THERE is a place in New York—the very last place one would think of—where stories without end may be heard about locomotives and the men who drive them; it is not a place of grime and steam, but a quiet and luxurious club spreading over the top floor of a very tall building on Forty-second Street, and here every day at luncheon-time railroad officials gather: superintendents, managers, and various heads of departments, men who may have grown prosperous and portly, but are always proud to talk about the boys at the throttle, and recall experiences of their own in certain exciting runs.
In the wide hall near the entrance of this Transportation Club is a driving-wheel, green painted, from the De Witt Clinton, the first locomotive that drew a passenger train in the State of New York. It is scarcely larger than a wagon-wheel, though made of iron, and an inscription sets forth how it made the historic run from Albany to Schenectady on August 9, 1831. The walls show many pictures, famous locomotives, scenes of accidents, and there are thrilling memories here in abundance if one have with him some veteran of the road to recall them.
"It's not always the most serious accidents that frighten a man most," remarked a high official on the New York Central, one day, while the rest of us listened. "One of the worst scares I ever had was on a freight train when there really wasn't anything to be scared about. We had just pulled out of Ottumwa, Iowa, one dark night, with a caboose full of passengers, when rump—ump—bang—rip! You never heard such a racket. First one end of the car was lifted up off the rails and slammed down again, and then the other end was treated the same way; up and down we went, bump, bump, bump! and smash went the window, and out went the lights. Now, what do you suppose it was?"
"Hog under the wheels?" suggested one of the group.
"More likely a mule," said another. "There's nothing so tough as the hind leg of a mule. Isn't a car-wheel made that'll cut through one."
"It wasn't a mule or a hog, and it wasn't anything alive, but it got us into a panic, all right. We waved a lantern like fury to the engineer ahead, but he didn't see it for a good while, and we just bumped along, expecting every second to be split into kindling-wood. We stopped at last, and found it was a beer-keg; yes, sir, an empty beer-keg that had got caught under the caboose between the rear axle and the bolster of the truck, and had rolled along over the ties with the car balanced on it like a man riding a rail. Wasn't broken, either; no, sir, not a bit; and we had to chisel through every blamed hoop before we could get it out. Talk about making things strong—that beer-keg was a wonder!"
"I had a more exciting experience than that," said another official—he was in the freight-handling department. "It was a long time ago—yes, back in '63. I remember getting out at a station near Cincinnati to look at some soldiers, and before I knew it the train started. I was up by the engine, and as the drivers began to turn I jumped on the cow-catcher. You see, I had often ridden there, being a railroad-man, and the engineer knew me.
"AS THE DRIVERS BEGAN TO TURN I JUMPED ON THE COW-CATCHER."
"Everything went well for a few miles, and I sat on the bumper enjoying the rush of air, for it was a hot summer's day; but presently, as we swung around a curve, the engine gave a fearful shriek, and just ahead I saw a farmer's wagon crossing the track. There were two old men on the seat and an old white horse in the shafts. The men were so busy talking they never heard the whistle, or perhaps they were deaf. Anyhow, we were right on them before they looked up, and then they were too dazed to do anything. One of them made a grab for the reins, but I saw it was too late, and I drew my legs up off the bumper and leaned back against the end of the boiler (I must have made a picture as I crouched there); and the next second—"