The Young Section-Hand

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

Let it be said in passing that on most roads the pay-car is now a thing of the past. Payment is now usually made by checks, which are sent out in registered packages from general headquarters, and distributed by the division officials. This method is safe and eminently satisfactory to the road, but some of the employés object occasionally because of the difficulty they sometimes experience in getting their checks cashed immediately.

The road had never suffered any attack upon its pay-car, primarily, no doubt, because it was well-known that there were always half a dozen well-armed men with it, who would not hesitate to use their weapons. In fact, every man, as he stood at the little grated cashier’s window, waiting for his money, could see the row of rifles in the rack against the wall and the brace of pistols lying upon the desk, ready to the cashier’s hand. Besides, even if the car were broken into and the money secured, the difficulty of getting away safely with the booty was enormous. The road, for the most part, ran through a thickly settled country, and the moment the alarm was given, posses could be set in motion and the wires set humming in every direction, in the effort to run the robbers down. So, with whatever hungry greed would-be highwaymen had eyed the piles of bills and gold visible through the little grated window, none of them had ever dared to make a forcible attempt to gain possession of them.

Perhaps no one would dare attempt it now, thought the superintendent; perhaps he had been merely alarming himself without cause. At least, the most effective defensive measure would be to keep secret the hour of the pay-car’s arrival. If no one knew exactly when to look for it, no attempt could be made to hold it up. Such an attempt, at the best, would be foolhardy, and the superintendent turned back to his work with a little sigh of relief at the thought. In a few moments, immersed in the pile of correspondence before him, he had quite forgotten his uneasiness.

Certainly, as day after day went smoothly by, there seemed less and less cause for apprehension. The tramps were evidently making southward, like the birds, before the approach of winter. And nothing more was seen of Dan Nolan. A watch had been kept upon the hut on the hillside, but he had not returned there, so the hut was finally demolished and the tunnel in the cliff closed up. Every effort had been made to discover his whereabouts, but in vain. The detectives of the road declared that he was nowhere in the neighbourhood; but Jack Welsh was, as always, skeptical.

Just east of Wadsworth, beyond the river, the country rose into a series of hills, sparsely settled and for the most part covered by virgin forest. These hills extended for many miles to the eastward, and among them, Jack told himself, Nolan could easily find a secure hiding-place for himself and half a dozen men.

“An’ that’s jest where he is,” said Jack to Allan one evening, when they were talking the matter over. “That’s jest what Nolan’d love t’ do—put hisself at th’ head of a gang o’ bandits. He was allers talkin’ about highwaymen an’ train-robbers an’ desperadoes when he was on th’ gang; but we only laughed at him then. Now, I see it would have been a good thing if I’d ’a’ taken a stout stick an’ beat that foolishness out o’ him.”

“But Reddy,” said Allan; “where’s Reddy?”

“Reddy’s with him,” answered Jack, decidedly. “An’ there’s no tellin’ what scrape that reptile’ll git him into. I dare say, Reddy thinks Nolan’s his best friend. That’d be natural enough, since he’s got to thinkin’ that all his old friends are his worst enemies.”

“If we could only find him!” said Allan, wistfully “and bring him home again. The poor fellow will never get well if he’s left to wander about like that.”

But there seemed no way of finding him. Allan was the last person who had seen him. That was at the moment, in the early morning, when he had slunk away from under the engine. Some warning of the search for him must certainly have reached him, for he had never again appeared at home. His wife, nearly heart-broken by the suspense, imagining him suffering all sorts of hardships, yet went about her work with a calm persistence which concealed in some degree the tumult which raged within her. The children must be fed and cared for, and she permitted nothing to stand between her and that duty. The division offices had never been so clean as they were since Mrs. Magraw had taken charge of them.