Golden Stories Part 22

"In _my_ name!" exclaimed Jeannette.

"Well--you are the person aggrieved."

"I really don't think it's fair to put the whole of the responsibility on my shoulders," she demurred.

"No, I suppose not," Chilminster admitted grudgingly. "How would this do: 'Miss Urmy and Lord Chilminster wish to contradict their engagement----'"

"But that implies that there _was_ an engagement!"

Chilminster pondered the deduction. "So it does. I see. People would jump to the conclusion that we were in a desperate hurry to alter our minds!"

"And, of course, we haven't."

"Y-es. I don't know how you feel about it, but if there's one thing I dislike it's t.i.ttle-tattle about my private affairs."

"Horrid!" shivered Jeannette. "What _are_ we to do?"

Her tone was so hopeless, so full of tears, that it melted Chilminster.

Susceptibilities that had been simmering within him for an hour past came unexpectedly to the boil; and as they did so the difficulty vanished.

"Why need we bother at all about it?" he asked impulsively.

For a world of moments, Jeannette stared at him, revolving the question.

Then a faint radiance came into her face, and grew and grew until it burned. Jeannette bit her lip. Jeannette looked down.

"What do you mean?" she asked in confusion.

"Don't--don't you think we had better--take the consequences?" said Chilminster, as he reached across the table and let his hand fall on hers.

Mrs. Urmy stood at the window looking with lack-l.u.s.tre eyes across the park. She had had six solid hours in which to reflect on that risky communication of hers to the _Morning Post_, and Jeannette's disappearance since breakfast time provided a gloomy commentary on it.

She fidgeted uneasily as she recalled her daughter's scared look when reading the paper, and maternal forebodings discounted her interest in an automobile that showed at intervals between the trees of the drive as it approached the White House.

But two moments later it occurred to her that it was Jeannette who sat on its front seat beside the driver; and, as the car drew up, her experienced eye detected something in the demeanor of the pair that startled but elated her.

"Here's Jeannette!" she called over her shoulder to Lady Hartley. "In an auto with a young man. Say, Persis, who is he?"

Lady Hartley hurried to the window, gave one look, and doubted the evidence of her eyes.

"Lavinia, it's Lord Chilminster!" she cried, with a catch in her voice.

The two women flashed a glance brimful of significance at one another.

Lady Hartley's expressed uncertainty; Mrs. Urmy's triumph--sheer, complete, perfect triumph.

"Didn't I say it was a sure thing?" she shrilled excitedly. "It's fixed them up! Come right ahead and introduce me to my future son-in-law!"

As she raced to the door she added half to herself: "I don't want to boast, but, thank the Lord, I've got Jeannette off this season!"

XII

THE MILLION DOLLAR FREIGHT TRAIN

The Story of a Young Engineer

By FRANK H. SPEARMAN

IT WAS the second month of the strike, and not a pound of freight had been moved. Things did look smoky on the West End. The General Superintendent happened to be with us when the news came. "You can't handle it, boys," said he nervously. "What you'd better do is to turn it over to the Columbian Pacific."

Our contracting freight agent on the Coast at that time was a fellow so erratic that he was nicknamed "Crazy-horse." Right in the midst of the strike Crazy-horse wired that he had secured a big silk shipment for New York. We were paralyzed. We had no engineers, no firemen, and no motive power to speak of. The strikers were pounding our men, wrecking our trains, and giving us the worst of it generally; that is, when we couldn't give it to them. Why the fellow displayed his activity at that particular juncture still remains a mystery. Perhaps he had a grudge against the road; if so, he took an artful revenge. Everybody on the system with ordinary railroad sense knew that our struggle was to keep clear of freight business until we got rid of our strike. Anything valuable or perishable was especially unwelcome. But the stuff was docked, and loaded, and consigned in our care before we knew it. After that, a refusal to carry it would be like hoisting the white flag; and that is something which never yet flew over the West End.

"Turn it over to the Columbian," said the General Superintendent; but the General Superintendent was not looked up to on our division. He hadn't enough sand. Our head was a fighter, and he gave tone to every man under him. "No," he thundered, bringing down his fist. "Not in a thousand years. We'll move it ourselves. Wire Montgomery (the General Manager) that we will take care of it. And wire him to fire Crazy-horse--and to do it right off." And before the silk was turned over to us Crazy-horse was looking for another job. It is the only case on record where a freight hustler was discharged for getting business.

There were twelve carloads; it was insured for $85,000 a car; you can figure how far the t.i.tle is wrong, but you never can estimate the worry the stuff gave us. It looked as big as twelve million dollars' worth. In fact, one scrub car-link, with the glory of the West End at heart, had a fight over the amount with a skeptical hostler. He maintained that the actual money value was a hundred and twenty millions; but I give you the figures just as they went over the wire, and they are right.

What bothered us most was that the strikers had the tip almost as soon as we had it. Having friends on every road in the country, they knew as much about our business as we ourselves. The minute it was announced that we should move the silk, they were after us. It was a defiance; a last one. If we could move freight--for we were already moving pa.s.sengers after a fashion--the strike might be well accounted beaten.

Stewart, the leader of the local contingent, together with his followers, got after me at once. "You don't show much sense, Reed," said he. "You fellows here are breaking your necks to get things moving, and when this strike's over, if our boys ask for your discharge, they'll get it. This road can't run without our engineers. We're going to beat you.

If you dare try to move this silk, we'll have your scalp when it's over.

You'll never get your silk to Zanesville, I'll promise you that. And if you ditch it and make a million-dollar loss, you'll get let out anyway, my buck."

"I'm here to obey orders, Stewart," said I. What was the use of more? I felt uncomfortable; but we had determined to move the silk; there was no more to be said.

When I went over to the round-house and told Neighbor the decision, he said never a word; but he looked a great deal. Neighbor's task was to supply the motive power. All that we had, uncrippled, was in the pa.s.senger service, because pa.s.sengers should be taken care of first of all. In order to win a strike, you must have public opinion on your side.

"Nevertheless, Neighbor," said I, after we had talked awhile, "we must move the silk also."

Neighbor studied; then he roared at his foreman. "Send Bartholomew Mullen here." He spoke with a decision that made me think the business was done. I had never happened, it is true, to hear of Bartholomew Mullen in the department of motive power; but the impression the name gave me was of a monstrous fellow, big as Neighbor, or old man Sankey, or Dad Hamilton. "I'll put Bartholomew ahead of it," said Neighbor tightly.

I saw a boy walk into the office. "Mr. Garten said you wanted me, sir,"

said he, addressing the Master Mechanic.

"I do, Bartholomew," responded Neighbor.

The figure in my mind's eye shrunk in a twinkling. Then it occurred to me that it must be this boy's father who was wanted.

"You have been begging for a chance to take out an engine, Bartholomew,"

began Neighbor coldly; and I knew it was on.

"Yes, sir."

"You want to get killed, Bartholomew."

Bartholomew smiled as if the idea was not altogether displeasing.