“Well, we passed her, anyway,” retorted the fireman, philosophically, and returned to his duties.
Then Allan remembered the switch and understood dimly what had happened. But it was not until the investigation was held that he knew all the details.
The crew of the freight were, of course, hauled up “on the carpet.” The two brakemen who had opened the switches at the proper instant and shunted the special past were commended for their prompt action, and exonerated from blame, as the train was, of course, in charge of the conductor and engineer. The two latter worthies were suspended indefinitely without pay.
It was by no means the first time in the history of the road that a freight crew had gone to sleep on a siding and waked up to find that they no longer knew what their rights were. The proper thing to have done, of course, was either to have flagged in to the next station, or to have hunted up the nearest telephone and found out from the dispatchers’ office just what their rights were.
“That front brakeman will make a good railroad man,” remarked Mr. Plumfield, when the inquiry into the incident was over, taking a little red, leather-bound book from a drawer of his desk. “He’s quick-witted—no man ever lasted very long with a railroad who wasn’t.”
He ran down the index at the front of the book, turned to the names of the four men who had just been on the carpet, and wrote a short sentence after each of them. That record would stand to commend or condemn them so long as they were connected with the road. The record of every man was there, with all his merits and demerits. Train masters might forget—might be promoted or discharged—but that record always remained.
“Yes,” went on the train master, restoring the book to its drawer, “if a railroad man’s wits aren’t hung on hair-triggers and quicker than greased lightning in action, he’s usually knocked into Kingdom Come before he has a chance to realize he never was cut out for the work.”
And Mr. Plumfield was right. A railroad man must learn to act without stopping to think—he seldom has time to think. Perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t be so ready to risk his life as he is—for he risks his life a thousand times to a soldier’s once—but he always does it in a hurry. There is no long waiting under fire until the welcome order comes to charge—if there were, the railroad man would probably run away, and so would the soldier, but for the iron discipline that binds him. That’s what discipline is for—to hold men firm in the face of realized and long-continued danger—for there is nothing on earth more difficult than to make men stand still and be shot at. The railroad man never has to stand still—he has to jump, and jump quick. All men aren’t heroes, but their first impulse is usually to do the brave and necessary thing. Railroad men always act on that first impulse—and think about it and shiver over it and wonder at themselves afterwards.
Despite the misadventure, the special swept into Wadsworth on time, having covered ninety miles in ninety minutes—a record which has never been equalled, or even, for that matter, very nearly approached. For never since has a train been sent over the road under such orders.