The Young Section-Hand

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

Freight-trains, when traffic is heavy, are usually run in sections, with as many cars to each section as an engine can handle. The sections are run as close together as they can be with safety, and, in railroad parlance, the first section of Freight-train Ninety-eight, for instance, is known as “first Ninety-eight”; the second section as “second Ninety-eight,” and so on.

In this instance, the first section of Train Ninety-eight had broken in two at the top of a long grade, and fifteen coal-cars, together with the caboose, had gone hurtling back down the grade, finally crashing into the front end of the second section, which was following about a mile behind. The conductor and brakemen, who were in the caboose, after a vain attempt to stop the runaway cars with the hand-brakes, had jumped off, and escaped with slight bruises, but the engineer and fireman of the second section had had no warning of their danger until the cars swept down upon them out of the storm. There was no time to jump—it would have been folly to jump, anyhow, since the high walls of the cut shut them in on either side; yet the fireman had escaped almost unhurt, only the engineer being badly injured. The impact of the collision had been terrific, and, as the telegram from the conductor stated, fifteen cars had been completely wrecked.

So much the section-men understood from the superintendent’s brief description, and Jack explained it to Allan, while the others listened, putting in a word of correction now and then.

On and on sped the wrecking-train through the night. The oil-lamps flared and flickered, throwing a yellow, feeble light down into the car, where the men sat crowded together, for the most part silent now, figuring on the task before them. It was evident that it would be no easy one, but they had confidence in their officers,—the same confidence that soldiers have in a general whose ability has been fully tested,—and they knew that the task would be made as easy as might be.

The atmosphere of the car grew close to suffocation. Every one, almost, was smoking, and the lamps soon glowed dimly through the smoke like the sun upon a foggy day. Outside, the snow still fell, thickly, softly; their engineer could not see the track twenty feet ahead; but the superintendent had told him that the way was clear, so he kept his throttle open and plunged blindly on into the night, for every moment was valuable now; every nerve must be strained to the utmost tension until the task of clearing the track had been accomplished.

So the fireman bent steadily to the work of keeping up steam, clanging the door of the fire-box back and forth between each shovelful of coal, in order to keep the draught full strength. The flames licked out at him each time the door was opened, lighting the cab with yellow gleams, which danced across the polished metal and illumined dimly the silent figure of the engineer peering forward into the storm. The engine rocked and swayed, the wind swirled and howled about it, and tried to hold it back, but on and on it plunged, never pausing, never slackening. Any one who was on the track to-night must look out for himself; but, luckily, the right of way was clear, crossing after crossing was passed without accident; the train tore through little hamlets, awakening strange echoes among the darkened houses, and, as it passed, the operator would run out to look at it, and, after a single glance, would rush back to his key, call frantically for “G I,”—the despatcher’s office,—and tick in the message that the wrecking-train had got that far on its journey.

Back in the wrecking-car the superintendent had taken out his watch and sat with it a moment in his hand.

“We’re going a mile a minute,” he remarked to the train-master. “Higgins is certainly hitting her up.”

The train-master nodded and turned again to the conductor’s report. He was planning every detail of the battle which must be fought.

Jack glanced at Allan, and smiled.