“No, I won’t!” laughed Allan. “But I’ll turn in now, anyway.”
It seemed to him that he had been asleep only a few minutes when he heard Jack’s voice calling. But he was out of bed as soon as he got his eyes open, and got into his clothes as quickly as he could in the darkness. Mary had a hot lunch waiting by the time he got down-stairs. He and Jack ate a little,—one doesn’t have much appetite at midnight,—and together they made their way across the yards to the station, where they caught the fast mail for the city.
The smoking-car of the train was crowded with section-men on their way to the rendezvous, and a jolly, good-natured lot they were. There was no thought of sleep, for this was a holiday for them,—besides, sleep was out of the question in that tumult,—and one story of the rail followed another. As Allan listened, he wondered at these tales of heroism and daring told so lightly—of engineers sticking to their posts though certain death stared them in the face; of crossing-flagmen saving the lives of careless men and women, at the cost, often, of their own; of break-in-twos, washouts, head-end collisions, of confusion of orders and mistakes of despatchers—all the lore that gathers about the life of the rail. And as he listened, the longing came to him to prove himself worthy of this brotherhood.
One story, in particular, stuck in Allan’s memory.
“Then there was Tom Rawlinson,” began one of the men.
“Let Pat tell that story,” interrupted another. “Come out here, Pat. We want t’ hear about Tom Rawlinson an’ his last trip on th’ Two-twenty-four.”
So Pat came out, shyly, a tall, raw-boned man. As he got within the circle of light, Allan saw that his face was frightfully scarred.
“’Twas in th’ summer o’ ninety-two,” he began. “Rawlinson had had th’ Two-twenty-four about a month, an’ was as proud of her as a man is of his first baby. That day he was takin’ a big excursion train in to Parkersburg. He was lettin’ me ride in th’ cab, which he hadn’t any bus’ness t’ do, but Tom Rawlinson was th’ biggest-hearted man that ever pulled a lever on this road.”
He paused a moment, and his listeners gravely nodded their approval of the sentiment.
“Well, he was pullin’ up th’ hill at Torch, an’ th’ engine had on every pound she could carry. There was a big wind whistlin’ down th’ cut, an’ we could hear th’ fire a-roarin’ when th’ fireman pulled open th’ door t’ throw in some more coal. Th’ minute th’ door was open, the wind jest seemed t’ sweep int’ thet fire-box, an’ the first thing I knew, a big sheet o’ flame was shootin’ right out in my face. I went back over that tender like a rabbit, without stoppin’ t’ argy th’ why an’ th’ wherefore, an’ when I got back t’ th’ front platform o’ th’ baggage-car, I found that Tom an’ his fireman had come, too.