hur--what's this, boss?"

"Come along now, " urged the foreman, tugging at Billy's arm. 

"Never run by a tank, " said Billy, setting the air and coming to a deadstall at the open door of a beer saloon. The silent striker had enteredthe saloon, the other paused in the door, looked back, nodded and asked:"Have something, Billy, b'fore you go?"

"Will I?" cried Billy, as he twisted from the foreman's grasp. 

"Police--here--officer!" cried the foreman, and when the copper came hefound Billy just swallowing his second straight. 

"Here, " said the foreman, excitedly, "I want you to arrest these men. "

"Better get a warrant first, " said one of the strikers coolly. "Wesimply came in here to have a drink, " he explained to the officer. 

"Phat's th' row hier, Tony?" asked the policeman. 

"Th' ain't no row as I can see, " said the bar-keeper, "these gents is'aving a quiet drink w'en 'ees nibs there pips in an' calls fer a cop. "

"This is one of our engineers, " explained the foreman, "and I was on theway to the station with him when these strikers took him away. "

"Begad, he's a bute, " said the officer, folding his arms over his amplestomach and gazing with mirthful curiosity at the bum. 

"Now, ye's fellies must not interfere with men as wants to make anhonest living--let th' ingineer go t' 'is ingine, " and he gave Billy ashove that sent him into the arms of the waiting foreman. 

"What's it _to_ you, " shouted the angry engine-driver, "who wants towork--who said I wanted t' make a' honest livin'?--Go t' 'ell, " and hestruck the foreman in the face. 

"Here! Here!!" cried the officer, seizing the fighter, "you'll go towork or go to jail, " and Billy went away between the copper and theforeman with his wheels sliding. 

After much coaxing and cursing by the foreman, who was often asked tocome out in the alley and settle it, Billy was loaded into an enginecab. While the foreman was selecting a fireman from the hard-lookingherd of applicants sent down from the office of the master-mechanic, thegentle warmth of the boiler-head put Billy to sleep. It was a sound, andapparently dreamless sleep, from which he did not wake the while theyrolled him from the engine, loaded him into a hurry-up wagon andcarried him away to the cooler. 

When he had sobered up Greene went to the round-house and offered hisservices to the company, but the foreman would not talk to him. FinallyGreene became abusive, and the foreman kicked him out of the round-houseand across the turntable. From that day Greene was a striker, and a verytroublesome one. 

CHAPTER EIGHTH

Two weeks had passed when the Philosopher met Patsy, now in deepdisgrace. Patsy had been expelled from the Brotherhood for aiding ascab. "O! it's nothing, " said Patsy. 

"That's right. It won't be worth much to belong to the Union when thiscruel war is over. "

"Only a fellow hates to get the worst of it when he really tries to totefair. "

"The best you can get is the worst of it when you are bound by oath toan organization that is engaged in a hopeless fight. The presidentoffered yesterday to take back seventy-five per cent. Of the men, andimmediately they said he was running. This morning the offer is forsixty per cent. , but they won't have it. Have they offered to balm youwith promotion?"

"Yes. "

"Varnished cars, eh?"

"Yep--finest train on the road. "

"And you told them?--"

"No. "

"Well, I think you did right. Shall we go and peck?"

"Have you been working?"

"No. I've been vag'd. When the police got through with me, and returnedmy pie-card I turned it in for a commutation ticket, and there are stilla few feeds to the good on it. The commutation ticket is the proper cardfor a gentleman in straitened circumstances. You are not obliged togorge yourself at early morn with a whole twenty-cent breakfast when allyou really need is a cup of black coffee and a roll. Besides, when a manis not working he should not eat so much. I frequently edge in with acrowd of other gentlemen and procure a nice warm lunch at one of thebeer saloons, omitting the beer. By the way, the free lunch room is agood place for the study of human nature. There you will see the poorworking man fish up his last five cents to pay for a beer in order toget a hot lunch, and if you look closely, spot a two-by-four-shopkeeper, for instance, as he enters the front door, and keep your eye on himuntil he goes out again, you will observe that he hasn't lost a cent. Alittle dark man who runs a three-ball in La Salle Street makes abusiness of this, and of loaning money at fifty per cent. And seems tobe doing quite well. "

When they had reached a "Kohlsaat" the two men sat down, or up, and whenthey had finished Patsy paid for the meal. 

"If you see a man who has wood to saw or a piano to tune or anythingthat isn't scabbin' I wish you'd give me a character and get me thejob, " said the Philosopher when they had reached the sidewalk. 

"You follow my smoke, " said Patsy, after a moment's meditation, and hestrolled down the crowded street, turning and twisting through themultitude like a man trying to lose a dog, but he couldn't lose thePhilosopher. Presently he stepped in front of a big building, waited forhis companion, and they went in together. 

"Mr. Stonaker, " said Patsy when he had been admitted to the generalmanager's private office, "I have a favor to ask. I want you to give afriend of mine a job. He's a switchman, and a good trainman, but he willnot take the place of a striker. "

"Can you vouch for his honesty, Patsy?" asked the official. 

"I think I can. "

"Very well, we want a reliable watchman here in the building; bring yourfriend in. "

When the Philosopher had been informed as to his new duties, and learnedthat he was to have charge of the entire building, he asked if Patsy hadgiven his history. 

"I have vouched for you, " said Patsy, a little embarrassed. 

The general manager pressed a button and when the stenographer came ininstructed him to take the man's personal record, in accordance with awell-known rule. This information is intended chiefly as a guide to themanagement in notifying the relatives or friends of an employee in caseof accident or death. The manager did the questioning and when the manhad given his name and declared that he had no relatives, no home, nofriends--except Patsy--the official showed some surprise and asked:

"Where did you work last?"

"In the workhouse. "

"When?" queried the general manager, casting a quick glance at Patsy, who was growing nervous. 

"'Bout a year ago now. "

"At what particular place have you lived or lodged since that time?"

"In jail. "

"What were you in jail for?"

"Stealing a meal-ticket, this coat and cap from Patsy. "

"I gave the things to him, sir, " said Patsy, "and he was discharged. "

"Where have you been living since you left the workhouse?"

"In the streets and in the fields. "

"Do you drink?"

"No, sir. "

"Do you mean to tell me that an experienced yardman, strong andintelligent as you appear to be, can sink so low without being adrunkard?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And you have been foreman in the Buffalo yards? What else have youbeen?"

"A Union man, tramp, bum, vag, thief, and a scab. "

"Huh!" said the general manager, pushing out his lips, "is this yournotion of a reliable man, Patsy?"

"Yes, sir, I still vouch for him. "

The general manager looked puzzled. "But you could hardly expect me toemploy, in a responsible position, a self-confessed criminal?"

"And yet, " said the Philosopher, "if I had lied to you I might havegained a good place, but having told the truth I suppose I must go. "

The general manager, who had left his seat, began to pace the floor. 

"It may be possible for an honest man to be a tramp--even a vag, but whydid you steal?"

"For the same reason that I took the place of a striker the otherday--because I was hungry, " said the Philosopher looking the generalmanager full in the face. 

"But what brought you to this condition? that's what I want to know, "said the official earnestly. "And if you can explain that, you can havethe place, provided you really want to reform. "

"I'm not so anxious to reform, " said the Philosopher. "What I want is ashow to earn an honest living, and let the balance of the world reform. But if you want to know what brought me to my present condition I cantell you--this is the instrument. " And the man lifted from the manager'sdesk a slip of paper, full of names, across the top of which was printed"Black List. "

"It's the blight of the black-list that is upon me, sir, and it gives mepleasure to be able to present to you a sample of the class of citizensyou and your associates are turning out, " said the Philosopher with muchfeeling, and he turned to go. 

"Stay, " said Patsy. "Mr. Stonaker, you told me yesterday that if I everneeded your assistance in any way to make my wants known. "

"And do you still vouch for this man?"

"I do. "

"Very well, then--he can have the place!"

CHAPTER NINTH

Mr. Hawkins had been in his new lodgings nearly a week and hadfrequently discussed the strike with the great labor leader, when hemade bold one evening to state that he had no use for the Brotherhoodand that he had it from inside sources that a number of the oldengineers were going to return to work, and that the strike would soonbe a thing of the past, as would the comfortable jobs that the strikershad left. 

Cowels, of course, was indignant, but he was interested. Mr. Hawkins hadexpected as much. 

"I'm going out firing myself, " he went on, "and I'm promised promotionas soon as I can start and stop. If I had your experience and yourability, generally, I could get the best run on the road with a cinch ona job as M. M. At the first opening. A good man who goes to thecompany's rescue now won't want for anything. If he's hard up he canget all the money he needs--that is a few hundred at least--advanced tohim. "

Cowels listened attentively. 

Mr. Hawkins lighted a fresh ten-cent cigar and gave one to his landlord. 

"Of course, it's different with you, " resumed the lodger, "you own yourhome and have saved your money, perhaps, but a whole lot of the strikersare being pinched and they're going to weaken. They'll be cursed alittle bit by the Brotherhood, but the public is dead against thestrikers--read the Chicago papers to-day. "

"But the papers are owned body and soul by the Burlington, " said Cowels. 

"Well, what do you fellows own? That only shows which is the winningside. You take my advice and let go while you've got plenty. "

"Plenty?" echoed Cowels. "Do you suppose I'd take a stranger into myhome--do you think for a minute that I would sit here and let you talkto me as you have done if I could help myself? Plenty! I'm a beggar. "

Hawkins knew that, but he expressed surprise. When they had smoked insilence for a while the plumber handed an unsealed letter to hislandlord and watched his face closely as he read it. 

The letter was from one of the Burlington officials and it statedplainly that the bearer was empowered to make terms with the gentlemanaddressed looking to his return to the service of the company. 

Mr. Cowels was very indignant, at first, but finally consented todiscuss the matter. Mr. Hawkins was very cool, explaining that it madeno difference with him one way or the other. The official happened to bea personal friend of his and had trusted him with this commission. "Ifyou ask my advice, " said the plumber, "I should say take whatever theyoffer and go to work. No man can hold out against such odds for anygreat length of time; sooner or later you will be as hard up as therest, your wife will be in need of the actual necessaries of life, yourchildren will be crying for food, and how can you answer them if you letthis opportunity pass? To-morrow, I am told, is to be the last day ofgrace, so you might better heel yourself and let the Brotherhood walkthe floor for a while. The probabilities are that the strike will simplybe declared off, the old employees to be taken back only as theirservices are required, and as new men. Every day that passes adds to thestrength of the company. Labor organizations, like bands of Indians, areever at each other's throats. When the Knights of Labor struck on theReading those haughty aristocrats of the working world, the Engineers'Brotherhood, took their places, and now the Knights of Labor engineersare coming here in carload lots to fill the cabs of the Burlington. Ifthe engineers were offered their old places back to-day they would boltfor the round-house nor cast one longing, lingering look for their oldfriends. Finally, when the strike is settled it will be by theengineers. If it is to be declared off, the unconditional surrender ofall the forces will be made by them. If the terms of settlement suitthem, your followers will take their medicine and look pleasant. Bringthe matter nearer home, --to your own experience. You have given yourtime, neglected your family, and worked unceasingly for the advancementof the cause. Your eloquence, your genius and your influence have heldthe men in line when they have wavered and would have broken, and whathas your own order done for you, and what will it do at the comingconvention? They have guyed you in public and they will throw you downhard when the time comes. It's nothing to me, only I hate to see a goodman turned down. I dislike to see real talent and personal worth wastedupon a lot of loud-mouthed, uneducated coyotes who don't know whoShakespeare is. You're too big a man, Cowels, that's the trouble;you're out of your sphere. When you are master-mechanic, with your handsfull of promotions, they will look up to you, and it is all within easyreach. If you will report for duty to-morrow morning you can go out onBlackwings to-morrow night, with the Denver Limited, the finest train inthe West, behind you. The best run on the road will be the meanestposition you will ever be asked to fill. But I must say no more, for Idon't want to persuade you to take a step which you might regret inafter years. I only ask you to think it over to-night and choose betweenwhat you call loyalty to the Brotherhood, and your plain duty to yourfamily--Good-night. "

Hawkins possessed, in a remarkable degree, the rare faculty of knowinghow and when to let go. 

When Cowels had made the foregoing facts known to his wife, she wasgreatly surprised that he would entertain such a proposition for thesmallest fraction of a second, for she had always regarded him as thesoul of honor, and wholly unselfish. Now each pondered in silence overthe proposition. From her point of view it was a choice between theBrotherhood and her home. Between temporary disgrace for her husband, and hunger for her children, and she was not long in making up her mind. The baby had been without milk that day. It had gone to bed hungry forthe first time in its life, and the thought of it made her desperate. 

To Cowels's way of reasoning it was simply a question of choice betweenthe position of master of the Brotherhood and master-mechanic. Which wasnearest, and which would last longest and pay best? These were thepoints he was considering, and he chose what appeared to him to be thesurest and quickest way. To be sure, he suffered not a little at thethought of deserting his comrades, but his personal ambition andselfishness helped him to determine to report on the following morning, and to go out with the fast express behind him on the following night. He tried not to think of the Brotherhood, and to fashion to himself theglory of success, of fast runs with Blackwings, and future promotion. 

CHAPTER TENTH

The night winds moaned among the empty freight cars. The arc lampshummed and sputtered, making the flying frost look like diamond dustdropping from the grinding stars. Out of a shadowy alley a bent mancrept, crouching under the snow-hung eaves. Far down the track, at acrossing, the man saw the flash of a helmet and the glint of brassbuttons, and dodged among the cars. The man had committed no crimeagainst the law, but he was willing to, and so avoided the silentguardian of the peace, pacing his beat. Beyond the track he came to thestreet door of a two-story building, struck a match, read the number onthe transom, and entered the hall. At the top of the first flight ofstairs a door stood open. Beneath a gas jet in the open room Dan Moransat reading a book. He had heard the unsteady footsteps on the stair, but had not allowed them to disturb him. Now the prowler paused, steadied himself against the door-jamb, coughed, hiccoughed, hello'd ina whisper, and Moran looked up. 

"Well, Greene, " said Dan, "what brings you abroad on a night like this?"

"Business!" was the half-whispered reply, "Business, ol' man. "

Now the rum-crazed rambler left the door, put a trembling hand on thetable in the centre of the room, glanced back toward the stairs, andpeered into the face of the old engineer. "We are betrayed!" hewhispered, leaning heavily upon the stand. His wrist shook violently, causing the table to quiver. The smoking outfit upon the table made alow, rumbling noise. "What's that?" he asked, glaring about. 

Having satisfied himself that all was right he put both hands upon thetable, and gazing again into the face of Moran, repeated: "We arebetrayed. Cowels is goin' out with Blackwings on the Denver Limitedto-morrow night. The plumber told the foreman an hour ago--I heard 'im. Least they think he's goin', but he ain't. He's goin' to--"

"Oh, Greene, you're drunk. Go home and have a good sleep. "

"Home! Did you say home? I ain't got no home. Drunk? Yes, I been drunklots o' times, but I ain't drunk now. Honest, I ain't teched a dropto-day. Got a bot about you, ol' man? Say, if you have, fur th' love o'life gimme a drop--half a drop--Dan, I'm all afire inside. "

It was an awful picture that Moran looked upon now. The bloated face, the sunken, blood-shot eyes, the blazing, hideous nose, burning in theiron-gray stubble, all topped by a shock of tousled, unkempt hair, madea picture horrible in the extreme. 

"Say!" Greene began again, glancing toward the door, "meet me at seventhirty to-morrow night, on the 'rep' track near the round-house, an'I'll show you a trick. "

"What sort of trick will you show me?"

With another look over his shoulder at the door the drunkard leanedover the table and whispered. When the old engineer had gathered whatthe man had said he got to his feet, took his midnight caller by thecollar and lead him to the top of the stairs. Greene was opposed toleaving the cheerful room, so Moran was obliged to go with him to thestreet door. Having put the wreck out into the frosty night the engineerwent back to his book. But he could not read. That awful face into whichhe had looked, and the black soul that he had seen as well, haunted him. He sat with his feet upon the table and smoked pipe after pipe, in avain effort to drive the frightful picture from his mind. The news thatGreene had brought disturbed him also. His fireman was going to desertthe Brotherhood, and take their old engine out. 

Blackwings! How he loved that locomotive, and how absurd it seemed nowfor a man to become so attached to a mere machine! But she was notinanimate. She lived, moved, breathed. How often, as they swept beneaththe stars of an autumn night, had he felt her hot breath upon his face, heard the steel singing beneath her feet and felt her tremble, responsive to his lightest touch. How wild and free and glad she hadseemed, let loose in the moonlight with the Limited behind her. Howgracefully, easily, she lifted the huge, vestibuled train from swale toswell. How she always passed station after station on the tick of theclock, keeping to the time-card, unvarying as the sun. Proud andqueenly, yet gentle, she always answered the signals of the lessfortunate locomotives that stood panting on the side tracks, with theirheavy loads. Even the Meteor, the engine that wore white flags andpulled the president's private car, always took the siding and salutedBlackwings as she swept by majestically with the Limited. 

More than once Moran had refused promotion that would take him from hisengine--from the open fields and free, wide world in which they livedand moved together--to the cares and anxieties of a stuffy office. Hehad been contented and happy with Blackwings, his books and hisbriar-root pipe. He did not share the troubles of his less fortunatebrothers, who hugged and exaggerated their grievances until they became, to them, unbearable. But when they quit he climbed down, took off hisoverclothes, folded them carefully and carried them away with him. Hehad nothing to gain by the strike, but he had much to lose by remainingat his post--the confidence and respect of his fellow-toilers. Besideshe, in common with the rest, regarded the classification of engineers asunfair to the men and to the travelling public. If a man were competentto handle a passenger train, said the strikers, he ought to havefirst-class pay. If he were incompetent he ought to be taken off, forthousands of lives were in the hands of the engineer during the threeyears through which, at reduced pay, he was becoming competent. Thesewere the arguments advanced by the men. This business upon the one hand, and a deep longing upon the part of the management to learn just how farthe men could go in the way of dictating to the officials, in fixing theload for a locomotive, and the pay of employees, caused the company, after years of sparing, to undertake the chastisement of the Brotherhoodof Locomotive Engineers. [3]

[3] _The Burlington officials claim that, by resolutions in the lodgeroom at Lincoln, the engineers fixed the load for certain classes ofengines, together with the penalty for pulling more. They argue that ifallowed to do this the men would want to make the time-cards and fixfreight rates. They certainly had as much right to do the one as theother. _

It is to be presumed that the generals, colonels and captains in the twoarmies fought for what they considered right. At all events they wereloyal and obedient to their superiors. But each had found a foe vastlymore formidable than had been expected. They had not dreamed that thefight could become so bitter. Life-long friends became enemies. Familyties were severed, homes were ruined, men's lives were wrecked, women'shearts were broken, and out of the shadow of the awful strife came menfit for murder. It was these things that had kept Dan Moran awake farinto the morning. 

Presently he heard a whistle, opened his eyes, looked at his watch andthen undressed and went to bed, while other workmen, more happilysituated, passed under his window on the way to work. 

CHAPTER ELEVENTH

"Brush the snow off the headlight!"

"What?"

"Brush the snow off the headlight!"

It was the first time the engineer had spoken to the fireman since theyleft Chicago. When they crossed the last switch and left the lights ofthe city behind them he had settled down in his place, his eyes, with asort of dazed look in them, fixed upon the front window. The snow wasdriving from the north-west so hard that it was impossible for theengineer, even when running slowly through the country towns, to put hishead outside the cab, and now they were falling out into the night atthe rate of a mile a minute. 

It was Barney Guerin's first trip as a fireman. He was almost exhaustedby the honest effort he had been making to keep the engine hot, and nowhe looked at the engineer in mingled surprise and horror. He could notbelieve that the man expected him to go out over the wet and slipperyrunning-board to the pilot and wipe the snow from the headlight glass. He stood and stared so long that the fire burned low and the pointer onthe steam gauge went back five pounds. For the next two or three minuteshe busied himself at the furnace door, and when he finally straightenedup, half-blinded by the awful glare of the fire-box, half-dazed by beingthrown and beaten against the sides of the coal tank, the engineer said:

"Brush the snow off the _headlight_!"

The fireman opened the narrow door in front of him and the storm came inso furiously that he involuntarily closed it again. Again he tried andagain was beaten back by the wind. Pulling his cap tight down he facedabout and stepped out with his back to the storm. Holding to the handrailing he worked his way to the front end. One sweep of his gloved handswept the snow away and the great glare of the headlight flashed up thetrack. 

"My God! how she rolls!" exclaimed the engineer. 

And she did roll. 

Never before in the history of the road had the Denver Limited beenentrusted to a green crew, for the engineer was also making his maidentrip. The day coach was almost empty. In the chair car, with four chairsturned together, the newly-made conductor, the head brakeman, a countryeditor, and the detective sent out to spot the crew, played high five. The three or four passengers in the sleeper were not asleep. They weresitting silently at the curtained windows and occasionally castinganxious glances at the Pullman conductor who seemed to be expectingsomething to happen. Where were all the people who used to travel bythis splendid train? The road was now considered, by most people, asunsafe and the people were going round it. Public opinion, at thebeginning of the strike, was about equally divided between the men andthe company. Now and then a reckless striker or sympathizer would blowup a building, dope a locomotive or ditch a train, and the stock of thestrikers would go down in the estimation of the public. Burlington stockwas falling rapidly--the property was being wrecked. 

On nearly every side track could be seen two or three dead engines thathad been ruined and abandoned by amateur engine-drivers, and now andthen at way-stations the smouldering ruins of a freight train, whoseblackened skeleton still clung to the warped and twisted track. At everystation great crowds of people blocked the platforms, for the Limitedhad not been able to leave Chicago for more than a month. The engineerhad scarcely touched the whistle, deeming it safer to slip quietlythrough the night, and the light train was now speeding noiselessly overthe snow-muffled earth. They had left Chicago two hours late, and asthey had a clear track, so far as other trains were concerned, theyoung driver was letting her go regardless of danger. At any moment theymight expect to be blown into eternity, and it was just as safe atseventy miles an hour as at seventeen. 

Besides, George Cowels was desperate. For five long years he had firedthis run with the same locomotive. He knew all her tricks and whims, herspeed and power, and the road was as familiar to him as was his mother'sface. He knew where the "old man" used to cut her back and ease off onthe down grades. He knew that he ought to do the same, but he did not. "Let her roll, " he would say to himself; and she did roll, and withevery swing the bell sounded a single note, low and mournful, like achurch bell tolling for the dead. It seemed to the unhappy engineer thatit tolled for him, for that day he had died to all his friends. 

Although he had only been out a little over an hour now, he knew that inthat hour the story of his desertion had flashed out to every divisionof the various brotherhoods in the United States, Canada and Mexico, andthat a hundred thousand men and women would curse him that night beforethey slept. He recollected what a vigorous striker he had been in thebeginning, how he had shouted, "Put him out" when the grand master hadsaid: "We are fighting a losing fight. " He recalled with some bitternessthat their leader had looked him straight in the face when he added:"And you who fight hardest here will be first to fall. "

Then the face of his ten-year-old boy rose up before him, as it hadappeared from the street as he was leaving his home that evening, allbruised and bleeding, with soiled and torn clothes, and he heard thebrave child's explanation: "Mamma, I wouldn't 'ave fit, but Dugan's boysaid my papa was a scab. "[4]

[4] _The reader must pardon the use of this vulgar word, for we must useit here or spoil this story. _

Ordinarily it would require a great deal of "sand" to enable a man totake out a train of this kind and run at such a high rate of speedthrough a country full of anarchy, but in Cowels's case it requirednothing in the way of bravery. The great sacrifice he had made inabandoning all that he held to be honorable, --the breaking of his vow, the violation of his oath, had left him utterly indifferent to personaldanger. 

It will be difficult for those unacquainted with the vast army of dailytoilers to appreciate the sufferings of this youthful engine-driver. Aking, who in a night's debauch loses an empire, loses no more than theman who abandons all that he holds sacred. The struggles anddisappointments of the poor mean as much to them as similar sorrows meanto the rich. The heart of a Bohemian milkmaid beats as wildly, aches assorely and breaks as surely as does the heart of the proudest princess. This man and his wife, on the day they abandoned the cause of hiscomrades--of the Brotherhood of which he had been so proud, of whosestrength he had boasted in many a crowded hall--made a great sacrifice. To stand disgraced in their little world was to be disgraced before allthe people of all the earth, for in that world were the only people theyknew and cared about. 

When the fireman returned to the cab he was almost overcome with terror. More than once, as he worked his way along the side of the rolling, plunging engine, he had nearly been dashed to death. The very machine, he fancied, was striving to shake him from her. Once he had lost hisfooting on the running board and only saved himself by clinging to thehand rail while the rolling steed beat and thrashed him against her ironside. 

"Never ask me to do that again, " he shouted, as he shook his clenchedfist at the engineer. The latter laughed, then asked:

"Why?"

"Because it is dangerous; I nearly lost my life. "

"And what if you had?" said the engineer, and he laughed again. "Why, don't you know that thousands would rejoice at the news of your deathand scarcely a man would mourn? Don't you know that at thousands ofsupper-tables to-night, working men who could afford to buy an eveningpaper read your name and cursed you before their wives and children?Nearly lost your life! Poor, miserable, contemptible scab. "

"Never apply that name to me again!" shouted Guerin, and this time itwas not his fist but the coal-pick he shoved up into the very face ofthe engineer. 

"Why?"

"Because it is dangerous; you nearly lost _your_ life. "

The engineer made no reply. 

"And what if you had?" the fireman went on, for it was his turn to talknow. 

"If my action makes me contemptible in the eyes of men, how much morecontemptible must yours make you? I take the place of a stranger--youthe place of a friend; a man who has educated you, who has taught youall you know about this machine. Right well I know how I shall be hatedby the dynamiters who are blowing up bridges and burning cars, and Itell you now that it does not grieve me. Can you say as much? Here's acopy of the message that went out to your miserable little worldto-night--read it, it will do you good. I fancy your friends will be toobusy cursing you this evening to devote any time to mere strangers. "

Cowels took the message with a jerk, turned the gauge lamp to his cornerand read:

 The Denver Limited left to-night, two hours late, Fireman George Cowels as engineer, and Time-keeper Guerin as fireman. Cowels is the man who wanted the grand master thrown out of a hall in Chicago. He was a great labor agitator and his desertion is a great surprise. 

 HOGAN. 

 _Later_--It is now understood that Cowels, the scab who went out on engine Blackwings to-night, was bought outright by a Burlington detective. This fact makes his action all the more contemptible. He is now being burned in effigy on the lake front, and the police are busy trying to keep an infuriated mob from raiding and burning his house. The action of Guerin was no surprise, as he was employed in the office of the master-mechanic, and has always been regarded as a company man--almost as an official. 

 HOGAN. 

Guerin, having put in a fresh fire, stood watching the face of hiscompanion, and when the engineer crumpled the message in his hand andground his teeth together the fireman shoved another message under thenose of the unhappy man. This message was on the same subject, but fromquite another source, and varied slightly from those we have just read. 

 OFFICIAL BULLETIN: _Burlington Route_

 The Denver Limited went out on time to-night with a reasonably well-filled train, Engineer Cowels in the cab. Mr. Cowels has been many years in the service of the company and is highly esteemed by the officials. Although he was, for a time, a prominent striker, he saw the folly of further resistance on the part of the employees, and this morning came to the company's office and begged to be allowed to return to his old run, which request was granted. Cowels is a thoroughly competent engineer and has been on this same run for five years, and up to the time of the strike had never missed a trip. It is expected that his return to his engine will be the signal for a general stampede. The company has generously agreed to reïnstate all old employees (unless guilty of some lawless act) who return before noon to-morrow. 

 STONAKER. 

It would be difficult to say which of these dispatches distressed himmost. The first said he had sold himself for so much money, the secondthat he had gone to the company and begged to be reïnstated. Slowly heopened the first crumpled message and read down to the word "scab. ""George Cowels, the scab, --burned in effigy--a great mob about hishouse. " All these things passed swiftly before him, and the thought ofhis wife and baby being in actual danger, his boy being kicked andcuffed about, almost made him mad. He crushed the crumpled messages inhis right hand while with his left he pulled the throttle wide open. Thepowerful Blackwings, built to make time with ten cars loaded, leapedforward like a frightened deer. The speed of the train was now terrific, and the stations, miles apart, brushed by them like telegraph poles. AtMendota a crowd of men hurled sticks and stones at the flying train. Asthe stones hailed into the cab, and the broken glass rained over him, the desperate driver never so much as glanced to either side, but heldhis place, his hand on the throttle and his eye on the track. For thefirst time he looked at his watch. He was still more than an hour late. He remembered how the old engineer had said, an hundred times perhaps:"George, an express train should never be late; she should be on time orin the ditch. "

It was the first time Blackwings had ever been an hour late anywhere, and with all his greater sorrows this grieved the young engineer. Now atthe way stations the crowd that awaited them invariably fell back as thewild train dashed by, or, if they hurled their missiles, those aimed atthe locomotive struck the sleeper or flew across the track behind it, sogreat was the speed of the train. Cowels yielded at last to theirresistible desire to see how his companion was taking it, but as hebent his gaze in that direction it encountered the grinning face of thefireman, into which he threw the crumpled paper. Then, as he continuedto grin, the infuriated engineer grabbed a hard-hammer and hurled itmurderously at Guerin's head. The latter saved his life by a cleverdodge, and springing to the driver's side caught him by the back of theneck and shoved his head out at the window and held it there. They werejust at that moment descending a long grade down which the most daringdriver always ran with a closed throttle. Blackwings was wide open, andnow she appeared to be simply rolling and falling through space. Although we have no way of knowing how fast she fell, it is safe to sayshe was making ninety miles an hour. While the fireman held on to theengineer, squeezing and shaking away at the back of his neck, the speedof the train was increasing with every turn of the wheels. Gradually theresistance of the engineer grew feebler until all at once he droppedacross the arm-rest, limp and lifeless. Guerin, finding himself aloneon the flying engine, had presence of mind enough to close the throttle, but with that his knowledge of the locomotive ended. He reasoned that intime she must run down and stop of herself, and then the train crewwould come forward and relieve his embarrassment. It never occurred tohim for a moment that he might be regarded as a murderer, for he hadonly held the engineer down to the seat, with no more violence than boysuse toward each other in play. And while he stood staring at the stillform of the driver that hung out of the window like a pair of wetoveralls, the engine rolled, the snow drifted deeper and deeper on theheadlight, and with every roll the bell tolled! tolled!! like a churchbell tolling for the dead. The train, slowing down, rolled silently overthe shrouded earth, the fire in the open furnace blackened and died, thecold air chilled her flues and the stream of water from the openinjector flooded the boiler of Blackwings and put the death-rattle inher throat. When at last the train rolled slowly into Galesburg thefireman stood on the deck of a dead locomotive, with snow on herheadlight, and, as the crowd surged round him, pointed to the limp formof the young engineer that hung in the window, dead. 

CHAPTER TWELFTH

Judge Meyer's court was crowded when the three big policemen, formedlike a football team, wedged their way into the building. In the centreof the "A" walked the prisoner, handcuffed and chained like a murderer. When they had arrived in front of the judge and the officers steppedback they left the prisoner exposed to the gaze of the spectators. Standing six feet two, strong and erect, he looked as bold and defiantas a Roman warrior, and at sight of him there ran a murmur through thecourt room which was promptly silenced by the judge. 

In response to the usual questions the prisoner said his name was DanMoran, that his occupation was that of a locomotive engineer. He hadbeen in the employ of the Burlington for a quarter of a century--eversince he was fifteen years old--but being one of the strikers he was nowout of employment. 

"You are charged, " said the clerk, "with trespassing upon the propertyof the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad Company, inciting a riot, attempting to blow up a locomotive and threatening the life of theengineer. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, " said the old engine-driver, and as he said this he seemedto grow an inch and looked grander than ever. 

Being asked if he desired counsel the prisoner said he did not, that thewhole matter could be explained by a single witness--an employee of thecompany. 

The company detective and the police officers exchanged glances, thejudge coughed, the crowd of loafers shifted ballast and rested on theother foot. Only the prisoner stood motionless and erect. 

The detective, the first witness for the prosecution, testified that hehad followed the prisoner into the yards from among the freight cars, watched him approach the engine Blackwings and talk with the engineer. He could not make out all that passed, but knew that the men hadquarrelled. He had seen the prisoner stoop down and fumble about theair-pump on the engineer's side of the engine. He then rose and as hemoved off made some threat against the life of the engineer and about"ditching" the train. 

Being asked to repeat this important part of his testimony, the witnessadmitted that he could not repeat the threat exactly, but he waspositive that the prisoner had threatened the life of the engineer ofthe Denver Limited. He was positive that the last words uttered by theprisoner as he left the engine were these: "This train, by this time, ought to be in the ditch. " The witness followed the statement with theexplanation that the train was then nearly two hours late. "This, " saidthe witness, still addressing the court, "was found in the prisoner'sinside coat pocket, " and he held up a murderous looking stick ofdynamite. After landing the would-be dynamiter safely in jail thedetective had hastened back to the locomotive, which was then about tostart out on her perilous run, and had found a part of the fuse, whichhad been broken, attached to the air brake apparatus. This he exhibited, also, and showed that the piece of fuse found on the engine fitted thepiece still on the dynamite. 

It looked like a clear case of intent to kill somebody, and even theprisoner's friends began to believe him guilty. Three other witnesseswere called for the prosecution. The company's most trusted detective, and a Watchem man testified that the prisoner had, up to now, borne agood reputation. He had been one of the least noisy of the strikers andhad often assisted the police in protecting the company's property. Themaster-mechanic under whom Dan Moran had worked as a locomotive engineerfor twenty years took the stand and said, with something like tears inhis voice, that Dan _had been_ one of the best men on the road. Beingquestioned by the company's attorney he gave it as his opinion that nodynamite was attached to the air-pump of Blackwings when she crossed thetable, and that if it was there at all it must have been put there afterthe engine was coupled on to the Denver Limited. Then he spoiled allthis and shocked the prosecuting attorney by expressing the belief thatthere must be some mistake. 

"Do you mean to say that you disbelieve this gentleman, who, at the riskof his life, arrested this ruffian and prevented murder?" the lawyerdemanded. 

"I mean to say, " said the old man slowly, "that I don't believe Dan putthe dynamite on the engine. "

When the master-mechanic had been excused and was passing out Dan putout his hand--both hands in fact, for they were chained together--andthe company's officer shook the manacled hands of the prisoner andhurried on. 

When the prosecution had finished, the prisoner was asked to name thewitness upon whom he relied. 

"George Cowels, " said the accused, and there ran through the audienceanother murmur, the judge frowned, and the standing committee shiftedback to the other foot. 

"Your Honor, please, " said the attorney rising, "we are only wastingtime with this incorrigible criminal. He must know that George Cowels isdead for he undoubtedly had some hand in the murder, and now to show youthat he had not, he has the temerity to stand up here and pretend toknow nothing whatever about the death of the engineer. I must say that, quiet and gentle as he is, he is a cunning villain to try to throw dustin the eyes of the people by pretending to be ignorant of Cowels'sdeath. I submit, your Honor, there is no use in wasting time with thisman, and we ask that he be held without bail, to await the action of thegrand jury. "

Dan Moran appeared to pay little or no attention to what the lawyer wassaying, for the news of Cowels's death had been a great shock to him. The fact that he had been locked up over night and then brought from thejail to the court in a closed van might have accounted for his ignoranceof Cowels's death, but no one appeared to think of that. But now, finding himself at the open door of a prison, with a strong chain ofcircumstantial evidence wound about him, he began to show some interestin what was going on. 

The judge, having adjusted his glasses, and opened and closed a fewbooks that lay on his desk, was about to pronounce sentence when theprisoner asked to be allowed to make a statement. 

This the attorney for the company objected to as a waste of time, for hewas satisfied of the prisoner's guilt, but the judge over-ruled theobjection and the prisoner testified. 

He admitted having had the dynamite in his pocket when arrested, butsaid he had taken it from the engine to prevent its exploding andwrecking the locomotive. He said he had quarrelled with the engineer ofBlackwings at first, but later they came to an understanding. He thengave the young runner some fatherly advice, and started to leave when hewas arrested. 

Although he told his story in a straightforward honest way, it was, uponthe face of it, so inconsistent that even the loafers, changing feetagain, pitied the prisoner and many of them actually left the roombefore the judge could pronounce sentence. Moran was held, of course, and sent to jail without bail. He had hosts of friends, but somehow theyall appeared to be busy that evening and only a few called to see him. 

One man, not of the Brotherhood, said to himself that night as he wentto his comfortable bed: "I will not forsake the company, neither will Iforsake Dan Moran until he has been proven guilty. "

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH

While Dan Moran was being examined in Judge Meyer's ill-smelling courtin Chicago a coroner's jury was sitting on the body of the dead engineerat Galesburg. Hundreds of people had been at the station and witnessedthe arrival of the express train that came in with a dead engine, withsnow on her headlight, and a dead engineer hanging out of the window. Hundreds of people could testify that this had happened, but none ofthem knew what had caused the death of the engine-driver. Medicalexperts who were called in to view the body could find no marks ofviolence upon it and, in order to get out of a close place withoutembarrassment, agreed that the engineer had died of heart failure. Thisinformation, having been absorbed by the jury, they gave in a verdict tothat effect. If the doctors had said, "He died for want of breath, " theverdict would no doubt have agreed perfectly with what the doctorssaid. 

After the train had arrived and the coroner was called and had taken thedead man from the engine, Barney Guerin had wandered into a small hotelnear the station and engaged a room for the night. Being the only personon the engine at the time of the engineer's death, Guerin was verynaturally attracting the attention of the railway officials, and callingabout him, unconsciously, all the amateur detectives and newspaperreporters in the place. Fortunately for him, he was arrested, upon awarrant sworn out by the station agent, and lodged in jail before thereporters got at him. Here he was visited by a local lawyer, for thecompany, and instructed to say nothing whatever about the death ofCowels. 

Upon the announcement of the verdict of the coroner's jury the prisonerwas released, and returned to Chicago by the same train that bore theremains of the dead engineer. 

Guerin, whose heart was as big as his body and as tender as a woman's, hastened to the home of his late companion and begged the grief-sickwidow to allow him to be of some service to her. His appearance (she hadknown him by sight) excited her greatly for she knew he had beenarrested as the murderer of her husband. 

The news he brought of the verdict of the coroner's jury, which his verypresence corroborated, quieted her and she began to ask how it had allhappened. 

Guerin began cautiously to explain how the engineer had died, stillremembering the lawyer's advice, but before he had gone a dozen wordsthe poor woman wept so bitterly that he was obliged to discontinue thesad story. 

Then came the corpse, borne by a few faithful friends--some of theBrotherhood and some of the railway company--who met thus on neutralground and in the awful presence of death forgot their feud. Not an eyewas dry while the little company stood about as the mother and boy bentover the coffin and poured out their grief, and the little girl, not oldenough to understand, but old enough to weep, clung and sobbed at hermother's side. 

The next day they came again and carried Cowels away and buried him inthe new and thinly settled side of the grave-yard, where the lots werenot too high, and where for nearly four years their second son, a babyboy, had slept alone. Another day came and the men who had mixed theirtears at the engineer's grave passed one another without a nod ofrecognition, and, figuratively speaking, stood again to their respectiveguns. 

One man had been greatly missed at the funeral, and the recollectionthat he had been greatly wronged by the dead man did not excuse him inthe eyes of the widow. Dan Moran had been a brother, a father, everything to her husband and now when he was needed most, he came notat all. Death, she reasoned, should level all differences and he shouldforgive all and come to her and the children in their distress. At theend of a week this letter came:

 _County Jail, ---- 1888. _

 _My dear Mrs. Cowels_:

 _Every day since George's death I have wanted to write you to assure you of my innocence and of my sympathy for you in this the hour of your sorrow. These are dreadful times. Be brave, and believe me_

 _Your friend, _ _Dan Moran. _

This letter, and the information it contained, was as great a surpriseto Mrs. Cowels as the news of Cowels's death had been to Moran. Shebegan at the beginning and read it carefully over again, as women alwaysdo. She determined to go at once to the jail. She was shrewd enough tosay "Yes" when asked if the prisoner were related in any way to her, andwas shortly in the presence of the alleged dynamiter. She did not findhim walking the floor impatiently, or lying idly on his back countingthe cracks in the wall, but seated upon his narrow bed with a bookresting on his cocked-up knees, for, unlike most railway employees, Moran was a great reader. 

"I'm glad to see you, Mrs. Cowels, " he said in his easy, quiet way, ashe arose and took her hand, "but sorry we are compelled to meet undersuch melancholy circumstances. "

At sight of their old friend her woman's heart sent forth a fresh floodof tears, and for some moments they stood thus with heads bowed insilent grief. 

"I'm sorry I can't offer you a chair, " said the prisoner after she hadraised her head and dried her eyes. "This only chair I have is wrecked, but if you don't mind the iron couch--" and then they sat down side byside and began to talk over the sad events of the past week. 

"Your presence here is a great surprise, " began Moran, "and a greatpleasure as well, for it leads me to hope that you believe meinnocent. "

"How could I believe you otherwise, for I do not know now of what youare accused, nor did I know, until I received your note, that you wereimprisoned. "

"But the papers have been full of--"

"Perhaps, " she said interrupting him, "but I have not looked at a papersince I read of the death of George. "

Here she broke down again and sobbed so that the guard outside the cellturned his back; and the old engineer, growing nervous, a thing unusualfor him, decided to scold her. 

"You must brace up now, Nora, --Mrs. Cowels, and close your sand valve. You've got a heavy load and a bad rail, and you mustn't waste water inthis way. "

"Oh! I shall never be able to do it, Dan, I shall die--I don't want tolive and I shall die. "

"You'll do nothing of the sort--women don't die so easy; thousands ofothers, not half as brave as you are, have made the same run, hard as itseems, and have come in on time. There are few sorrows that time willnot heal. Engine-men are born to die, and their wives to weep over themand live on--you will not die. "

"But I--I _shall_ die, " sobbed the woman. 

Before he could reply the door opened and an elderly man, plainly, butcomfortably dressed, stood before them. 

Moran gave his hand to the newcomer in silence and it was taken insilence; then, turning to the veiled figure he said: "Mrs. Cowels, thisis our master-mechanic. "

When the visitor had taken her hand and assured her of his sympathy, Moran asked them to be seated, and standing before them said:

"Mrs. Cowels has just asked me why I am here, and I was at the point ofreplying when you came in. Now, with your permission I will tell her, for I am afraid, my friend, that you did not quite understand me thatday in court. I am charged with trespassing upon the property of theChicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad Company, inciting a riot(although there was no riot), attempting to blow up Blackwings andthreatening to kill George Cowels. "

"Oh! how could they say such dreadful things?" said Mrs. Cowels, "and Isuppose that you were not even on the company's ground!"

"Oh yes, I was. I went to the engine, and quarrelled with George, justas the detective said I did, but we only quarrelled for a moment becauseGeorge could not know why I came. "

"But you did not threaten to kill George?" said the woman excitedly. 

"No. "

"Tell me, Dan, " said the master-mechanic, "had you that stick ofdynamite when the detective arrested you? Tell us truly, for you aretalking to friends. "

"There is something about the dynamite that I may not explain, but Iwill say this to you, my friends, that I went to the engine, not to killCowels, but to save his life, and I believe I did save it, for a fewhours at least. "

Mrs. Cowels looked at the man, who still kept his seat on the narrowbed, as though she wished him to speak. 

"Dan, " he began, "I don't believe you put that dynamite on the engine; Ihave said so, and if I don't prove it I am to be dismissed. Thatconclusion was reached to-day at a meeting of the directors of the road. I have been accused of sympathy with the strikers, it seems, before, andnow, after the statement by the attorney that I used my influence tohave you discharged after he had made out a clear case against you, Ihave been informed by the general manager that I will be expected toprove your innocence or look for another place. 

"I have been with the Burlington all my life and don't want to leavethem, particularly in this way, but it is on your account, more than onmy own, that I have come here to-night to ask you to tell the wholetruth about this matter and go from this place a free man. "

"To do that I must become an informer, the result of which would be toput another in my place. No, I can't do that; I've nothing to do atpresent and I might as well remain here. "

"And let your old friend here be discharged, if not disgraced?" askedMrs. Cowels. 

"No, that must not be, " said Moran, and he was then silent for a momentas if trying to work out a scheme to prevent that disaster to hismuch-loved superior. "You must let me think it over, " he said, presently. "Let me think it over to-night. "

"And let the guilty one escape, " Mrs. Cowels added. 

"Some people seem to think, " said Moran, with just a faint attempt at asmile, "that the guilty one is quite secure. "

"Don't talk nonsense, Dan, " she said, "you know I believe you. "

"And you, my friend?" he said as he extended his hand to the official. 

"You know what I believe, " said the visitor; "and now good-night--Ishall see you again soon. "

"I hope so, " said Dan. "It is indeed very good of you to call, and ofyou, too, " he added, as he turned to his fairer visitor. "I shall notforget your kindness to me, and only hope that I may be of some help toyou in some way, and do something to show my appreciation of this visitand of your friendship. But, " he added, glancing about him, "one can'tbe of much use to his friends shut up in a hole like this. "

"You can do me a great favor, even while in prison, " she said. 

"Only say what it is and I shall try. "

"Tell us who put the dynamite on Blackwings. "

"I shall try, " he said, "only let me have time to think what is best todo. "

"What is right is what is best to do, " said Mrs. Cowels, holding out herhand--"Good-night. "

"Good-night, " said the prisoner, "come again when you can, both of you. "And the two visitors passed out into the clear, cold night, and when theprisoner had seen them disappear he turned to his little friend, thebook. 

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH

"Mr. Scouping of _The London Times_ would like to see you for a fewminutes, " said the jailor. 

"I don't care to see any newspaper man, " said Moran, closing his book. 

"I knew that, " said the jailor, "but this man is a personal friend ofmine and in all the world there is not his equal in his chosenprofession, and if you will see him just for a few minutes it will be agreat favor to me. I feel confident, Dan, that he can be of service toyou--to the public at least--will you see him?"

The jailor had been extremely kind to the engineer and when he put thematter as a personal request, Moran assented at once and Mr. Scoupingwas ushered in. He was a striking figure with a face that was ratherremarkable. 

"Now, what are you thinking about?" asked the visitor, as Moran held hishand and looked him full in the face. 

"Oh!" said the prisoner, motioning the reporter to a chair which thejailor had just brought in, "I was thinking what a waste of physicalstrength it was for you to spend your time pushing a pencil over a sheetof paper. "

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. What were you thinking about?"

"The trial of the robbers who held up the Denver Limited at Thorough-cutsome eight or ten years ago. You look like the man who gave one of thema black eye, and knocked him from the engine, branding him so that thedetectives could catch him. "

Moran smiled. He had been thinking on precisely the same subject, but, being modest, he did not care to open a discussion of a story of whichhe was the long-forgotten hero. "It strikes me, " said Moran, "as ratherextraordinary that we should both recall the scene at the same time. "

"Not at all, " said the reporter. "The very fact that one of us thoughtof it at the moment when our hands and eyes met would cause the other toremember. "

"Perhaps you reported the case for your paper, that we saw each otherfrom day to day during the long trial, and that I remembered your facefaintly, as you remembered mine. Wouldn't that be a better explanation?"

"No, " said the journalist cheerfully. "I must decline to yield to yourargument, and stick to my decision. What I want to talk to you about, Mr. Moran, is not your own case, save as it may please you, but aboutthe mysterious death of Engineer Cowels. "

"I know less about that, perhaps, than any man living, " said Moranfrankly. 

"But you know the fireman's story?"

"No. "

"Well, he claims that they were running at a maddening rate of speed, that he and the engineer had quarrelled as to their relative positionsin the estimation of the public in general, the strikers in particular. Cowels threw a hammer at the fireman, whereupon Guerin, as he claims, caught the man by the left arm and by the back of the neck and shovedhis head out of the window. The engineer resisted, but Guerin, who issomething of an athlete, held him down and in a few moments the mancollapsed. "

"How fast were they going?"

"Well, that is a question to be settled by experts. How fast willBlackwings go with four cars empty?"

"Ninety miles an hour. "

"How fast would she go, working 'wide open in the first notch, ' as youpeople say, down Zero Hill?"

"She would go in the ditch--she could hardly be expected to hold therail for more than two minutes. "

"But she did hold it. "

"I don't believe it, " said the old driver; "but if she did, she musthave made a hundred miles an hour, and in that case the mystery ofCowels's death is solved--he was drowned. "

"But his clothes were not wet, and he was still in the window when theyreached Galesburg. "

"I do not mean, " said Moran, "that he was drowned in the engine-tank, but in the cab window--in the air. "

"That sounds absurd. "

"Try it, " said the prisoner. "Get aboard of Blackwings, strike thesummit at Zero Hill with her lever hooked back and her throttle wideopen, let a strong man hold your head out at the window, and if shehangs to the rail your successor will have the rare opportunity ofwriting you up. "

"Do you mean that seriously?"

"I do. If what you tell me is true, there can be no shade of doubt as tothe cause of Cowels's death. "

"I believe, " said the reporter, "that you predicted his death, or thatthe train would go in the ditch, did you not?"

"No. "

"I was not present at the examination, but it occurs to me that the manwho claimed to be a detective, and who made the arrest, swore that youhad made such a prediction. "

"Perhaps, " said Moran. "The truth is when that fellow was giving histestimony I was ignorant of Cowels's death, upon whose evidence I hopedto prove that the fellow was lying wilfully, or that he hadmisunderstood me, and later, I was so shocked and surprised at the newsof my old fireman's death that I forgot to make the proper explanationto the magistrate. "

"Why not make that explanation now? These are trying times and men arenot expected to be as guarded in their action as in times of peace. "

"If you hope to learn from me that I had anything to do with Cowels'sdeath, or with the placing of the dynamite upon the locomotive, I amafraid you are wasting your time. Suppose you are an army officer, thepossessor of a splendid horse--one that has carried you through hundredsof battles, but has finally been captured by the enemy. You are fightingto regain possession of the animal with the chances of success andfailure about equally divided, but you have an opportunity, during thebattle, to slay this horse, thereby removing the remotest chance of everhaving it for yourself again, to say nothing of the wickedness of theact, --would you do it?"

"I should say not. "

"And yet, I venture to say, " said the prisoner, "that there is no lovefor a living thing that is not human, to equal the love of a locomotiveengineer for his engine. To say that he would wilfully and maliciouslywreck and ruin the splendid steed of steel that had carried him safelythrough sun and storm is utterly absurd. "

"But what was it, Mr. Moran, that you said about the train going in theditch?"

"I have a little motto of my own, " said the engineer, with his quietsmile, "which makes the delay of an express train inexcusable, and I wasrepeating it to George, as I had done scores of times before. It is thatthere are only two places for an express train; she should either be ontime or in the ditch. It may have been rather reckless advice to a newrunner, but I was feeling a mite reckless myself; but, above all thegrief and disappointments (for the disgrace of my fireman's downfall wasin a measure mine) arose the desire that Blackwings should not bedisgraced; such is the love of the engineer for his engine. "

The old engineer had shown much feeling, more than was usual for him todisplay, while talking about his engine, and the reporter was impressedvery favorably. "This has been most interesting to me, " said thejournalist; "and now I must leave you to your book, or to your bed, "and then the two men shook hands again and parted. 

 * * * * *

It was almost midnight when a closed carriage stopped at the generaloffice of the Burlington Company, and the man who had been representing_The London Times_ stepped out. 

The Philosopher, who was still on duty, touched his cap and led thevisitor to the private office of the general manager. 

"By Jove, Watchem, " said the railway man, advancing to meet his visitor, "I had nearly given you up--what success?"

"Well, " said the great detective, removing his heavy coat, "I have had atalk with Moran. Why, I know that fellow; he is the hero of thecelebrated Thorough-cut train robbery, and he ought to be wearing amedal instead of irons. "

"What! for attempting to blow up an engine?" asked the general manager. 

"He never did it, " said the dark man positively. "He may know who diddo it, but he will not tell, and he ought to be discharged. "

"He will never be until he is proved innocent, " said the railroad man. 

"One of the conditions, " began the detective deliberately, "upon which Itook charge of this business was that I should have absolute control ofall criminal matters and I am going to ask you to instruct theprosecuting attorney's office to bring this man before Judge Meyerto-morrow morning and ask that he be discharged. "

"The prosecuting attorney will never consent, " said the general manager. "He believes the man guilty. "

"And what do I care for his opinion or his prejudice? What does itmatter to the average attorney whether he convicts or acquits, so longas his side wins? Before we proceed further with this discussion, I wantit distinctly understood that Dan Moran shall be released at once. Theonly spark of pleasure that comes into the life of an honest detective, to relieve the endless monotony of punishing the wicked, is the pleasureof freeing those wrongfully accused. Dan Moran is innocent; release himand I will be personally responsible for him and will agree to producehim within twenty-four hours at any time when he may be wanted. "

The general manager was still inclined to hold his ground, but uponbeing assured that the Watchem detective agency would throw the wholebusiness over unless the demands of the chief were acceded to, heyielded, and after a brief conference the two men descended, thePhilosopher closed the offices and went his way. 

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH

Scores of criminals, deputies and strikers were rounded up for a hearingbefore Judge Meyer. So great was the crowd of defendants that littleroom was left for the curious. The first man called was a laborer, afreight handler, whose occupation had gone when the company ceased tohandle freight. The charge against him was a peculiar one. His neighbor, a driver for one of the breweries, owned a cow, which, although she gavean abundance of milk at night, had ceased almost entirely to produce atthe morning milking. The German continued to feed her and she waxed fat, but there was no improvement, and finally it was decided that the cowshould be watched. About four A. M. On the following morning a small mancame and leaned a ladder against the high fence between the driver'sback-yard, and that of the laborer. Then the small man climbed to thetop of the fence, balanced himself carefully, hauled the ladder up andslid it down in the Dutchman's lot. All this was suspicious, but whatthe driver wanted was positive proof, so he choked his dog and remainedquiet until the man had milked the cow and started for the fence. Nowthe bull-dog, being freed from his master's grasp, coupled into theclimber's caboose and hauled him back down the ladder. It was found uponexamination that a rubber hot-water bag, well filled with warm milk, wasdangling from a strap that encircled the man's shoulders, shot-pouchfashion. 

Upon being charged, the man pleaded guilty. At first, he said, he hadonly taken enough milk for the baby, who had been without milk forthirty-six hours. The thought of stealing had not entered his mind untilnear morning of the second night of the baby's fast. They had been upwith the starving child all night, and just before day he had gone intothe back-yard to get some fuel to build a fire, when he heard hisneighbor's cow tramping about in the barn lot, and instantly itoccurred to him that there was milk for the baby; that if he couldprocure only a teacupful, it might save the child's life. He secured aladder and went over the fence, but being dreadfully afraid he had takenbarely enough milk to keep the baby during the day and that night theywere obliged to walk the floor again. It was only a little past midnightwhen he went over the fence for the second time. Upon this occasion hetook more milk, so that he was not obliged to return on the followingnight, but another day brought the same condition of affairs and overthe fence he went, and he continued to go every night, and the babybegan to thrive as it had not done in all its life. 

Finally the food supply began to dwindle, he was idle, and his wife wasunable to do hard work; they had other small children who now began tocry for milk, and the father's heart ached for them and he went over thefence one night prepared to bring all he could get. That day all thechildren had milk, but it was soon gone and then came the friendly nightand the performance at the back fence was repeated. 

Emboldened by success the man had come to regard it as a part of hisdaily or nightly duty to milk his neighbor's cow, but alas! for thewrong-doer there comes a day of reckoning, and it had come at last tothe freight handler. The freight agent who was called as a witnesstestified as to the good character of the man previously, but he was athief. Put to the test it had been proven that he would steal from hisneighbor simply to keep his baby from starving, so he went to theworkhouse, his family went to the poor-house, and the strike went on. 

"If you were to ask who is responsible for this strike, " said thephilosophic tramp to Patsy, "which has left in its wake only waste, want, misery, and even murder, the strikers would answer 'the company';the company, 'the strikers'; and if Congress came in a private car toinvestigate, the men on either side would hide behind one another, likecattle in a storm, and the guilty would escape. The law intends topunish, but the law finds it so hard to locate the real criminals in agreat soulless corporation, or in a conglomeration of organizationswhose aggregate membership reaches into the hundreds of thousands, thatthe blind goddess grows weary, groping in the dark, and finally fallsasleep with the cry of starving children still ringing in her ears. "

Now an officer brought engineer Dan Moran, the alleged dynamiter, intocourt for a special hearing. He wore no manacles, but stood erect in theawful presence of the judge, unfettered and unafraid. 

Mr. Alexander, the lawyer for the strikers, having had a hint from BillyWatchem, the detective, asked that the prisoner be discharged, but theyoung man who had been sent down from the office of the prosecutingattorney, being behind the procession, protested vigorously. In themidst of a burning argument, in which the old engineer was unmercifullyabused, the youthful attorney was interrupted to receive a message fromthe general manager of the Burlington route. Pausing only long enough toread the signature, the orator continued to pour his argument into thecourt until a second messenger arrived with a note from his chief. Itwas brief and he read it: "Let go; the house is falling in on you"; andhe let go. It was a long, hard fall, so he thought he would drop alittle at a time. The court was surprised to see the attorney stop shortin what he doubtless considered the effort of his life, and ask that theprisoner be released on bail. Now the prosecuting attorney glanced atMr. Alexander, but that gentleman was looking the other way. "Does thatproposition meet with the approval of the eminent counsel on the otherside?"

"No, " said the other side. 

"Then will you take the trouble to make your wishes known to the court?"

"No, you will do that for me, " said the eminent counsel, with a coolnessthat was exasperating. "It would be unsafe to shut off such a flow ofeloquence all at once. Ask the court, please, to discharge theprisoner. "

"Never, " said the young lawyer, growing red to the roots of hisperfectly parted hair. The counsel for the defence reached over thetable and flipped the last message toward the lawyer, at the same timeadvising the young man to read it again. Then the young man coughed, theold lawyer laughed, the judge fidgeted on his bench, but he caught theprayer of the youthful attorney, it was answered, and Dan Moran receivedhis freedom. 

"Do you observe how the law operates?" asked the Philosopher, who hadbeen the bearer of the message from the general manager, of Patsy Dalyas they were leaving the court. 

"I must confess, " said Patsy, "that I am utterly unable to understandthese things. Here is a lawyer abusing a man--an honest man atthat--unmercifully, and all of a sudden he asks the court to dischargethe prisoner. It's beyond me. "

"But the side play! Didn't you get on to the message that blackguardreceived? He had a hunch from the prosecuting attorney who had beenhunched by the general manager, who, as I happened to know, wasseverely, but very successfully hunched by Billy Watchem, to the effectthat this man was innocent and must be released. It was the shadow-handof old 'Never Sleep, ' that did the business and set an innocent manfree, and hereafter, when I cuss a copper I'll say a little prayer forthis man whose good deeds are all done in the dark, and thereforecovered up. "

"Thank you, " said Patsy, "I should never have been able to work it outmyself. "

"Well, it is not all worked out yet, " said the Philosopher, "and willnot be until we come up for a final hearing, in a court that isinfallible and unfoolable; and what a lot of surprises are in store forsome people. It is not good to judge, and yet I can't help picturing itall to myself. I see a sleek old sinner, who has gone through this lifeperfectly satisfied with himself, edging his way in and sidling overwhere the sheep are. Then in comes this poor devil who went to jail thismorning--that was his first trip, but the road is easy when you havebeen over it once--and he, having been herding all along with the goats, naturally wanders over that way. Then at the last moment I see the GoodShepherd shooing the sleek old buck over where the goats are andbringing the milk-thief back with him, and I see the look of surprise onthe old gentleman's face as he drops down the 'goat-chute. '"

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH

In time people grew tired of talking and reading about the strike, andmore than one man wished it might end. The strikers wished it too, forhundreds of them were at the point of starvation. The police courts wereconstantly crowded, and often overflowed and filled the morgue. Misery, disappointment, want, and hunger made men commit crimes the very thoughtof which would have caused them to shudder a year ago. One day adesolate looking striker was warming his feet in a cheap saloon when awell-dressed stranger came and sat near him and asked the cause of hismelancholia. 

"I'm a striker, " said the man; "and I have had no breakfast. More thanthat, my wife is hungry at home and she is sick, too. She's been sickever since we buried the baby, three weeks ago. All day yesterday Ibegged for work, but there was nothing for me to do. To-day I havebegged for money to buy medicine and food for her, but I have receivednothing, and now my only hope is that she may be dead when I go hometo-night, empty-handed and hungry. "

The stranger drew his chair yet nearer to that of the miserable man andasked in a low tone why he did not steal. 

"I don't know how, " said the striker, looking his questioner in theface. "I have never stolen anything and I should be caught at my firstattempt. If not, it would only be a question of time, and if I mustbecome a thief to live we might as well all die and have done with it. It'll be easier anyway after she's gone, and that won't be long; shedon't want to live. Away in the dead of night she wakes me praying fordeath. And she used to be about the happiest woman in the world, and oneof the best, but when a mother sits and sees her baby starve and die, itis apt to harden her heart against the people who have been the cause ofit all. I think she has almost ceased to care for me, for of course sheblames me for going out with the strikers, but how's a man to know whatto do? If I could raise the price I think I'd take a couple of doses ofpoison home with me and put an end to our misery. She'd take it in aholy minute. "

"Don't do that, " said the stranger, dabbing a silk handkerchief to hiseyes, one after the other. "And don't steal, for if you do once you willsteal again, and by and by you'll get bolder and do worse. I've heardmen tell how they had begun by lifting a dicer in front of a clothingstore, or stealing a loaf of bread, and ended by committing murder. Theycan't break this way always--brace up. "

The switchman went over to the bar where a couple of non-union men wereshaking dice for the drinks. He recognized one of them as the man whohad taken his place in the yards, but he scarcely blamed him now. Perhaps the fellow had been hungry, and the striker knew too well whatthat meant. Presently, the switchman went back to the stove and beganto button his thin coat up about his throat. 

"I'm dead broke myself, " said the well-dressed stranger, "but I'm goingto help you if you'll let me. "

As the striker stared at the stranger the man took off a sixty-dollarovercoat and hung it over the switchman's arm. "Take it, " he said, "it'sbran new; I just got it from the tailor this morning. Go out and sell itand bring the money to me and I'll help you. "

When the striker had been gone a quarter of an hour the well-dressed manstrolled up to the bar and ordered a cocktail. Fifteen minutes later hetook another drink and went out in front of the saloon. It was coldoutside and after looking anxiously up and down the street thephilanthropist reëntered the beer-shop and warmed himself by the bigstove. At the end of an hour he ordered another dose of nerve food andsat down to think. It began to dawn upon him that he had been "had, " asthe English say. Perhaps this fellow was an impostor, a professionalcrook from New York, and he would sell the overcoat and have riotouspastime upon the proceeds. 

"The wife and baby story was a rank fake--I'm a marine, " said thewell-dressed man taking another drink. It seemed to him that the task ofhelping the needy was a thankless one, and he wished he had the overcoatback again. He had been waiting nearly two hours when the switchman camein. "I had a hard time finding a purchaser, " explained the striker, "andfinally when I did sell it I could only get twelve dollars and they mademe give my name and tell how I came to have such a coat. I suppose theythought I had stolen it and I dare say I looked guilty for it is soembarrassing to try to sell something that really doesn't belong to you, and to feel yourself suspected of having stolen it. "

"And you told them that a gentleman had given the coat to you to sellbecause he was sorry for you?"

"Yes, I gave them a description of you and told them the place. "

"That was right, " said the gentleman, glancing toward the door. "Hereare two dollars; come back here to-morrow and I'll have something morefor you--good-by. " And the philanthropist passed out by a side doorwhich opened on an alley. 

The striker gripped the two-dollar bill hard in his hand and started forthe front door. All thought of hunger had left him now, and he wasthinking only of his starving wife, and wondering what would be best forher to eat. Two or three men in citizens' dress, accompanied by apoliceman, were coming in just as he was going out, but he was lookingat the money and did not notice them. "There goes the thief, " said oneof the men, and an officer laid a heavy hand on the striker's shoulder. The man looked up into the officer's face with amazement, and askedwhat the matter was. 

"Did you sell an overcoat to this gentleman a little while ago?" askedthe policeman. 

"Yes, " said the striker glancing down at the two dollars he still heldin his hand. 

"Und yer sthold dot coats fum mine vindo', " said a stout man shoving hisfist under the switchman's nose. 

"A gentleman gave me the coat in this saloon, " urged the striker. "Why, he was here a moment ago. "

"Ah! dot's too tin, " laughed the tailor, "tak' 'im avay, MeesterBleasman, tak' 'im avay, " and the miserable man was hurried away toprison. 

That night while the switchman sat in a dark cell his young wife laydying of cold and hunger in a fireless room, and when an enterprisingdetective came to search the house for stolen goods on the followingmorning, he found her there stiff and cold. 

Of course no one was to blame in particular, unless it was thewell-dressed gentleman who had "helped" the striker, for no one, inparticular, was responsible for the strike. It may have been the companyand it may have been the brotherhood, or both, but you can't put arailroad company or a brotherhood in jail. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH

Mr. Watchem's plumber, as might have been expected, had the good tasteto leave his modest lodgings after the downfall and death of hislandlord, and now the widow was left alone with her two children. Shewas a gentle soul, who had always been esteemed by her neighbors, butsince her husband's desertion to the enemy, she had been shamefullyslighted. One would have thought that her present helpless conditionwould have shielded her from such slights, but it did not. 

A few dollars still remained from the last rent money received from theplumber, who always paid in advance, and upon this she lived for a weekor more after the death of her husband. She wondered how long it wouldbe before the Benevolent Building Association would sell the house, andthen how long before they would put her and the children into thestreet. Upon visiting the undertaker she was surprised to learn thatall the expenses of her husband's funeral had been paid. It must havebeen done by the company, since, having left the Brotherhood, herhusband could have had no claim upon the organization. Well, she wasglad it was paid, for the road that led into the future was rough anduncertain. 

One evening, when the baby had gone to sleep and the lone widow wasstriving to entertain little Bennie, and at the same time to hide hertears from him, for he had been asking strange questions about hisfather's death, the bell rang and two of the neighbors came in. Theywere striking firemen and she knew them well. One of the men handed hera large envelope with an enormous seal upon it. She opened the letterand found a note addressed to her and read it:

 _Dear Mrs. Cowels:_

 _Although your husband had deserted us, he had not been expelled, but was still a member in good standing at the moment of his death, and therefore legally entitled to the benefits of the order. For your sake I am glad that it is so, and I take pleasure in handing you a cheque for two thousand dollars, the amount of his insurance, less the amount paid by the local lodge for funeral expenses. _

 _Very truly yours_, EUGENE V. DEBSON, _Grand Secretary and Treasurer_. 

She thanked them as well as she could and the men tried to say it wasall right, but they were awkward and embarrassed and after a fewcommonplace remarks withdrew. 

Mrs. Cowels sat for a long while looking at the cheque, turning it overand reading the figures aloud to Bennie and explaining to him what anenormous amount of money it was. And what a load had thus been liftedfrom the slender shoulders of this lone woman! Now she could pay off themortgage and have nearly fourteen hundred dollars left. It seemed to herthat that amount ought to keep them almost for a lifetime. This relief, coming so unexpectedly, had made her forget for the moment her greatsorrow. She even smiled when telling Bennie how very rich they were, butwhen the boy looked up, with tears swimming in his big, blue eyes, andsaid, through the sobs that almost choked him: "But I'd ruther have papaback again, " it pierced her heart and made the old wound bleed anew. 

Patsy Daly and his friend, the Philosopher, were at that momentapproaching the Cowels's house where they lodged--they were room-matesnow. They had seen the two men leaving the house, and having caughtsight of the lonely woman and her child, stood looking beneath thewindow shade upon the pathetic scene. When they saw the officialenvelope, with the big, red seal, they readily guessed the errand of themen, for they knew the rules and ways of the Brotherhood, and that thedead engineer's family was entitled to the insurance upon his life. They saw the little mother smiling upon her boy, saw him turn a tearfulface up to hers, and the change that came, and the look of anguish uponthe unhappy woman's face touched them deeply. "O God!" said thePhilosopher, laying a hand upon the shoulder of his friend, "if it betrue that we, who are so wicked, must suffer for our sins, it ispleasant to feel that these martyrs--the millions of mothers whosehearts are torn in this world--will have a pleasant place in the worldto come. "

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH

Mr. Watchem, chief of the famous Watchem detective agency, was pacinghis private office. He was a heavy man with heavy features and a heavy, dark mustache, at which he tugged vigorously as he walked. In his lefthand he carried a dozen or more sheets of closely written note paper. Presently the door opened, and a small man, slightly stooped, enteredand removed his hat. 

"Is this your report, sir?" asked the chief. 

The man said it was. 

"And can you substantiate these charges? Mind you, if an innocent mansuffers I shall hold you accountable, do you understand?"

"I understand, and I am willing to swear to that statement. "

"Have the men been arrested?"

"They have, and are now on their way to Chicago. "

"They will probably be arraigned to-morrow morning, " observed the greatdetective. 

"See that your witnesses are on hand--you may go now. "

When the small man had stolen softly out, down the stair and into thestreet, the chief detective descended, entered a closed carriage and wasdriven to his home. 

It was now past midnight, and all over the city printers were setting upthe story of the arrest of a number of dynamiters on a Burlington train. The wires were singing it across the country, and cables were carryingto the ends of the earth the story of the disgrace and downfall of theBrotherhood. 

The headquarters of the strikers were crowded with a host of anxiousmen, unwilling to believe that their brothers had been guilty of sodastardly a crime. 

On the following morning, when the daily press had announced the arrestof the alleged dynamiters, the city was thrown into a fever ofexcitement, and thousands who had been in sympathy with the men nowopenly denounced them, and by so doing gave aid and encouragement tothe company. The most conservative papers now condemned the strikers, while the editor of _The Chicago Times_ dipped his quill still deeperinto the gallstand. 

Following close upon the heels of the arrest of these strikers came thesensational arrest of Mr. Hogan, director general of the strike, chargedwith conspiracy. The private secretaries of the strike committee turnedout to have been all along in the employ of the Watchem detectiveagency, but the charges of conspiracy were never pushed. The men whowere charged with having and using dynamite, however, were lessfortunate. Two were imprisoned, one was fined, the others proved to bedetectives, and of course were released. 

The effect of all this was very satisfactory to the company, anddisheartening to the men. 

The daily meetings in the hall in town were less crowded, and thespeeches of the most radical and optimistic members of the fraternityfailed to create the old-time enthusiasm. The suits worn by the strikerswere becoming shiny, and the suffering in hundreds of homes was enoughto cause men to forget the commandments. The way cars and cabs ofout-going freight trains were crowded with old Burlington men startingout to find work on other roads. They had been losing heart for sometime, and now the shame and disgrace caused by the conviction of thedynamiters made them long to be away; to have a place in the world wherethey might be allowed to win an honest living, and forget the longstruggle of which they had grown weary. Unlike the Philosopher, theywere always sure of a ride, but they found that nearly all the roads inthe country had all the men they needed to handle their trains. The veryfact that a man had once been a Burlington engineer was a sufficientrecommendation, and the fact that he had been a striker seems not tohave injured him in the estimation of railway officials generally, butthe main trouble was that there was no place for him. 

While the boycott on Burlington cars had kept all roads, not operatingunder a receiver, from handling Burlington business, it made it all theeasier for the company to handle the little traffic that came to themand gave the road the appearance of running trains. All this wasdiscouraging to the men, and at last, having exhausted all fair means, and some that were unfair, the strike was declared off. While thecompany refused to the last to accept anything short of unconditionalsurrender it is pleasing to be able to record here that the moment themen gave in the officials did all they could, consistent with the policyof the company and past events, to lessen the pain of defeat. Thefollowing letter, which was sent by the president to the vice-presidentand general manager, reminds us of the gentleness of Grant, inreceiving the surrender of a brave and noble general:

_Boston, Jan. 3, 1889. _

_To ----, Vice-President C. B. & Q. Railroad, Chicago. _

 _The company will not follow up, black-list, or in any manner attempt to proscribe those who were concerned in the strike, but on the contrary, will cheerfully give to all who have not been guilty of violence, or other improper conduct, letters of introduction, showing their record in our service, and will in all proper ways assist them in finding employment. _

In making this letter known to the public the general manager said:

"It is important that no question should arise as to the good faith ofthe company, and it is our desire and intention that there should be noopportunity for such question. "

He even offered to shield, as far as was consistent, those who, in theheat of the fight, had committed unlawful acts. He was a generousconqueror. It was humane, and manly, and noble in him to help thoseunfortunate ones who were now in so much need of help, and to protectthem from the persecution of the few little-souled officials who wereloath to stop fighting. It is all the more creditable because he was notbound to do it. He wrote: "While men who have been guilty of improperconduct during the late strike cannot be re-employed, and while wecannot give letters to them, no officer or employee should continue theanimosities of the conflict after it is over, or interfere to preventthe employment of such men elsewhere. "

CHAPTER NINETEENTH

At last the agony was over--at least the agony of suspense. The poormisguided men knew now that all hope had died. They would be re-employedwhen the company needed them, but it was January--the dullest month inthe year. Every railroad in the West was laying men off. Hundreds of thenew men were standing in line waiting for business to pick up, and thisline must be exhausted before any of the old employees could be takenback. The management considered that the first duty of the company wasto the men who had helped to win the strike. There was no disposition onthe part of the officials to make it harder for the vanquished army. They admired the loyalty and self-sacrifice, though deploring thejudgment of the mismanaged men; but they were only officers in anopposing army, and so fought the fight for the interest theyrepresented, and for the principles in which they believed. 

Nothing in the history of the strike shows more conclusively that themen were out-generalled than the manner in which the company handled thepress. It is not to be supposed for a moment that the daily papers ofChicago, with possibly one exception, willfully misrepresented the men, but the story of the strikers was never told. Mr. Paul, the accomplished"bureau of information, " stood faithfully at the 'phone and saw that thepublic received no news that would embarrass the company or encouragethe men. The cold, tired reporter found a warm welcome and an easy chairin Mr. Paul's private office, and while he smoked a fragrant cigar thestenographer brought in the "news" all neatly type-written and ready forthe printer. Mr. Paul was a sunny soul, who, in the presence of thereporter laughed the seemingly happy laugh of the actor-man, and whenalone sighed, suffered and swore as other men did. Mr. Paul was agenius. By his careful manipulation of the press the public was in timepersuaded that the only question was whether the company, who owned theroad, should run it, or whether the brotherhoods, who did not own it, should run it for them. Every statement given out by the company wasprinted and accepted, generally, as the whole thing, while only twopapers in all the town pretended to print the reports issued by thestrikers. The others cut them and doctored them so that they lost theirpoint. But all is fair in love and war, and this was war--war to theknife and the knife to the hilt--so Mr. Paul should not be hated butadmired, even by his foes. He was a brilliant strategist. Many there arewho argue to this day that Mr. Paul won the strike for the company, butMr. Paul says Watchem, the detective, did it. At all events they eachearned the deathless hatred of the strikers. But, leaving this questionopen, the fact remains that the general in command--the now dead hero ofthat fierce fight--deserves a monument at the expense of Americanrailroads, if, as American railroad managers argue, that war was an holywar. 

There had never been a moment when the management feared defeat. Theyhad met and measured the amateur officials who were placed in command ofthe strikers. They were but children in the hands of the big brainy menwho were handling the company's business. They could fire a locomotive, "ride a fly, " or make time on the tick of the clock. They could awe aconvention of car-hands or thrill an audience at a union meeting, butthey had not the experience, or mental equipment to cope with thediplomatic officials who stood for the company. Their heads had beenturned by the magnitude of their position. They established themselvesat a grand hotel where only high-salaried railroad officials couldafford to live. They surrounded themselves with a luxury that would havebeen counted extravagant by the minister of many a foreign land. Theydissipated the strength of the Brotherhood and wasted their substance inhigh living. They had gotten into clothes that did not fit them, and, saddest of all, they did not know it. The good gray chief of theBrotherhood, who was perfectly at home in the office of a president or ageneral manager, who knew how to meet and talk with a reporter, who wasat ease either in overalls or evening dress, was kept in the background. He would sell out to the company, the deep-lunged leaders said. He couldnot be trusted, and so from the men directly interested in the fight thestrikers chose a leader, and he led them to inglorious defeat; thoughdefeat was inevitable. 

At last, made desperate by the shadow of coming events, this man, so theofficials say, issued a circular advising old employees to return towork and when out on the road to disable and destroy the company'slocomotives, abandoning them where they were wrecked and ruined. Theman accused of this crime declared that the circular was a forgery, committed by his secretary, who was a detective. But that the circularwent out properly signed and sealed is beyond dispute, and in reply toit there came protests from hundreds of honest engine-drivers all up anddown the land. The chief of a local division came to Chicago with a copyof the circular and protested so vigorously that he was expelled fromthe Brotherhood, to the Brotherhood's disgrace. 

Smarting under what he deemed a great wrong, he gave the letter into thehands of the officials, and now whenever he secures a position the roadthat employs him is forced to let him go again or have a strike. He isan outcast--a vagabond, so far as the union is concerned. Ah, the scarsof that conflict are deep in the souls of men. The blight of it hasshadowed hundreds of happy homes, and ruined many a useful life. 

With this "sal-soda" circular in their possession the managers causedthe arrest of its author, charging him with conspiracy--a seriousoffense in Illinois. 

A sunny-faced man, with big, soulful blue eyes and a blond mustache, hadbeen living on the same floor occupied by the strike committee. He hadconceived a great interest in the struggle. For a man of wealth andculture he showed a remarkable sympathy for the strikers, and so won theheart and confidence of the striker-in-chief. It was perfectly natural, then, that in the excitement incidental to the arrest, the accusedshould rush into the apartments of the sympathetic stranger and thrustinto his keeping an armful of letters and papers. 

As the officers of the law led the fallen hero away the blond manselected a number of letters and papers from the bundle, abandoned thebalance and strolled forth. For weeks, months, he had been planning thecapture of some of these letters, and now they had all come to him assuddenly as fame comes to a man who sinks a ship under the enemy'sguns. 

This blond man was a detective. His victim was a child. 

Yes, the great struggle that had caused so much misery and cost so manymillions was at an end, but it was worth to labor and capital all it hadcost. The lesson has lasted ten years, and will last ten more. 

It had been a long, bitter fight in which even the victorious had lost. They had lost at least five million dollars in wrecked and ruinedrolling stock, bridges and buildings. The loss in net earnings alone wasnearly five millions in the first five months of the strike that lastednearly a year. It would cost five millions more to put the property inthe same excellent condition in which the opening of hostilities hadfound it. It would cost another five millions to win back the confidenceof the travelling and shipping public. Twenty millions would not coverthe cost, directly and indirectly, to the company, for there were noend of small items--incidentals. To a single detective agency they paidtwo hundred thousand dollars. And there were others. 

It has taken nearly ten years to restore the road to its formercondition, and to man the engines as they were manned before the strike. It would have taken much longer had the owners of the property notsettled upon the wise policy of promoting men who had been all theirlives in the employ of the Burlington road, to fill the places as fastas they became vacant, of men--the heroes of the strike--who were nowsought out by other companies for loftier positions. In this way theaffairs of the company were constantly in the hands of men who had gonethrough it all, who could weed out the worthless among the new men, andselect the best of those who had left the road at the beginning of thestrike. The result is that there is scarcely an official of importancein the employ of the company to-day who has not been with it for aquarter of a century. The man who took the first engine out at thebeginning of the strike--taking his life in his hands, as manybelieved--is now the general manager of the road. 

There was something admirable, even heroic, in the action of the ownersin standing calmly by while the officials melted down millions of gold. As often as a directors' meeting was called the strikers would takeheart. "Surely, " they would say, "when they see what it costs to fightus they will surrender. " The men seem never to have understood that allthis was known to the directors long before the sad news reached thepublic. And then, when the directors would meet and vote to stand by thepresident, and the president would approve and endorse all that thegeneral manager had done, the disheartened striker would turn sadly awayto break the melancholy news to a sorrowing wife, who was keeping lonelyvigil in a cheerless home. 

CHAPTER TWENTIETH

Dan Moran had not applied for re-employment when the strike was off, butchose rather to look for work elsewhere, and he had looked long andfaithfully, and found no place. First of all he had gone west, away tothe coast, but with no success. Then he swung around the southern route, up the Atlantic coast and home again. Three years, --one year with thestrikers, --four years in all of idleness, and he was discouraged. "It'sthe curse of the prison, " he used to say to his most intimate friends;"the damp of that dungeon clings to me like a plague. It's a blight fromwhich I can't escape. Every one seems to know that I was arrested as adynamiter, and even my old friends shun me. "

He had been saying something like that to Patsy Daly the very day hereturned to Chicago. They were walking down through the yards, forPatsy, who was close to the officials, had insisted upon goingpersonally to the master-mechanic, and interceding for the old engineerwho had carried him thousands of miles while the world slept, and thewild storm raged around them. Patsy had been telling the old engineerthe news of the road, but was surprised that Moran should seem to knowall that had taken place, the changes and promotions, the vastimprovements that had been made by the company, and the rapidly growingtraffic. Patsy stopped short, and looking his companion in the eye, began to laugh. 

"Now what in thunder are you laughing at?" asked Moran. 

"At Patsy Daly, the luny, " said the conductor (Patsy had been promoted);"why, of course you know everything. I've been rooming at the house, andI remember now that _she_ always knew just where you were at all times. Ah! ye sly old rogue--"

"Patsy, " said Moran, seriously, putting up his hand as a signal forsilence. 

"That's all right, old man. She deserves a decent husband, but it'll besomething new to her. Say, Dan, a fool has less sense than anybody, an'Patsy Daly's a fool. Here have I been at the point of making love to hermyself, and only her tears and that big boy of hers have kept me fromit. And all the time I thought she was wastin' water on thatblatherskite of a Cowels, but I think better of her now. "

"And why should she weep for any one else?" asked the old engineer. 

"And why shouldn't she weep for you, Dannie? wandering up and down theearth, homeless and alone. Why I remember now. She would cry in hercoffee at the mention of your name. And Dan, she's growin' prettierevery day, and she's that gentle and--"

Just then the wild scream of a yard engine close behind them caused themto step aside. 

"Wope!" cried a switchman, bang bang went the bell--"Look out there, "yelled Patsy, for as the two pedestrians looked back they saw a drunkenman reel out from among the cars. The driver of the switch-engine sawthe man as the engine struck him, and, reversing, came to a quick stopand leaped to the ground. 

The man lay with his lower limbs beneath the machine, and a blind driver(those broad wheels that have no flanges) resting on the pit of hisstomach, holding him to the rail. The young engineer, having taken inthe situation, leaped upon his engine, and was about to back off whenMoran signalled him to stand still. "Don't move, " said the old engineer, "he may want to say a word before he dies, and if you move that wheel hewill be dead. "

"Why, hello Greene, old hoss; is this you?" asked Moran, lifting thehead of the unfortunate man and pushing the unkept hair back from hisforehead. 

Greene opened his eyes slowly, looked at his questioner, glanced allabout and, as Moran lifted his head, gazed at the great wheel that hadalmost cut his body into two pieces. He was perfectly sober now, andasked why they didn't back up and look him over. 

"We shall presently, " said Moran, "only we were afraid we might hurtyou. You are not in any pain now, are you?"

"No, " said the man, "I don't know when I've felt more comfortable; butfor all that I guess I'm clean cut in two, ain't I, Dan?"

"Oh no, not so bad as that. "

"Oh yes, I guess there's no use holdin' out on me. Is the foreman here?"

"Yes, here I am, Billy. "

"Billy!" said Greene, "now wouldn't that drive you to cigarettes?Billy!--why don't you call me drunken Bill? I'm used to that. "

"Well, what is it, old man?" asked the foreman, bending down. 

"You know this man? This is Dan Moran, the dynamiter. " And the foremanof the round-house, recognizing the old engineer for the first time, held out his hand, partly to show to Moran and others that the strikewas off, and partly to please the dying man. 

"That's right, " said Greene to the foreman, "it'll be good for you totouch an honest hand. "

By this time a great crowd had gathered about the engine. Some policeofficers pushed in and ordered the engineer to "back away. "

"An' what's it _to_ ye?" asked Greene with contempt, for he hated thevery buttons of a policeman. "It's no funeral uf yours. Ye won't grudgeme a few moments with me friend, will ye? Move on ye tarrier. "

The big policeman glanced about and recognizing the foreman asked whythe devil he didn't "git th' felly out?"

Now a red-haired woman came to the edge of the crowd, put her bucket andscrubbing brush down, and asked what had happened. 

"Drunk man under the engine, " said one of the curious, snappishly. Thewoman knew that Greene had passed out that way only a few moments ago. She had given him a quarter and he had promised not to come back to heragain, and now she put her head down and ploughed through the crowd likea football player. 

"Hello Mag, " said Greene, as the woman threw herself upon her kneesbeside him. "Here's yer money--I won't get to spend it, " and he openedhis clinched fist and there was the piece of silver that she had givenhim. 

The big policeman now renewed his request to have the man taken out, butthe foreman whispered something to him. "Oh! begorry, is that so? Allright, all right, " said the officer. 

"Am I delayin' traffic?" asked Greene of the foreman. "It takes a littletime to die ye know, but ye only have to do it onct. "

"Have ye's anythin' to say?" asked the officer. 

"Yes, " said Greene, for his hatred for a policeman stayed with him tothe end, "ye can do me a favor. "

"An' phot is it?"

"Jist keep your nose out of this business, an' don't speak to me againtill after I'm dead. Do ye mind that, ye big duffer?"

It was the first time in all his life when he could say what was on hismind to a policeman without the dread of being arrested. 

"Come closer, Mag--whisper, Dan. Here, you, " said Greene to the foreman, and that official bent down to catch the words which were growingfainter every moment. "I'm goin' to die. Ye mind the time ye kicked meout at the round-house? Well, ye don't need to say; I mind, an' that'ssufficient. I swore to git even with the Burlington for that. I hatedGeorge Cowels because he married a woman that was too good fur 'im, --shewas too good for me, for that matter. Well, when he went back on theBrotherhood and took his old engineer's job I went to this man Moranand offered to blow the engine up, and he put me out of his room. I thenput the dynamite on the engine myself an' Moran followed me and took itoff, and saved Cowels's life, prevented me from becoming a murderer, andwent to jail. Good-by, Mag. Give me your hand Dan, old man. Back up. "

The old engineer nodded to the foreman, who signalled the man on theengine, and the great wheel moved from above the body. More than one manturned his back to the machine. The woman fainted. Moran had covered theeyes of the unfortunate man with his hand, and now when he removed itslowly the man's eyes were still closed. He never moved a finger noruttered a sound. It was as if he had suddenly fallen asleep. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST

The Denver Limited had backed into the depot shed at Chicago, and wasloading when the Philosopher came through the gate. He was going down toZero Junction where he was serving the company in the capacity ofstation agent. Patsy Daly was taking the numbers of the cars, and at hiselbow walked a poorly-dressed man, and the Philosopher knew in a momentthat the man wanted to ride. 

The Philosopher, with a cigar in his mouth, strolled up and downcatching snatches of the man's talk. In a little while he had gatheredthat the anxious stranger's wife lay dying in Cheyenne, and that he hadbeen tramping up and down the land for six months looking for work. IfPatsy could give him a lift to Omaha he could work his way over theU. P. Where he knew some of the trainmen, having worked on the KansasPacific out of Denver in the early days of the road. His story was solifelike and pathetic that Patsy was beginning to look troubled. If hecould help a fellow-creature up the long, hard hill of life--three orfour hundred miles in a single night--without straining the capacity ofthe engine, he felt that he ought to do it. 

Patsy had gone to the head end (the stranger standing respectfullyapart) to ask the engineer to slow down at the Junction, and let theagent off. He hoped the man might go away and try a freight train, butas the conductor turned back the unfortunate traveller joined him. 

Now the eyes of Patsy fell upon the face of the Philosopher, and abrilliant thought flashed through his mind. He marvelled, afterwards, that he had not thought of it sooner. 

"Here, old man, " said Patsy, "take this fellow's testimony, try hiscase, and let me have your opinion in nine minutes--it's just tenminutes to leaving time. "

Now it was the Philosopher to whom the prospective widower rehearsedhis tale of woe. 

There was not much time, so the station agent at Zero began by offeringthe man a cigar, which was accepted. In the midst of his sorrowful storythe man paused to observe a handsome woman, who was at that momentlifting her dainty, silken skirts to step into the sleeper. ThePhilosopher had his eyes fastened to the face of the man, and he thoughthe saw the man's mustache quiver as though it had been agitated by thepassing of a smothered smile. 

"Well, " the man was saying, "we had been married only a year when I lostmy place and started out to look for work. "

By this time he had taken a small pocket knife from his somewhat raggedvest, clipped the end off the cigar neatly, put the cut end between histeeth, and the knife back into his pocket. Without pausing in hisnarrative (he knew he had but nine minutes) he held out a hand for amatch. The Philosopher pretended not to notice the movement, which wasgraceful and perfectly natural. As they turned, up near the engine, thesorrowful man went into his vest again and brought up a small, silvermatch-box which he held carefully in his closed fist, but which snappedsharply, as the knife had done when he closed it. 

"Excuse me, " said the Philosopher, reaching for the match-box, "I'velost my fire. "

The melancholy man made a move towards his vest, paused, changed hismind, and passed over his lighted cigar. 

"Go on, " said the examining judge, when he had got his cigar goingagain. 

Now at each turn the Philosopher quickened his pace, and the man, eagerto finish his sad story, walked beside him with a graceful, springywalk. The man's story was so like his own--so like the tale he had toldto Patsy when the strikers had chased him into a box car--that his heartmust have melted, had it not been for the fact that he was becomingmore and more convinced, as the story grew upon him, that the man waslying. Now and then he said to himself in spite of himself, "This mustbe true, " for there were tears in the man's voice, and yet there werethings about him that must be explained before he could ride. 

"Patsy, " said the Philosopher, pausing before the conductor, "if you'llstand half the strain, I'll go buy a ticket for this man to Cheyenne. "

"N' no, " said the man, visibly affected by this unexpected generosity, "n' no, I can't let you do that. I should be glad of a ride that wouldcost you nothing and the company nothing; but I can't--I can't take yourmoney, " and he turned away, touching the cuff of his coat, first to hisright and then to his left eye. 

Patsy sighed, and the two men walked again. Five minutes more and thebig engine would begin to crawl from the great shed, and the voyagerbegan wondering whether he would be on board. The engineer was goinground the engine for the last time. The fireman had spread his fire andwas leaning leisurely on the arm-rest. The Pullman conductors, withclean cuffs and collars, were putting away their people. The black-facedporters were taking the measures of men as they entered the car. Herecomes a gray-haired clergyman, carrying a heavy hand-satchel, and by hisside an athletic looking commercial tourist. 

One of the black porters glides forward, takes the light hand-grip, containing the travelling man's tooth-brush, nightshirt, and razor, andruns up the step with it. 

Now a train arrives from the West, and the people who are going awaylook into the faces of the people who are coming home, who look neitherto the right nor left, but straight ahead at the open gates, and inthree minutes the empty cars are being backed away, to be washed anddusted, and made ready for another voyage. How sad and interestingwould be the story of the life of a day coach. Beaten, bumped, battered, and banged about in the yards, trampled and spat upon by vulgarvoyagers, who get on and off at flag stations, and finally, in ahead-end collision, crushed between the heavy vestibuled sleepers andthe mighty engine. 

But sadder still is the story of a man who has been buffeted about andwalked upon by the arrogant of this earth, and to such a story thePhilosopher was now listening. The man was talking so rapidly that healmost balled up at times, and had to go back and begin again. At timesit seemed to him that the Philosopher, to whom he was talking, wasgiving little or no attention to his tale; but he was. He was making uphis mind. 

It is amazing the amount of work that can be done in ten minutes, whenall the world is working. Tons of trunks had passed in and out, thelong platform had been peopled and depopulated twice since the two menbegan their walk, and now another train gave up its human freight to thealready crowded city. 

Now, as they went up and down, the Philosopher, at each turn, went alittle nearer to the engine. Only three minutes remained to him in whichto render his decision, which was to help the unhappy man ahalf-thousand miles on the way to his dying wife, or leave him sadderstill because of the failure--to pine and ponder upon man's inhumanityto man. 

Patsy, glancing now and then at the big clock on the station wall, searched the sad face of his friend and tried to read there the answerto the man's prayer. 

It would be that the man should ride, he had no doubt, for this storywas so like the story of this same man, the Philosopher, with which hehad come into Patsy's life, and Patsy had resolved never to turn hisback upon a man who was down on his luck. 

The Philosopher's face was indecipherable. Finally when they had come tothe turning point in the shadow of the mail car, he stopped, leanedagainst the corner of the tank and said: "I can't make you out, and youhaven't made out your case. "

"I don't follow you, " said the man. 

"No? Well suppose I say, for answer, that I'll let you go--sneak away upthrough the yards and lose yourself; provided you promise not to do itagain. "

"You talk in riddles. What is it that I am not to do again? You say youhave hit the road yourself, and you ought to have sympathy for a fellowout o' luck. "

"I have, and that's why I'm going to let you go. Your story is a sadone, and it has softened my heart. It's the story of my own life. "

"Then how can you refuse me this favor, that will cost you nothing?"

"Hadn't you better go?"

"No, I want you to answer me. "

"Well, to be frank with you, you are not a tramp. You've got money, andyou had red wine with your supper, or your dinner, as you would say. "

The man laughed, a soundless laugh, and tried to look sad. 

"You've got a gold signet ring in your right trousers pocket. "

The man worked his fingers and when the Philosopher thought he must havethe ring in his hand, he caught hold of the man's wrist, jerked the handfrom his pocket, and the ring rolled upon the platform. When the man cutoff the end of his cigar the Philosopher had seen a white line aroundone of the fingers of the man's sea-browned hand. Real tramps, thoughtthe Philosopher, don't cut off the ends of their cigars. They bite themoff, and save the bite. They don't throw a half-smoked cigar away, butput it, burning if necessary, in their pocket. 

"What do you mean?" demanded the man, indignantly. 

"Pick up your ring. "

"I have a mind to smash you. "

"Do, and you can ride. "

"You've got your nerve. "

"You haven't. Why did you stare at that lady's feet, when she wasclimbing into the car?"

"That's not your business. "

"It's all my business now. "

"I'll report you for this. "

The man started to walk past the big station master, but a strong handwas clapped to the man's breast pocket and when it came away it held asmall pocket memorandum. 

"See what's in that, Patsy, " said the Philosopher, passing the book tothe conductor, who had gone forward for the decision. 

The man made a move, as if he would snatch the book, but the big hand athis throat twisted the flannel shirt, and choked him. Patsy, holding thebook in the glare of his white light, read the record of a man who hadbeen much away from home. He had, according to the book, ridden withmany conductors, whose names were familiar to Patsy, and had, upondivers occasions, noticed that sometimes some people rode without payingfare. In another place Patsy learned that trainmen and other employeesdrank beer, or other intoxicating beverages. A case in point was acouple of brakemen on local who, after unloading a half-dozen reapersand a threshing machine at Mendota, had gone into a saloon with theshipper and killed their thirst. 

While Patsy was gleaning this interesting information the man writhedand twisted, fought and fumed, but it was in vain, for the hand of thePhilosopher was upon his throat. 

"Let me go, " gasped the man, "an' we'll call it square, an' I won'treport you. "

"Oh! how good of you. "

"Let me go, I say, you big brute. "

"I wanted to let you go a while ago, and you wouldn't have it. "

The man pulled back like a horse that won't stand hitched and the buttonflew from his cheap flannel shirt. 

"I'm a goat, " said the Philosopher, stroking the man's chest with hisbig right hand, "if he hasn't got on silk underwear. "

"Come now, you fellahs, " said the man changing his tune, "let me go andyou'll always have a friend at Court. "

"Be quiet, " said the Philosopher, "I'm going to let you go, but tell me, why did you want to do little Patsy, that everybody likes?"

"Because Mr. Paul was so cock sure I couldn't. He bet me a case ofchampagne that I couldn't ride on the Omaha Limited without payingfare. "

"And now you lose the champagne. "

"It looks that way. "

"Poor tramp!"

Patsy had walked to the rear of the train, shouted "All aboard, " and thecars were now slipping past the two men. 

"Have you still a mind to smash me?"

"I may be a wolf but this is not my night to howl. "

"Every dog has his day, eh?"

"Curse you. "

"Good night, " said the Philosopher, reaching for a passing car. 

"Go to--" said the tramp, and the train faded away out over theswitches. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND

The old master-mechanic, who had insisted that Dan Moran was innocent, from the first, had gone away; but the new man was willing to give himan engine after the confession of Bill Greene. Having secured work theold engineer called upon the widow, for he could tell her, now, allabout the dynamite. Three years had brought little change to her. Shemight be a little bit stouter, but she was handsomer than ever, Danthought. The little girl, whom he remembered as a toddling infant, was asunny child of four years. Bennie was now fourteen and was employed ascaller at the round-house, and his wages, thirty dollars a month, keptup the expenses of the home. He had inherited the splendid constitutionof his father with the gentleness and honesty of his mother. The foremanwas very fond of him, and having been instructed by the old generalmanager to take good care of the boy, for his mother's sake, he hadarranged to send him out firing, which would pay better, as soon as hewas old enough. So Moran found the little family well, prosperous, andreasonably happy. Presently, when she could wait no longer, Mrs. Cowelsasked the old engineer if he had come back to stay, and when he said hehad, her face betrayed so much joy that Moran felt half embarrassed, andhis heart, which had been so heavy for the past four years, gave a thumpthat startled him. "Oh! I'm _so_ glad, " she said earnestly, looking downand playing with her hands; and while her eyes were not upon his, Morangazed upon the gentle face that had haunted him day and night in histhree years' tramp about the world. 

"Yes, " he said at length, "I'm going back to the 'Q. ' It's notBlackwings, to be sure, and the Denver Limited, but it's work, andthat's something, for it seems to me that I can bear this idleness nolonger. It's the hardest work in the world, just to have nothing to do, month in and month out, and to be compelled to do it. I can't stand it, that's all, and I'm going out on a gravel train to-morrow. "

Moran remembered now that Bennie had come to him that morning in theround-house and begged the engineer to "ask for him, " to go out asfireman on the gravel train, for it was really a boy's work to keep anengine hot on a side track, but he would not promise, and the boy hadbeen greatly disappointed. 

"I'd like to ask for the boy, " said Moran, "with your permission. He'sbeen at me all morning, and I'm sure the foreman won't object if youconsent. "

"But he's so young, Dan; he could never do the work. "

"I'll look out for him, " said the engineer, nodding his head. "I'll keephim busy waiting on me when we lay up, and when we have a hard run for ameeting-point there's always the head brakeman, and they can usuallyfire as well as a fireman. "

"I will consent only to please him, " she said, "and because I shouldlike to have him with you. "

He thanked her for the compliment, and took up his hat to go. 

"And how often shall I see you now? I mean--how soon--when will Benniebe home again?"

They were standing close together in the little hall, and when he lookeddeep into her eyes, she became confused and blushed like a school-girl. 

"Well, to be honest, we never know on a run of this sort when we may getback to town. It may be a day, a week, or a month, " said Moran. "ButI'll promise you that I will not keep him away longer than is necessary. We don't work Sundays, of course, and I'll try and dead-head him inSaturday nights, and you can send him back on the fast freight Sundayevenings. The watchman can fire the engine in an emergency, you know. "

"But the watchman couldn't run her in an emergency?" queried the littlewoman. 

"I'm afraid not, " said Moran, catching the drift of her mind, andfeeling proud of the compliment concealed in the harmless query. "But Ishall enjoy having him come to you once a week to show you that I havenot forgotten my promise. "

"And I shall know, " she answered, putting up a warning finger, "by hisactions whether you have been good to him. "

"And by the same token I can tell whether you are happy, " rejoined theengineer, taking both her hands in his to say good-bye. 

Moran went directly to the round-house and spoke to the foreman, andwhen Bennie came home that evening he threw himself upon his mother'sneck and wept for very joy. His mother wept, too, for it means somethingto a mother to have her only boy go out to begin life on the rail. Aftersupper they all went over to the little general store, where she hadonce been refused credit--where she had spent their last dollar forChristmas presents for little Bennie and his father, chiefly hisfather--and bought two suits of bright blue overclothes for the newfireman. "Mother, I once heard the foreman say that Dan Moran had beenlike a father to papa, " said Bennie that evening. "Guess he'll start inbeing a father to me now, eh! mother?"

Mrs. Cowels smiled and kissed him, and then she cried a little, but onlya little, for in spite of all her troubles she felt almost happy thatnight. 

It was nearly midnight when Bennie finished trying on his overclothesand finally fell asleep. It was only four A. M. When he shook his mothergently and asked her to get up and get breakfast. 

"What time is it, Bennie?"

"I don't know, exactly, " said Bennie, "but it must be late. I've been upa long, long time. You know you have to put up my lunch, and I want toget down and draw my supplies. Couldn't do it last night 'cause theydidn't know what engine we were going to have. "

Mrs. Cowels got up and prepared breakfast and Bennie ate hurriedly andthen began to look out for the caller. He would have gone to theround-house at once but he wanted to sign the callbook at home. How hehad envied the firemen who had been called by him. He knew just how itwould be written in the callbook:

 _Extra West, Eng. --Leave 8:15 A. M. _ _Engineer Moran, --D. Moran 7:15. _ _Fireman Cowels. _--

And there was the blank space where he would write his name. At sixo'clock he declared to his mother that he must go down and get hisengine hot, and after a hasty good-bye he started. Ten minutes later hecame into the round-house and asked the night foreman where his enginewas. 

"Well, " said the foreman, "we haven't got _your_ engine yet, " and theboy's chin dropped down and rested upon his new blue blouse. "I guesswe'll have to send you out on one of the company's engines this trip. "

There was a great roar of laughter from the wiping gang and Bennielooked embarrassed. He concluded to say no more to the foreman, but wentdirectly to the blackboard, got the number and found the engine whichhad been assigned to the gravel train because she was not fit for roadwork. A sorry old wreck she was, covered with ashes and grease, but itmade little difference to Bennie so long as she had a whistle and abell, and he set to work to stock her up with supplies. 

He had drawn supplies for many a tired fireman in his leisure momentsand knew very nearly what was needed. But the first thing he did was toopen the blower and "get her hot. " He got the foreman hot, too, and in alittle while he heard that official shout to the hostler to "run thescrap heap out-doors, and put that fresh kid in the tank. "

Bennie didn't mind the reference to the "fresh kid, " but he thought theforeman might have called her something better than a scrap heap, but hewas a smart boy and knew that it would be no use to "kick. "

It was half-past seven when Mrs. Cowels opened the door in answer to thebell, and blushed, and glanced down at her big apron. 

"I thought I'd look in on my way to the round-house, " said Moran, removing his hat, "for Bennie. "

"Why, the dear boy has been gone an hour and a half, but I'm glad (won'tyou come in?) you called for he has forgotten his gloves. "

"Thank you, " said the engineer, "the fact is I'm a little late, for Idon't know what sort of a scrap pile I have to take out and I'd like, ofcourse, to go underneath her before she leaves the round-house, so Ican't come in this morning. "

When Mrs. Cowels had given him the gloves he took her hand to saygood-bye, and the wife of one of the new men, who saw it, saidafterwards that he held it longer than was necessary, just to saygood-bye. 

When Dan reached the round-house Bennie was up on top of the old engineoiling the bell. What would an engine without a bell be to a boy? Andyet in Europe they have no bells, but there is a vast difference betweenthe American and the European boy. 

Moran stopped in the round-house long enough to read the long list ofnames on the blackboard. They were nearly all new to him, as were thefaces about, and he turned away. 

The orders ran them extra to Aurora, avoiding regular trains. Moranglanced at the faces of all the incoming engineers as he met and passedthem, but with one exception they were all strangers to him. Herecognized young Guerin, who had been fireman on Blackwings the nightGeorge Cowels was killed, and he was now running a passenger engine. 

"How the mushrooms have vegetated hereabouts, " thought Moran, as heglanced up at the stack of the old work engine, but he was never much ofa kicker, so he would not kick now. This wasn't much of a run, but itbeat looking for a better one. 

"Not so much coal, Bennie. Take your clinker hook and level it off. That's it, --see the black smoke? Keep your furnace door shut. Now lookat your stack again. See the yellow smoke hanging 'round? Rake her downagain. Now it's black, and if it burns clear--see there? There is nosmoke at all; that shows that her fire is level. Sweep up your deck nowwhile you rest. "

CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD

One night when the Limited was roaring up from the Missouri Riveragainst one of those March rains that come out of the east, there cameto Patsy one of the temptations that are hardest for a man of his kindnature to withstand. The trial began at Galesburg. Patsy was hugging therear end of the day coach in order to keep out of the cruel storm, whenhis eyes rested upon the white face of a poorly clad woman. She stoodmotionless as a statue, voiceless as the Sphinx, with the cold rainbeating upon her uplifted face, until Patsy cried "All aboard. " Then shepulled herself together and climbed into the train. The conductor, leaving his white light upon the platform of the car, stepped down andhelped the dripping woman into the coach. When the train had dashed awayagain up the rain-swept night, Patsy found the wet passenger rocking toand fro on the little seat that used to run lengthwise of the car upnear the stove, before the use of steam heat. 

"Ticket, " said the conductor. 

The woman lifted her eyes to his, but seemed to be staring at somethingbeyond. 

"Ticket, please. "

"Yes--y-e-a-s, " she spoke as though the effort caused her intense pain. "I want--to--go to Chicago. "

"Yes. Have you a ticket?"

"Yes. "

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Where's your ticket?"

"I ain't got no ticket. "

"Have you got money?"

"No. I do' want money. I jist want you to take me to Chicago. "

"But I can't take you without you pay fare. "

"Can't you? I've been standin' there in the rain all night, but nobodywould let me on the train--all the trains is gone but this one. I'dmost give up when you said, 'Git on, ' er somethin'. "

"Why do you want to go to Chicago?"

"Oh! I must be there fur the trial. "

"Who's trial?"

"Terrence's. They think my boy, Terrence, killed a man, an' I'm goin' upto tell th' judge. Of course, they don't know Terrence. He's wild andruns around a heap, but he's not what you may call bad. "

The poor woman was half-crazed by her grief, and her blood was chilledby the cold rain. She could not have been wetter at the bottom of LakeMichigan. When she ceased speaking, she shivered. 

"It was good in you to let me git on, an' I thank you very kindly. "

"But I can't carry you unless you can pay. "

"Oh! I kin walk soon's we git ther. "

"But you can't get there. I'll have to stop and put you off. "

The unhappy woman opened her eyes and mouth and stared at theconductor. 

"Put--me--off?"

"Yes. "

"It's rainin' ain't it?" She shivered again, and tried to look out intothe black night. 

"Don't you know better than to get onto a train without a ticket ormoney to pay your fare?"

"Yes; but they'll hang Terrence, they'll hang 'im, they'll hang 'im, "and she moaned and rocked herself. 

Patsy went on through the train and when he came back the woman wasstill rocking and staring blankly at the floor, as he had found herbefore. She had to look at him for some time before she could rememberhim. 

"Can't you go no faster?"

Patsy sighed. 

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock. "

"Will we git there by half after nine?--th' trial's at ten. "

"Yes. "

Patsy sat down and looked at the wreck. 

"Now, a man who could put such a woman off, in such a storm, at such anhour, and with a grief like that, " said Patsy to himself, "would pasturea goat on his grandmother's grave. "

 * * * * *

When Patsy woke at two o'clock that afternoon, he picked up a noonedition of an all-day paper, and the very first word he read was "Notguilty. " That was the heading of the police news. 

"There was a pathetic scene in Judge Meyer's court this morning at thepreliminary hearing of the case of Terrence Cassidy, charged with themurder of the old farmer at Spring Bank on Monday last. All efforts todraw a confession from Cassidy had failed, and the detectives had cometo the conclusion that he was either very innocent or very guilty--therewas no purgatory for Terrence; it was heaven or the hot place, accordingto the detectives. For once the detectives were right. Terrence was veryinnocent. It appears that the tramp who was killed on the Wabash lastnight made a confession to the trainmen, after being hit by the engine, to the effect that he had murdered the old farmer, and afterwards, atthe point of an empty pistol, forced a young Irishman, whom he met uponthe railroad track, to exchange clothes with him. That accounts for theblood stains upon Cassidy's coat, but, of course, nobody credited hisstory. 

"The tramp's confession, however, was wired to the general manager ofthe Wabash by the conductor of the out-going train, together with adescription of the tramp's clothes, which description tallies with thatgiven of those garments worn by Cassidy. 

"This good news did not reach the court, however, until after theprisoner had been arraigned. When asked the usual question, 'Guilty, ornot guilty?' the boy stood up and was about to address some remarks tothe court, when suddenly there rushed into the room about the sorriestlooking woman who ever stood before a judge. She was poorly clad, wet asa rat, haggard and pale. Her voice was hoarse and unearthly. Nobodyseemed to see her enter. Suddenly, as if she had risen from the floor, she stood at the railing, raised a trembling hand and shouted, as wellas she could shout, 'Not guilty!'

"Before the bewildered judge could lift his gavel, the prosecutingattorney rose, dramatically, and asked to be allowed to read a telegramthat had just been received, which purported to be the signed confessionof a dying man. 

"As might be expected, there were not many dry eyes in that court when, a moment later, the boy was sobbing on his mother's wet shoulder, andshe, rocking to and fro, was saying softly 'Poor Terrence, my poorTerrence. '"

 * * * * *

As Patsy was walking back from Hooley's Theatre, where he had gone toget tickets (this was his night off), he met the acting chief clerk inone of the departments to which, under the rules then in vogue, he owedallegiance. 

"I want to see you at the office, " said the amateur official, and Patsywas very much surprised at the brevity of the speech. He went up to hisroom and tried to read, but the ever recurring thought that he was"wanted at the office" disturbed him and he determined to go at once andhave it out. 

The conductor removed his hat in the august presence and asked, timidly, what was wanted. 

"You ought to know, " said the great judge. 

"But I don't, " said Patsy, taking courage as he arrayed himself, with aclear conscience, on the defensive. 

"Are you in the habit of carrying people on the Denver Limited who haveno transportation?"

"No, sir. "

"Then, how does it happen that you carried a woman from Galesburg toChicago last night who had neither ticket nor money, so far as we know?It will do you no good to deny it, for I have the report of a specialagent before me, and--"

"I have no desire to deny it, sir. All I deny is that this is yourbusiness. "

"What?" yelled the official. 

"I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have spoken in that way; but whatI wish to say and wish you to understand is that I owe you noexplanation. "

"I stand for the company, sir. "

"So do I, and have stood as many years as you have months. I havehandled as many dollars for them as you have ever seen dimes, and, what's more to the point, I stand ready to quit the moment themanagement loses confidence in me, and with the assurance of a betterjob. Can all the great men say as much?"

The force and vehemence of the excited and indignant little Irishmancaused the "management" to pause in its young career. 

"Will you tell me why you carried this woman who had no ticket?"

"No. I have rendered unto Cæsar that which is Cæsar's. For furtherparticulars, see my report, " and with that Patsy walked out. 

"Let's see, let's see, " said the "management"; "'Two passengers, Galesburg to Chicago, one ticket, one cash fare. ' What an ass I've madeof myself; but, just wait till I catch that Hawkshaw. "

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH

 "_Always together in sunshine and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train, Watching the meadows move under the stars; Always together atop o' the cars. _"

Patsy was just singing it soft and low to himself, and not even thinkingof the song, for he was not riding "atop o' the cars" now. With his armrun through the bail of his nickel-plated, white light, he was takingthe numbers and initials of the cars in the Denver Limited. He was ahandsome fellow, and the eight or ten years that had passed lightly overhis head since he came singing himself into the office of the generalmanager to ask for a pass over a competing line, had rounded out hisfigure, and given him a becoming mustache, but they had left just ashade of sadness upon his sunny face. The little mother whom he used tovisit at Council Bluffs had fallen asleep down by the dark Missouri, andhe would not see her again until he reached the end of his last run. And that's what put the shadow upon his sunny face. The white light, held close to his bright, new uniform, flashed over his spotless linen, and set his buttons ablaze. 

"Ah there, my beauty! any room for dead-heads to-night?"

Patsy turned to his questioner, closed his train-book and held out hishand: "Always room for the Irish; where are you tagged for?"

"The junction. "

"But we don't stop there. "

"I know, but I thought Moran might slow her down to about twenty posts, and I can fall off--I missed the local. "

"I've got a new man, " said Patsy, "and he'll be a bit nervous to-night, but if we hit the top of Zero Hill on the dot we'll let you off; if not, we'll carry you through, and you can come back on No. 4. "

"Thank you, " said the Philosopher, "but I'm sorry to trouble you. "

"And I don't intend you shall; just step back to the outside gate andflag Mr. And Mrs. Moran, and don't let him buy a ticket for the sleeper;I've got passes for him right through to the coast. "

As the Philosopher went back to "flag, " Patsy went forward to theengine. "If you hit Zero Junction on time, Guerin, I wish you'd slowdown and let the agent off, " said the conductor. 

"And if I'm late?"

"Don't stop. "

"Well, " said the young driver, "we'll not be apt to stop, for it's awild night, Patsy; a slippery rail and almost a head wind. "

"Nothing short of a blizzard can check Blackwings, " said Patsy, going tothe rear. 

The day coaches were already well filled, and the sleeping-carconductors were busy putting their people away when the Philosopher camedown the platform accompanied by the veteran engineer, his pretty wife, and her bright little girl. Mrs. Moran and her daughter entered thesleeper, while her husband and the station master remained outside tofinish their cigars. 

"What a magnificent train, " observed the old engineer, as the two menstood looking at the Limited. 

"Finest in all the West, " the Philosopher replied. "Open from the tankto the tail-lamps: all ablaze with electric lights; just like theAtlantic liners we read about in the magazines. Ever been on one ofthose big steamers, Dan?"

"No, and I never want to be. Never get me out o' sight o' land. Thenthey're too blamed slow; draggin' along in the darkness, eighteen andtwenty miles an hour, and nowhere to jump. "

"And yet they say we kill more people than they do. "

"I know they say so, " said the engineer, "but they kill 'em soeverlastingly dead. A man smashed up in a wreck on the road _may_recover, but a man drowned a thousand miles from anywhere has no show. "

Patsy, coming from the station, joined the two dead-heads, and Moran, glancing at his watch, asked the cause of delay. 

"Waiting for a party of English tourists, " said Patsy; "they're comingover the Grand Trunk, and the storm has delayed them. "

"And that same storm will delay you to-night, my boy, if I'm anyguesser, " observed the old engineer. "I'd go over and ride with Guerin, but I'm afraid he wouldn't take it well. That engine is as quick aschain-lightning, and with a greasy rail like this she'll slip going downhill, and the more throttle he gives her the slower she'll go. Andwhat's more, she'll do it so smoothly, that, blinded by the storm, he'llnever know she's slipping till she tears her fire all out and comes to adead stall. "

The old engineer knew just how to prevent all that, but he was afraidthat to offer any suggestion might wound the pride of the young man, whom he did not know very well. True, he had asked the master-mechanicto put Guerin on the run, but only because he disliked the Reading manwho was next in line. Mrs. Moran came from the car now, and asked to betaken to the engine where she and her daughter might say good-bye toBennie who was now the regular fireman on Blackwings. "Bennie, " said hisstepfather, "see that your sand-pipes are open. "

While Bennie talked with his mother and sister, Moran chatted with theengineer. "I want to thank you, " said Guerin, "for helping me to thisrun during your absence, and I shall try to take good care of bothBennie and Blackwings. "

"It isn't worth mentioning, " said Moran with a wave of his hand, "theydo these things to suit themselves. "

"Now, if she's got any tricks, " said Guerin, "I'd be glad to know them, for I don't want to disgrace the engine by losing time. I've been tryingto pump the boy, but he's as close as a clam. "

"Well, that's not a common fault with firemen, " said Moran, with hisquiet smile. "The only thing I can say about Blackwings, " he went on, for he had been aching to say it, "is that she's smart, and on a raillike this you'll have to humor her a little--drop her down a notch andease up on the throttle, especially when you have a heavy train. She'smighty slippery. "

Guerin thanked him for the tip, and the old engineer, feeling greatlyrelieved, went back to where Patsy and the Philosopher were"railroading. " They had been discussing the vestibule. The Philosopherhad remarked that recently published statistics established the factthat when a solid vestibuled train came into collision with anold-fashioned open train of the same weight, the latter would go tosplinters while the vestibuled train would remain intact, on theprinciple that a sleeping car is harder to wreck when the berths aredown, because they brace the structure. "The vestibule, " continued thePhilosopher, "is a life-saver, and a great comfort to people who travelfirst class, but this same inventor, who has perfected so many railwayappliances, has managed in one way or another to help all mankind. Hehas done as much for the tramp as for the millionaire. Take the highwheel, for instance. Why, I remember when I was 'on the road' that youhad to get down and crawl to get under a sleeper, and sit doubled uplike a crawfish all the while. I remember when the Pennsylvania put on alot of big, twelve-wheeled cars. A party of us got together under awater tank down near Pittsburgh and held a meeting. It was on the Fourthof July and we sent a copy of our resolutions to the president of thesleeping car company at Chicago. The report was written with charcoalupon some new shingles which we found near, and sent by express, 'collect. ' I remember how it read:

'At the First Annual Convention of the Tramps' Protective Association ofNorth America, it was

'_Resolved:_ That this union feels itself deeply indebted to the man whohas introduced upon American railways the high wheel and the tripletruck. And be it further

'_Resolved:_ That all self-respecting members of this fraternity shallrefrain from riding on, or in any way encouraging, such slow-freightlines as may still hold to the old-fashioned, eight-wheeled, dirt-dragging sleeper, blind to their own interest and dead to theworld. '"

"All aboard, " cried Patsy, and the Denver Limited left Chicago just tenminutes late. The moment they had passed beyond the shed the storm sweptdown from the Northwest and plastered the wet snow against the windows. Slowly they worked their way out of the crowded city, over railwaycrossings, between guarded gates, and left the lights of Chicago behindthem. The scores of passengers behind the double-glassed windows chattedor perused the evening papers. 

Nearly all the male members of the English party had crowded into thesmoking-rooms of the sleepers to enjoy their pipes. Patsy, after workingthe train, sat down to visit with the Morans. The old engineer had beenhurt in a wreck and the company had generously given him a two months'leave of absence, with transportation and full pay, and he was going tospend the time in Southern California. The officials were beginning toshare the opinion of Mr. Watchem, the famous detective who had declared, when Moran was in prison, that he ought to be wearing a medal instead ofhandcuffs. He had battled, single-handed and alone, with a desperado whowas all fenced about with firearms, saved the company's property and, itmight be, the lives of passengers. Later he had taken the dynamite fromthe engine to prevent its exploding, wrecking the machine and killingthe crew. And rather than inform upon the wretch who had committed thecrime he had gone to prison, and had borne disgrace. 

With the exception of Patsy, Moran, and his wife, none of the passengersgave a thought to the "fellows up ahead. " Before leaving Chicago Guerinhad advised the youthful fireman to stretch a piece of bell-rope fromthe cab to the tank to prevent him from falling out through the gangway, for he intended to make up the ten minutes if it were in the machine. The storm had increased so that the rail had passed the slippery stage, for it is only a damp rail that is greasy. A very wet rail is almost asgood as a dry one, and Blackwings was picking her train up beautifully. This was the engine upon which Guerin had made his maiden trip asfireman, and the thought of that dreadful night saddened him. Here waswhere Cowels sat when he showed him the cruel message. Here in this verywindow he had held him, and there was the identical arm-rest over whichhung the body of the dead engineer. And this was his boy. How the yearsfly! He looked at the boy, and the boy was looking at him with his big, sad eyes. The furnace door was ajar, and the cab was as light as day. Guerin had always felt that in some vague way he was responsible forCowels's death, and now the boy's gaze made him uncomfortable. Alreadythe snow had banked against the windows on his side and closed them. Hecrossed over to the fireman's side, and looked ahead. The headlight wasalmost covered, but they were making good time. He guessed, from thevibration that marked the revolutions of the big drivers, that she mustbe making fifty miles an hour. Now she began to roll, and her bell beganto toll, like a distant church-bell tolling for the dead, and he crossedback to his own side. Both Moran and Patsy were pleased for they knewthe great engine was doing her work. "When one of these heavy sleepersstops swinging, " said Patsy, "and just seems to stand still and shiver, she's going; and when she begins to slam her flanges up against therail, first one side and then the other, she has passed a sixty-milegait, and that's what this car is doing now. "

Mrs. Moran said good-night, and disappeared behind the silken curtain of"lower six, " where her little girl was already sound asleep. Only a fewmen remained in the smoking-rooms, and they were mostly English. 

Steam began to flutter from the dome above the back of Blackwings. Thefireman left the door on the latch to keep her cool and save the water;the engineer opened the injector a little wider to save the steam; thefireman closed the door again to keep her hot; and that's the way menwatch each other on an engine, to save a drop of water or an ounce ofsteam, and that's the best trick of the trade. 

Guerin looked out at the fireman's window again. The headlight was nowentirely snowed in and the big black machine was poking her nose intothe night at the rate of a mile a minute. 

"My God! how she rolls, " said Guerin, going back to his place again. Ofa sudden she began to quicken her pace, as though the train had parted. She might be slipping--he opened the sand lever. No, she was holding therail, and then he knew that they had tipped over Zero Hill. He cut herback a notch, but allowed the throttle to remain wide open. Bennie sawthe move and left the door ajar again. He knew where they were andwondered that Guerin did not ease off a bit, but he had been taught byMoran to fire and leave the rest to the engineer. Guerin glanced at hiswatch. He was one minute over-due at Zero Junction, a mile away. At theend of another minute he would have put that station behind him, lessthan two minutes late. He was making a record for himself. He wasdemonstrating that it is the daring young driver who has the sand to goup against the darkness as fast as wheels can whirl. He wished the snowwas off the headlight. He knew the danger of slamming a train throughstations without a ray of light to warn switchmen and others, but hecould not bring himself to send the boy out to the front end in thatstorm the way she was rolling. And she did roll; and with each roll thebell tolled! tolled!! like a church bell tolling for the dead. The snowmuffled the rail, and the cry of the whistle would not go twenty rodsagainst that storm; and twenty rods, when you're making a mile and ahalf in a minute, gives barely time to cross yourself. 

About the time they tipped over the hill the night yard master came fromthe telegraph office, down at the junction, and twirled a white light ata switch engine that stood on a spur with her nose against an emptyexpress car. "Back up, " he shouted: "and kick that car in on the housetrack. "

"The Limited's due in a minute, " said the switch engineer, turning thegauge lamp upon his watch. 

"Well, you're runnin' the engine--I'm runnin' the yard, " said theofficial, giving his lamp another whirl, and the engine with the expresscar backed away. The yard master unbent sufficiently to say to theswitchman on the engine that the Limited was ten minutes late, adding, that she would probably be fifteen at the junction, for it was stormingall along the line. The snow had packed in about the switch-bridle andmade it hard to move, but finally, with the help of the fireman, theswitch was turned, and the yard engine stood on the main track. Theengineer glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing behind himsave the storm-swept night. Suddenly he felt the earth tremble, and, filled with indescribable horror, he pulled the whistle open and leapedthrough the window. The cry of the yard engine was answered by a wildshriek from Blackwings. Guerin closed the throttle, put on the air andopened the sand-valves. The sound of that whistle, blown back over thetrain, fell upon the ears of Patsy and the two dead-heads, and filledthem with fear. A second later they felt the clamp of brake-shoesapplied with full force; felt the grinding of sand beneath the wheels, and knew that something was wrong. The old engineer tore the curtainsback from "lower six, " and spread out his arms, placing one foot againstthe foot of the berth, and threw himself on top of the two sleepers. Patsy and the Philosopher braced themselves against the seat in front ofthem, and waited the shock. Bennie heard the whistle, too, and went outinto the night, not knowing where or how he would light. Young Guerinhad no time to jump. He had work to do. His left hand fell from thewhistle-rope to the air-brake, and it was applied even while his righthand shoved the throttle home, and opened the sand-valves--and then thecrash came. Being higher built, Blackwings shot right over the top ofthe yard engine, turned end for end, and lay with her pilot under themail car, which was telescoped into the express car. The balance of thetrain, surging, straining, and trembling, came to a stop, with allwheels on the rail, thanks to the faithful driver, and the opensand-pipes. The train had scarcely stopped when the conductor and thetwo dead-heads were at the engine, searching, amid the roar of escapingsteam, for the engine crew. A moment later Bennie came limping in from aneighboring field where he had been wallowing in a snow-drift. Theoperator, rushing from the station, stumbled over the body of a man. Itwas Guerin. When the engine turned over he had been hurled from the caband slammed up against the depot, fifty feet away. The rescuers, searching about the wreck, shouted and called to the occupants of themail car, but the wail of the wounded engine drowned their voices. In alittle while both men were rescued almost unhurt. Now all the employeesand many passengers gathered about the engineer. The station master heldGuerin's head upon his knee, while Moran made a hasty examination of hishurt. There was scarcely a bone in his body that was not broken, but hewas still alive. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked about. "I'mcold!" he said distinctly. Patsy held his white light close to the faceof the wounded man. His eyes seemed now to be fixed upon something faraway. "Mercy, but I'm cold!" he said pathetically. Now all the womenwere weeping, and there were tears in the eyes of most of the men. "Raise him up a little, " said Moran. "It's getting dark, " said the dyingman, "Oh, _so_ dark! It must be the snow--" and he closed his eyesagain--"snow--on--the headlight. "

THE END

THE STORY OF THE WEST SERIES. 

_Edited by_ RIPLEY HITCHCOCK. 

_Each, Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, $1. 50. _

THE STORY OF THE RAILROAD. 

_By_ CY WARMAN, _author of "The Express Messenger, " etc. With Maps, andmany Illustrations by B. West Clinedinst and from Photographs_. 

As we understand it, the editor's ruling idea in this series has notbeen to present chronology or statistics or set essays on the social andpolitical development of the great West, but to give to us vividpictures of the life and the times in the period of great development, and to let us see the men at their work, their characters, and theirmotives. The choice of an author has been fortunate. In Mr. Warman'sbook we are kept constantly reminded of the fortitude, the suffering, the enterprise, and the endurance of the pioneers. We see the glowingimagination of the promoter, and we see the engineer scouting the plainsand the mountains, fighting the Indians, freezing and starving, andalways full of a keen enthusiasm for his work and of noble devotion tohis duty. The construction train and the Irish boss are not forgotten, and in the stories of their doings we find not only courage andadventure, but wit and humor. --_The Railroad Gazette. _

THE STORY OF THE COWBOY. 

_By_ E. HOUGH, _author of "The Singing Mouse Stories, " etc. Illustratedby William L. Wells and C. M. Russell_. 

Mr. Hough is to be thanked for having written so excellent a book. Thecowboy story, as this author has told it, will be the cowboy's fittingeulogy. This volume will be consulted in years to come as an authorityon past conditions of the far West. For fine literary work the author isto be highly complimented. Here, certainly, we have a choice piece ofwriting. --_New York Times. _

THE STORY OF THE MINE. 

_As Illustrated by the Great Comstock Lode of Nevada. _

_By_ CHARLES HOWARD SHINN. 

Mr. Shinn writes from ... Such acquaintance as could only be gained byfamiliarity with the men and the places described, ... And by thefullest appreciation of the pervading spirit of the Western mining campsof yesterday and to-day. Thus his book has a distinctly human interest, apart from its value as a treatise on things material. --_Review ofReviews. _

THE STORY OF THE INDIAN. 

_By_ GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL, _author of "Pawnee Hero Stories, " "BlackfootLodge Tales, " etc. _

Only an author qualified by personal experience could offer us aprofitable study of a race so alien from our own as is the Indian inthought, feeling, and culture. Only long association with Indians canenable a white man measurably to comprehend their thoughts and enterinto their feelings. Such association has been Mr. Grinnell's. --_NewYork Sun. _

_Books by Graham Travers. _

WINDYHAUGH. 

_A Novel. By_ GRAHAM TRAVERS, _author of "Mona Maclean. MedicalStudent, " "Fellow Travellers, " etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 50_. 

"Windyhaugh" shows an infinitely more mature skill and more subtlehumor than "Mona Maclean" and a profounder insight into life. Thepsychology in Dr. Todd's remarkable book is all of the right kind;and there is not in English fiction a more careful and penetratinganalysis of the evolution of a woman's mind than is given inWilhelmina Galbraith; but "Windyhaugh" is not a book in which thereis only one "star" and a crowd of "supers. " Every character islimned with a conscientious care that bespeaks the true artist, andthe analytical interest of the novel is rigorously kept in itsproper place and is only one element in a delightful story. It is asupremely interesting and wholesome book, and in an age whenexcellence of technique has reached a remarkable level, "Windyhaugh"compels admiration for its brilliancy of style. Dr. Todd paints on alarge canvas, but she has a true sense of proportion. --_Blackwood'sMagazine. _

For truth to life, for adherence to a clear line of action, for arrivalat the point toward which it has aimed from the first, such a book as"Windyhaugh" must be judged remarkable. There is vigor and brilliancy. It is a book that must be read from the beginning to the end and that itis a satisfaction to have read. --_Boston Journal. _

Its easy style, its natural characters, and its general tone ofearnestness assure its author a high rank among contemporarynovelists. --_Chicago Tribune. _

MONA MACLEAN. 

_Medical Student. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1. 00. _

A pleasure in store for you if you have not read this volume. The authorhas given us a thoroughly natural series of events, and drawn hercharacters like an artist. It is the story of a woman's struggles withher own soul. She is a woman of resource, a strong woman, and her careeris interesting from beginning to end. --_New York Herald. _

"Mona Maclean" is a bright, healthful, winning story. --_New York Mailand Express. _

A high-bred comedy. --_New York Times. _

FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 

_12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1. 00. _

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"Fellow Travellers" is a collection of very brightly written tales, alldealing, as the title implies, with the mutual relations of peoplethrown together casually while travelling. --_London Saturday Review. _

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_A Story of American Life. By_ EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT. _12mo. Cloth, $1. 50. _

Thoroughly a pure, original, and fresh American type. David Harum is acharacter whose qualities of mind and heart, eccentricities, and dryhumor will win for his creator noble distinction. Buoyancy, life, andcheerfulness are dominant notes. In its vividness and force the story isa strong, fresh picture of American life. Original and true, it is worththe same distinction which is accorded the _genre_ pictures of peculiartypes and places sketched by Mr. George W. Cable, Mr. Joel ChandlerHarris, Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, Miss Wilkins, Miss Jewett, Mr. Garland, Miss French, Miss Murfree, Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr. Owen Wister, and BretHarte. --_Boston Herald. _

Mr. Westcott has done for central New York what Mr. Cable, Mr. Page, andMr. Harris have done for different parts of the South, and what MissJewett and Miss Wilkins are doing for New England, and Mr. HamlinGarland for the West.... "David Harum" is a masterly delineation of anAmerican type.... Here is life with all its joys and sorrows.... DavidHarum lives in these pages as he will live in the mind of the reader.... He deserves to be known by all good Americans; he is one of them inboundless energy, in large-heartedness, in shrewdness, and inhumor. --_The Critic. _

True, strong, and thoroughly alive, with a humor like that of AbrahamLincoln and a nature as sweet at the core. --_Boston Literary World. _

We give Edward Noyes Westcott his true place in Americanletters--placing him as a humorist next to Mark Twain, as a master ofdialect above Lowell, as a descriptive writer equal to Bret Harte, and, on the whole, as a novelist on a par with the best of those who live andhave their being in the heart of hearts of American readers. If theauthor is dead--lamentable fact--his book will live. --_PhiladelphiaItem. _

The main character ... Will probably take his place in time beside JoelChandler Harris's and Thomas Nelson Page's and Miss Wilkins'screations. --_Chicago Times-Herald. _

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