Loud Siren Screecher Terrorizes Hundreds.
“Bob” Maynard is known to be one of the best logging engineers in Chireno, Texas, but he doesn’t like to run a wheezy, prancing old steam hurdy-gurdy. Not at all; give Bob a likely hummer and he is the chap that will keep her humming. Thus it was that he no sooner had engaged with a logging outfit than he demanded and got a brand-new engine. The whistle on the new power producer was too much like a boy’s penny trumpet to suit the fastidious Bob. Bob had had some experience along the Mississippi and had heard the noisy whistles that adorn some of the big flat-bottom boats. And in due time there arrived from the big shop up north a siren screecher warranted to be heard ten miles, in either direction, on a still day.
Everything adjusted to Bob’s practical taste, he proceeded to run the new beauty over to where it was to do duty at a busy lumber camp. Arrived in that vicinity at about the same time was a full-fledged Sunday school out for a picnic in the woods. When Bob let loose with the great siren screecher—now low and mournful—then wild and alarming—and again to its limit, as if some eighty-foot, hundred-ton dinosaurus had suddenly come to life and was setting up an unearthly howl for its mate, Bob’s heart fluttered with delight.[Pg 63]
Hearing the awful sounds, four of the Sunday-school girls rushed back to the grove where half a hundred children and adults stood spellbound, and cried out: “Wolves—panthers—bears—monsters—save us! save us!”
After long consultation, half a dozen men, with guns and dogs, started out to scour the country for the “roaring hyenus,” as one of the men called it.
By this time scores of people came rushing pell-mell from a near-by settlement, armed with shotguns, rifles, axes, pitchforks, and fence stakes. “Whatever is it?” they shouted, and “What is to become of us?” from many of the women formed into groups with their young ones shielded behind their barriers of skirts.
“Go, men, and slay that awful beast before we are all devoured like the martyrs of yore,” yelled one tall, wild-eyed matron, pointing a long, bony finger in the direction of the terrifying sounds, which again broke forth, with even greater fury.
Soon there was a crashing of underbrush, wild cries of excited men, barking and howling of numerous hounds, occasional shots, as the attackers advanced toward the spot from which the alarming sounds came.
Now hundreds of telephones were in use throughout the country. “What is it?” one would ask. “What is what?” comes the reply. “That awful noise we hear,” another would explain. “Cyclone, I guess,” still another would answer.
In time the attacking force came to the clearing where Bob was amusing himself with the try-out of his screeching pet. The attackers and their dogs, the former seeing that the enemy was nothing worse than a man of average height and weight and some sort of hissing locomotive, made a football rush, and, as they came to a halt, all exclaimed as one man:
“Well, what the h—l!”
“Jest tunin’ her up,” said Bob, with a characteristic grin.
“Tunin’ her up!” angrily exclaimed one of the Sunday-school scouts. “Don’t ye know yer tunin’ up the whole county with that thar crazy whangdoodle affair? Want ter skeer people ter death?”
“Oh,” said Bob calmly, “they’ll like it in time—it’s more fun than a cage o’ monkeys.”
“Jes’ so, I don’t think,” said the angry man. “And I’ll tell you what, mister, ef thet thingumbob scares any of them wimmen and children to death, we’ll bring heavy damage suits against the company, that’s what we’ll do.”
“You can’t blow that thing around these diggings any more,” said the superintendent of the Sunday school.
“Now, see here,” said Bob, “you go fetch all the women and little ones over here to the camp and let me demonstrate to them, and if this here whistle isn’t the one big, entertaining feature of your picnic, I’ll promise never to blow her again.”
This was finally agreed upon, and, true to Bob’s claim, the whole crowd found the noisy siren to be “more fun than a cage of monkeys.”
Before breaking up at nightfall the picknickers declared Bob was the hero of the day, and tendered him a vote of thanks.
Even so, the big laugh was reserved to the last. Just as Bob was banking his fire and the crowd were shouting and waving their good-bys and good nights, the faces of three wild-eyed Indians loomed up from behind a clump[Pg 64] of sagebrush and continued to stare with what might be called frozen amazement. When finally induced to speak, one of them said, with a smile, “Injin heap fool. Come much far. All day climb tree when hear noise. No can tell what. Injin heap fool. Odder Injin now much laugh.”