"RUN TO SEED. "

By Thomas Nelson Page

1891

I. 

Jim's father died at Gettysburg; up against the Stone Fence; went toheaven in a chariot of fire on that fateful day when the issue betweenthe two parts of the country was decided: when the slaughter on theConfe'd-erate side was such that after the battle a lieutenant was incharge of a regiment, and a major commanded a brigade. 

This fact was much to Jim, though no one knew it: it tempered his mind:ruled his life. He never remembered the time when he did not know thestory his mother, in her worn black dress and with her pale face, usedto tell him of the bullet-dented sword and faded red sash which hung onthe chamber wall. 

They were the poorest people in the neighborhood. Everybody was poor;for the county lay in the track of the armies, and the war had sweptthe country as clean as a floor. But the Uptons were the poorest evenin that community. Others recuperated, pulled themselves together, andbegan after a time to get up. The Uptons got flatter than they werebefore. The fences (the few that were left) rotted; the fields grew upin sassafras and pines; the barns blew down; the houses decayed; theditches filled; the chills came. 

"They're the shiftlesses' people in the worl', " said Mrs. Wagoner with ashade of asperity in her voice (or was it satisfaction?). Mrs. Wagoner'shusband had been in a bombproof during the war, when Jim Upton (Jim'sfather) was with his company. He had managed to keep his teams from thequartermasters, and had turned up after the war the richest man in theneighborhood. He lived on old Colonel Duval's place, which he had boughtfor Confederate money. 

"They're the shiftlesses' people in the worl', " said Mrs. Wagoner. "Mrs. Upton ain't got any spirit: she jus' sets still and cries her eyes out. "

This was true, every word of it. And so was something else that Mrs. Wagoner said in a tone of reprobation, about "people who made their bedshaving to lay on them"; this process of incubation being too well knownto require further discussion. 

But what could Mrs. Upton do? She could not change the course ofDestiny. One--especially if she is a widow with bad eyes, and in feeblehealth, living on the poorest place in the State--cannot stop the starsin their courses. She could not blot out the past, nor undo what she haddone. She would not if she could. She could not undo what she had donewhen she ran away with Jim and married him. She would not if she could. At least, the memory of those three years was hers, and nothing couldtake it from her--not debts, nor courts, nor anything. She knew hewas wild when she married him. Certainly Mrs. Wagoner had been carefulenough to tell her so, and to tell every one else so too. She wouldnever forget the things she had said. Mrs. Wagoner never forgot thethings the young girl said either--though it was more the way she hadlooked than what she had said. And when Mrs. Wagoner descanted on thepoverty of the Uptons she used to end with the declaration: "Well, itain't any fault of _mine_: she can't blame _me_, for Heaven knows Iwarned her: I did _my_ duty!" Which was true. Warning others was a dutyMrs. Wagoner seldom omitted. Mrs. Upton never thought of blaming her, orany one else. Not all her poverty ever drew one complaint from her sadlips. She simply sat down under it, that was all. She did not expectanything else. She had given her Jim to the South as gladly as any womanever gave her heart to her love. She would not undo it if she could--noteven to have him back, and God knew how much she wanted him. Was not hisdeath glorious--his name a heritage for his son? She could not undo thedebts which encumbered the land; nor the interest which swallowed it up;nor the suit which took it from her--that is, all but the old house andthe two poor worn old fields which were her dower. She would have givenup those too if it had not been for her children, Jim and Kitty, andfor the little old enclosure on the hill under the big thorn-trees wherethey had laid him when they brought him back in the broken pine box fromGettysburg. No, she could not undo the past, nor alter the present, norchange the future. So what could she do?

In her heart Mrs. Wagoner was glad of the poverty of the Uptons; notmerely glad in the general negative way which warms the bosoms of mostof us as we consider how much better off we are than our neighbors--the"Lord-I-thank-thee-that-I-am-not-as-other-men-are" way;--but Mrs. Wagoner was glad positively. She was glad that any of the Uptons andthe Duvals were poor. One of her grandfathers had been what Mrs. Wagoner(when she mentioned the matter at all) called "Manager" for one of theDuvals. She was aware that most people did not accept that term. Sheremembered old Colonel Duval--the _old_ Colonel--tall, thin, white, grave. She had been dreadfully afraid of him. She had had a feeling ofsatisfaction at his funeral. It was like the feeling she had when shelearned that Colonel Duval had not forgiven Betty nor left her a cent. 

Mrs. Wagoner used to go to see Mrs. Upton--she went frequently. It was"her duty" she said. She carried her things--especially advice. Thereare people whose visits are like spells of illness. It took Mrs. Uptona fortnight to get over one of these visits--to convalesce. Mrs. Wagonerwas "a mother to her": at least, Mrs. Wagoner herself said so. In somerespects it was rather akin to the substance of that name which forms invinegar. It was hard to swallow: it galled. Even Mrs. Upton's gentlenesswas overtaxed--and rebelled. She had stood all the homilies--all theadvice. But when Mrs. Wagoner, with her lips drawn in, after wringingher heart, recalled to her the warning she had given her before shemarried, she stopped standing it. She did not say much; but it wasenough to make Mrs. Wagoner's stiff bonnet-bows tremble. Mrs. Wagonerwalked out feeling chills down her spine, as if Colonel Duval were ather heels. She had "meant to talk about sending Jim to school": at leastshe said so. She condoled with every one in the neighborhood on the"wretched ignorance" in which Jim was growing up, "working like a commonnegro. " She called him "that ugly boy. "

Jim was ugly--Mrs. Wagoner said, very ugly. He was slim, red-headed, freckle-faced, weak-eyed; he stooped and he stammered. Yet there wassomething about him, with his thin features, which made one look twice. Mrs. Wagoner used to say she did not know where that boy got all hisugliness from, for she must admit his father was rather good-lookingbefore he became so bloated, and Betty Duval would have been "passable"if she had had any "vivacity. " There were people who said Betty Duvalhad been a beauty. She was careful in her limitations, Mrs. Wagonerwas. Some women will not admit others are pretty, no matter what thedifference in their ages: they feel as if they were making admissionsagainst themselves. 

Once when Jim was a boy Mrs. Wagoner had the good taste to refer in hispresence to his "homeliness, " a term with which she sugar-coated herinsult. Jim grinned and shuffled his feet, and then said, "Kitty'spretty. " It was true: Kitty was pretty: she had eyes and hair. You couldnot look at her without seeing them--big brown eyes, and brown tumbledhair. Kitty was fifteen--two years younger than Jim in 187-. 

Jim never went to school. They were too poor. All he knew his mothertaught him and he got out of the few old books in the book-case left bythe war, --odd volumes of the Waverley novels, and the _Spectator_, "DonQuixote, " and a few others, stained and battered. He could not have goneto school if there had been a school to go to: he had to work: work, as Mrs. Wagoner had truthfully said, "like a common nigger. " He did notmind it; a bird born in a cage cannot mind it much. The pitiful part is, it does not know anything else. Jim did not know anything else. He didnot mind anything much--except chills. He even got used to them; wouldjust lie down and shake for an hour and then go to ploughing again assoon as the ague was over, with the fever on him. He had to plough; forcorn was necessary. He had this compensation: he was worshipped by twopeople--his mother and Kitty. If other people thought him ugly, theythought him beautiful. If others thought him dull, they thought himwonderfully clever; if others thought him ignorant, they knew how wisehe was. 

Mrs. Upton's eyes were bad; but she saw enough to see Jim: the lightcame into the house with him; Kitty sat and gazed at him with speechlessadmiration; hung on his words, which were few; watched for his smile, which was rare. He repaid it to her by being--Jim. He slaved for her;waited for her (when a boy waits for his little sister it is something);played with her when he had time. 

They always went to church--old St. Ann's--whenever there was service. There was service there since the war only every first and thirdSunday and every other fifth Sunday. The Uptons and the Duvals had beenvestrymen from the time they had brought the bricks over fromEngland, generations ago. They had sat, one family in one of the frontsemicircular pews on one side the chancel, the other family in theother. Mrs. Upton, after the war, had her choice of the pews; for allhad gone but herself, Jim, and Kitty. She had changed, the Sunday afterher marriage, to the Upton side, and she clung loyally to it ever after. Mrs. Wagoner had taken the other pew--a cold, she explained at first, had made her deaf. She always spoke of it afterward as "our pew. " (TheBillings, from which Mrs. Wagoner came, had not been Episcopalians untilMrs. Wagoner married. ) Carry Wagoner, who was a year older than Kitty, used to sit by her mother, with her big hat and brown hair. Jim, inright of his sex, sat in the end of his pew. 

On this Sunday in question Jim drove his mother and Kitty to church inthe horse cart. 

The old carriage was a wreck, slowly dropping to pieces. The chickensroosted in it. The cart was the only vehicle remaining which had twosound wheels, and even one of these "wabbled" a good deal, and thecart was "shackling. " But straw placed in the bottom made it fairlycomfortable. Jim always had clean straw in it for his mother and sister. His mother and Kitty remarked on it. Kitty looked so well. They reachedchurch. The day was warm, Mr. Bickersteth was dry. Jim went to sleepduring the sermon. He frequently did this. He had been up since four. When service was over he partially waked--about half-waked. He wasstanding in the aisle moving toward the door with the rest of thecongregation. A voice behind him caught his ear:

"What a lovely girl Kitty Upton is. " It was Mrs. Harrison, who lived atthe other end of the parish. Jim knew the voice. Another voice replied:

"If she only were not always so shabby!" Jim knew this voice also. Itwas Mrs. Wagoner's. Jim waked. 

"Yes, but even her old darned dress cannot hide her. She reminds me of------" Jim did not know what it was to which Mrs. Harrison likened her. But he knew it was something beautiful. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Wagoner; then added, "Poor thing, she's got noeducation, and never will have. To think that old Colonel Duval'sfam'bly's come to this! Well, they can't blame me. They're clean run toseed. "

Jim got out into the air. He felt sick. He had been hit vitally. Thiswas what people thought! and it was true. They were "clean run to seed. "He went to get his cart. (He did not speak to Kitty. ) His home camebefore his eyes like a photograph: fences down, gates gone, housesruinous, fields barren. It came to him as if stamped on the retina by alightning-flash. He had worked--worked hard. But it was no use. It wastrue: they were "clean run to seed. " He helped his mother and Kitty intothe cart silently--doggedly. Kitty smiled at him. It hurt him like ablow. He saw every worn place, every darn in her old dress, and little, faded jacket. Mrs. Wagoner drove past them in her carriage, leaning outof the window and calling that she took the liberty of passing as shedrove faster than they. Jim gave his old mule a jerk which made himthrow up his head and wince with pain. He was sorry for it. But he hadbeen jerked up short himself. He was quivering too. 

II. 

On the following Friday the President of one of the great railway lineswhich cross Virginia was in his office when the door opened aftera gentle knock and some one entered. (The offices of presidents ofrailroads had not then become the secret and mysterious sanctums whichthey have since become. ) The President was busily engaged with two orthree of the Directors, wealthy capitalists from the North, who had comedown on important business. He was very much engrossed; and he did notlook up immediately. When he did so he saw standing inside the door aqueer figure, --long, slim, angular, --a man who looked like a boy, or aboy who looked like a man--red-headed, freckled-faced, bashful, --in acoat too tight even for his thin figure, breeches too short for his longlegs; his hat was old and brown; his shirt was clean. 

"Well, what do you want?" The President was busy. 

It was Jim. His face twitched several times before any sound came:

"--I-w-w-w want t-t-t-to ge-get a place. "

"This is not the place to get it. I have no place for you. "

The President turned back to his friends. At the end of ten minutes, seeing one of his visitors look toward the door, he stopped in themiddle of a sentence and glanced around. 

The figure was still there--motionless. The President thought he hadbeen out and come back. He had not. 

"Well?" His key was high. 

"---------I-I-w-w-want to-to get a place. "

"I told you I had no place for you. Go to the Superintendent. "

"------_I_ i've b-b-b-been to him. "

"Well, what did he say?"

"S-s-s-says he ain't got any place. "

"Well, I haven't any. Go to Mr. Blake. "

"------Iv'e b-been to _him_. 

"Well, go to--to--" The President was looking for a paper. It occupiedhis mind. 

He did not think any further of Jim. But Jim was there. 

"--Go-go where?"

"Oh, I don't know--go anywhere--go out of _here_. "

Jim's face worked. He turned and went slowly out. As he reached the doorhe said:

"Go-go-good-evening g-gentlemen. "

The President's heart relented: "Go to the Superintendent, " he called. 

Next day he was engaged with his Directors when the door opened and thesame apparition stepped within--tall, slim, red-haired, with his littletight coat, short trousers, and clean shirt. 

The President frowned. 

"Well, what is it?"

"-- --I-I-I w-w-w-went to-to the S-S-Superintendent. "

"Well, what about it?"

"Y-y-you told me to-to go-go to him. H-e-e ain't got any place. " TheDirectors smiled. One of them leaned back in his chair, took out a cigarand prepared to cut the end. 

"Well, I can't help it. I haven't anything for you. I told you thatyesterday. You must not come here bothering me; get out. "

Jim stood perfectly still--perfectly motionless. He looked as if he hadbeen there always--would be there always. The Director with the cigar, having cut it, took out a gold match-box, and opened it slowly, lookingat Jim with an amused smile. The President frowned and opened his mouthto order him out. He changed his mind. 

"What is your name?"

"J-J-James Upton. "

"Where from?"

Jim told him. 

"Whose son are you?"

"C-C-C-Captain J-J-James Upton's. "

"What! You don't look much like him!"

Jim shuffled one foot. One corner of his mouth twitched up curiously. It might have been a smile. He looked straight at the blank wall beforehim. 

"You are not much like your mother either--I used to know her as a girl. How's that?"

Jim shuffled the other foot a little. 

"R-r-run to seed, I reckon. "

The President was a farmer--prided himself on it. The reply pleased him. He touched a bell. A clerk entered. 

"Ask Mr. Wake to come here. "

"Can you carry a barrel of flour?" he asked Jim. 

"I-I'll get it there, " said Jim. He leaned a little forward. His eyesopened. 

"Or a sack of salt? They are right heavy. "

"I-I-I'll get it there, " said Jim. His form straightened. 

Mr. Wake appeared. 

"Write Mr. Day to give this man a place as brakeman. "

"Yes, sir. Come this way. " This to Jim. 

Jim electrified them all by suddenly bursting out crying. 

The tension had given way. He walked up to the wall and leaned his headagainst it with his face on his arm, shaking from head to foot, sobbingaloud. 

"Thank you, I--I'm ever so much obliged to you, " he sobbed. 

The President rose and walked rapidly about the room. 

Suddenly Jim turned and, with his arm over his eyes, held out his handto the President. 

"Good-by. " Then he went out. 

There was a curious smile on the faces of the Directors as the doorclosed. 

"Well, I never saw anything like that before, " said one of them. ThePresident said nothing. 

"Run to seed, " quoted the oldest of the Directors, "rather goodexpression!"

"Damned good seed, gentlemen, " said the President, a little shortly. "Duval and Upton. --That fellow's father was in my command. Died atGettysburg. He'd fight hell. "

Jim got a place--brakeman on a freight-train. 

That night Jim wrote a letter home. You'd have thought he had beenelected President. 

It was a hard life: harder than most. The work was hard; the fare washard; the life was hard. Standing on top of rattling cars as they rushedalong in the night around curves, over bridges, through tunnels, withthe rain and snow pelting in your face, and the tops as slippery as ice. There was excitement about it, too: a sense of risk and danger. Jim didnot mind it much. He thought of his mother and Kitty. 

There was a freemasonry among the men. All knew each other; hated orliked each other; nothing negative about it. 

It was a bad road. Worse than the average. Twice the amount of trafficwas done on the single track that should have been done. Result wasmen were ground up--more than on most roads. More men were killed inproportion to the number employed than were killed in service during thewar. The _esprit de corps_ was strong. Men stood by their trains andby each other. When a man left his engine in sight of trouble, theauthorities might not know about it, but the men did. Unless there wascause he had to leave. Sam Wray left his engine in sight of a brokenbridge after he reversed. The engine stopped on the track. The officersnever knew of it; but Wray and his fireman both changed to another road. When a man even got shaky and began to run easy, the superintendentmight not mind it; but the men did: he had to go. A man had to have notonly courage but nerve. 

Jim was not especially popular among men. He was reserved, slow, awkward. He was "pious" (that is, did not swear). He was "stuck up" (didnot tell "funny things, " by which was meant vulgar stories; nor laugh atthem either). And according to Dick Rail, he was "stingy as h--l. "

These things were not calculated to make him popular, and he was not. Hewas a sort of butt for the free and easy men who lived in their cabs andcabooses, obeyed their "orders, " and owned nothing but their overallsand their shiny Sunday clothes. He was good-tempered, though. Took alltheir gibes and "dev'ling" quietly, and for the most part silently. So, few actually disliked him. Dick Rail, the engineer of his crew, wasone of those few. Dick "dee-spised" him. Dick was big, brawny, coarse:coarse in looks, coarse in talk, coarse every way, and when he hadliquor in him he was mean. Jim "bothered" him, he said. He made Jim'slife a burden to him. He laid himself out to do it. It became hisoccupation. He thought about it when Jim was not present; laid plans forit. There was something about Jim that was different from most others. When Jim did not laugh at a "hard story, " but just sat still, some menwould stop; Dick always told another harder yet, and called attentionto Jim's looks. His stock was inexhaustible. His mind was like a springwhich ran muddy water; its flow was perpetual. The men thought Jim didnot mind. He lost three pounds; which for a man who was six feet (andwould have been six feet two if he had been straight) and who weighed122, was considerable. 

It is astonishing how one man can create a public sentiment. One womancan ruin a reputation as effectually as a churchful. One bullet can killa man as dead as a bushel, if it hits him right. So Dick Rail injuredJim. For Dick was an authority. He swore the biggest oaths, wore thelargest watch-chain, knew his engine better and sat it steadier than anyman on the road. He had had a passenger train again and again, but hewas too fond of whiskey. It was too risky. Dick affected Jim's standing:told stories about him: made his life a burden to him. "He shan't stayon the road, " he used to say. 

"He's stingier'n ------! Carries his victuals about with him--I b'lievehe sleeps with one o' them Italians in a goods box. " This was true--atleast, about carrying his food with him. (The rest was Dick's humor. )Messing cost too much. The first two months' pay went to settle an oldguano-bill; but the third month's pay was Jim's. The day he drew that hefattened a good deal. At least, he looked so. It was eighty-two dollars(for Jim ran extra runs;--made double time whenever he could). Jim hadnever had so much money in his life; had hardly ever seen it. He walkedabout the streets that night till nearly midnight, feeling the wad ofnotes in his breast-pocket. Next day a box went down the country, anda letter with it, and that night Jim could not have bought a chew oftobacco. The next letter he got from home was heavy. Jim smiled over ita good deal, and cried a little too. He wondered how Kitty looked inher new dress, and if the barrel of flour made good bread; and if hismother's shawl was warm. 

One day he was changed to the passenger service, the express. It was apromotion, paid more, and relieved him from Dick Rail. 

He had some queer experiences being ordered around, but he swallowedthem all. He had not been there three weeks when Mrs. Wagoner was apassenger on the train. Carry was with her. They had moved to town. (Mr. Wagoner was interested in railroad development. ) Mrs. Wagoner called himto her seat, and talked to him--in a loud voice. Mrs. Wagoner had a loudvoice. 

It had the "carrying" quality. She did not shake hands; Carry didand said she was so glad to see him: she had been down home the weekbefore--had seen his mother and Kitty. Mrs. Wagoner said, "We still keepour plantation as a country place. " Carry said Kitty looked so well; hernew dress was lovely. Mrs. Wagoner said his mother's eyes were worse. She and Kitty had walked over to see them, to show Kitty's new dress. She had promised that Mr. Wagoner would do what he could for him(Jim) on the road. Next month Jim went back to the freight service. Hepreferred Dick Rail to Mrs. Wagoner. He got him. Dick was worse thanever, his appetite was whetted by abstinence; he returned to his attackwith renewed zest. He never tired--never flagged. He was perpetual: hewas remorseless. He made Jim's life a wilderness. Jim said nothing, justslouched along silenter than ever, quieter than ever, closer thanever. He took to going on Sunday to another church than the one he hadattended, a more fashionable one than that. The Wagoners went there. Jimsat far back in the gallery, very far back, where he could just see thetop of Carry's head, her big hat and her face, and could not see Mrs. Wagoner, who sat nearer the gallery. It had a curious effect on him:he never went to sleep there. He took to going up-town walking by thestores--looking in at the windows of tailors and clothiers. Once heactually went into a shop and asked the price of a new suit of clothes. (He needed them badly. ) The tailor unfolded many rolls of cloth andtalked volubly: talked him dizzy. Jim looked wistfully at them, rubbedhis hand over them softly, felt the money in his pocket; and came out. He said he thought he might come in again. Next day he did not have themoney. Kitty wrote him she could not leave home to go to school on theirmother's account, but she would buy books, and she was learning; shewould learn fast, her mother was teaching her; and he was the bestbrother in the world, the whole world; and they had a secret, but hemust wait. 

One day Jim got a big bundle from down the country. It was a new suitof clothes. On top was a letter from Kitty. This was the secret. Sheand her mother had sent for the cloth and had made them; they hoped theywould fit. They had cried over them. Jim cried a little too. He put themon. They did not fit, were much too large. Under Dick Rail's fire Jimhad grown even thinner than before. But he wore them to church. He feltthat it would have been untrue to his mother and Kitty not to wearthem. He was sorry to meet Dick Rail on the street. Dick had on a blackbroadcloth coat, a velvet vest, and large-checked trousers. Dick lookedJim over. Jim winced, flushed a little: he was not so sunburned now. Dick saw it. Next week Dick caught Jim in a crowd in the "yard" waitingfor their train. He told about the meeting. He made a double shot. Hesaid, "Boys, Jim's in love, he's got new clothes! you ought to see 'em!"Dick was graphic; he wound up: "They hung on him like breechin' on hisold mule. By ----! I b'lieve he was too ------ stingy to buy 'em andmade 'em himself. " There was a shout from the crowd. Jim's face worked. He jumped for him. There was a handspike lying near and he seized it. Some one grabbed him, but he shook him off as if he had been a child. Why he did not kill Dick no one ever knew. He meant to do it. 

For some time they thought he was dead. He laid off for over a month. After that Jim wore what clothes he chose: no one ever troubled him. 

So he went on in the same way: slow, sleepy, stuttering, thin, stingy, ill-dressed, lame. 

He was made a fireman; preferred it to being a conductor, it led tobeing an engineer, which paid more. He ran extra trips whenever hecould, up and double straight back. He could stand an immense amount ofwork. If he got sleepy he put tobacco in his eyes to keep them open. Itwas bad for the eyes, but waked him up. Kitty was going to take musicnext year, and that cost money. He had not been home for several months, but was going at Christmas. 

They did not have any sight tests then. But the new Directory meantto be thorough. Mr. Wagoner had become a Director, had his eye on thepresidency. Jim was one day sent for, and was asked about his eyes. Theywere bad. There was not a doubt about it. They were inflamed; he couldnot see a hundred yards. He did not tell them about the extra trips andputting the tobacco in them. Dick Rail must have told about him. Theysaid he must go. Jim turned white. He went to his little room, close upunder the roof of a little dingy house in a back street, and sat down inthe dark; thought about his mother and Kitty, and dimly about someone else; wrote his mother and Kitty a letter; said he was cominghome--called it "a visit"; cried over the letter, but was careful not tocry on it. He was a real cry-baby--Jim was. 

"Just run to seed, " he said to himself, bitterly, over and over; "justrun to seed. " Then he went to sleep. 

The following day he went down to the railroad. That was the last day. Next day he would be "off. " The train-master saw him and called him. Aspecial was just going out. The Directors were going over the road inthe officers' car. Dick Rail was the engineer, and his fireman had beentaken sick. Jim must take the place. Jim had a mind not to do it. Hehated Dick. He thought of how he had pursued him. But he heard a voicebehind him and turned. Carry was standing down the platform, talkingwith some elderly gentlemen. She had on a travelling cap and ulster. Shesaw him and came forward--a step:

"How do you do?" she held out her little gloved hand. She was going outover the road with her father. Jim took off his hat and shook hands withher. Dick Rail saw him, walked round the other side of the engine, andtried to take off his hat like that. It was not a success; Dick knew it. 

Jim went. 

"Who was that?" one of the elderly gentlemen asked Carry. 

"An old friend of mine--a gentleman, " she said. 

"Rather run to seed--hey?" the old fellow quoted, without knowingexactly why; for he only half recognized Jim, if he recognized him atall. 

They started. 

It was a bad trip. The weather was bad, the road was bad, the enginebad; Dick bad;--worse than all. Jim had a bad time: he was to be offwhen he got home. What would his mother and Kitty do?

Once Carry came (brought by the President) and rode in the engine for alittle while. Jim helped her up and spread his coat for her to sit on, put his overcoat under her feet; his heart was in it. Dick was sullen, and Jim had to show her about the engine. When she got down to go backto the car she thanked him--she "had enjoyed it greatly"--she "wouldlike to try it again. " Jim smiled. He was almost good-looking when hesmiled. 

Dick was meaner than ever after that, sneered at Jim--swore; but Jimdidn't mind it. He was thinking of some one else, and of the rain whichwould prevent her coming again. 

They were on the return trip, and were half-way home when the accidenthappened. It was just "good dusk, " and it had been raining all night andall day, and the road was as rotten as mud. The special was behind andwas making up. She had the right of way, and she was flying. She roundeda curve just above a small "fill, " under which was a little stream, nothing but a mere "branch. " In good weather it would never be noticed. The gay party behind were at dinner. The first thing they knew was thesudden jerk which came from reversing the engine at full speed, and thegrind as the wheels slid along under the brakes. Then they stopped witha bump which jerked them out of their seats, set the lamps to swinging, and sent the things on the table crashing on the floor. No one was hurt, only shaken, and they crowded out of the car to learn the cause. Theyfound it. The engine was half buried in wet earth on the other side ofthe little washout, with the tender jammed up into the cab. The wholewas wrapped in a dense cloud of escaping steam. The roar was terrific. The big engineer, bare-headed and covered with mud, and with his facedeadly white, was trying to get down to the engine. Some one was inthere. 

They got him out after a while (but it took some time), and laid him onthe ground, while a mattress was got. It was Jim. 

Carry had been weeping and praying. She sat down and took his head inher lap, and with her lace handkerchief wiped his blackened and bleedingface, and smoothed his wet hair. 

The newspaper accounts, which are always reflections of whatpublic sentiment is, or should be, spoke of it--some, as "aprovidential"--others, as "a miraculous"--and yet others as "afortunate" escape on the part of the President and the Directors ofthe road, according to the tendencies, religious or otherwise, of theirparagraphists. 

They mentioned casually that "only one person was hurt--an employee, name not ascertained. " And one or two had some gush about the devotionof the beautiful young lady, the daughter of one of the directors ofthe road, who happened to be on the train, and who, "like a ministeringangel, held the head of the wounded man in her lap after he was takenfrom the wreck. " A good deal was made of this picture, which wasextensively copied. 

Dick Rail's account, after he had come back from carrying the brokenbody down to the old Upton place in the country, and helping to lay itaway in the old enclosure under the big trees on the hill, was this:

"By ----!" he said, when he stood in the yard, with a solemn-faced grouparound him, "we were late, and I was just shaking 'em up. I had beenmeaner'n hell to Jim all the trip (I didn't know him, and you all didn'tneither), and I was workin' him for all he was worth: I didn't givehim a minute. The sweat was rolling off him, and I was damnin' him withevery shovelful. We was runnin' under orders to make up, and we was justrounding the curve this side of Ridge Hill, when Jim hollered. He sawit as he raised up with the shovel in his hand to wipe the sweat off hisface, and he hollered to me, 'My God! Look, Dick! Jump!'

"I looked and Hell was right there. He caught the lever and reversed, and put on the air and sand before I saw it, and then grabbed me, andflung me clean out of the cab: 'Jump!' he says, as he give me a swing. I jumped, expectin' of course he was comin' too; and as I lit, I saw himturn and catch the lever. The old engine was jumpin' nigh off the track. But she was too near. In she went, and the tender right on her. You maytalk about his eyes bein' bad; but by ----! when he gave me that swing, they looked to me like coals of fire. When we got him out 'twarn't Jim!He warn't nothin' but mud and ashes. He warn't quite dead; opened hiseyes, and breathed onct or twict; but I don't think he knew anything, hewas so mashed up. We laid him out on the grass, and that young lady tookhis head in her lap and cried over him (she had come and seed him inthe engine), and said she knew his mother and sister down in the country(she used to live down there); they was gentlefolks; that Jim wasall they had. And when one of them old director-fellows who had beenswilling himself behind there come aroun', with his kid gloves on andhis hands in his great-coat pockets, lookin' down, and sayin' somethingabout, 'Poor fellow, couldn't he 'a jumped? Why didn't he jump?' I lethim have it; I said, 'Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, you and I'dboth been frizzin' in h--l this minute. ' And the President standin'there said to some of them, 'That was the same young fellow who cameinto my office to get a place last year when you were down, and saidhe had "run to seed. " 'But, ' he says, 'Gentlemen, it was d----d goodseed!'"

How good it was no one knew but two weeping women in a lonely house.