Allan began to understand the whistle signals—especially the two long and two short toots which are the signal for a crossing, the signal most familiar to travellers and to those who live along the line of a railroad. And he grew accustomed to the rocking of the engine, the roaring of the fire, the sudden, vicious hiss of steam when the engineer tested a cock, the rush of the wind and patter of cinders against the windows of the cab. He began to take a certain joy in it—in the noise, the rattle, the motion. There was an excitement in it that made his pulses leap.
So they hummed along, between broad fields, through little hamlets and crossroads villages, mile after mile. Operators, flagmen, and station-agents came out to wave at them, here and there they passed a section-gang busy at work, now and then they paused until a freight or passenger could thunder past—on and on, on and on. Allan looked out at field and village, catching glimpses of men and women at work, of children at play—they would turn their faces toward him, and in another instant were gone. The life of the whole country was unfolded before him,—everywhere there were men and women working, everywhere there were children playing,—everywhere there was life and hope and happiness and sorrow. If one could only go on like this for ever, visiting new scenes, seeing new—
A sharp, sudden, agonized cry from the fireman startled him out of his thoughts, and he felt the quick jolt as the engineer reversed his engine and applied the brakes. For a moment, in the shrieking, jolting pandemonium that followed, he thought the engine was off the track; then, as he glanced ahead, his heart suddenly stood still. For there, toddling down the track toward the engine, its little hands uplifted, its face sparkling with laughter, was a baby, scarce old enough to walk!
As long as he lives Allan will never forget that moment. He realized that the train could not be stopped, that that little innocent, trusting life must be ground out beneath the wheels. He felt that he could not bear to see it, and turned away, but just then the fireman sprang past him, slammed open the little window, ran along the footboard, clambered down upon the pilot, and, holding to a bolt with one hand, leaned far over and snatched the little one into the air just as the engine bore down upon it. Allan, who had watched it all with bated breath, fell back upon his seat with a great gasp of thankfulness.
“SNATCHED THE LITTLE ONE INTO THE AIR JUST AS THE ENGINE BORE DOWN UPON IT”
The engine stopped with a jerk, the fireman sprang to the ground with the baby in his arms. It was still crowing and laughing, and patting his face with its hands. Allan, looking at him, was surprised to see the great tears raining down his cheeks and spattering on the baby’s clothes.
“It’s his kid,” said the engineer, hoarsely. “He lives up yonder,” and he nodded toward a little house perched on the hillside that sloped down to the track. “That’s th’ reason th’ kid was down here—he come down t’ see his daddy!”
The section-men came pouring forward to find out what was the matter, and surrounded the baby as soon as they heard the story, petting him, passing him around from hand to hand—until, suddenly, the mother, who had just missed him, came flying down the hill and snatched him to her breast.
“Pile back in, boys,” called the conductor, cutting short the scene. “We can’t stay here all day. We’ve got t’ make Stewart in eighteen minutes.”