“Jud,” he said, “we started out Wednesday, with a dozen passengers, as many shovelers, 227 and three days’ food. We got to No. 15 Saturday. Then the storm came and the food was about all gone. Yesterday the storm kept up and the men could have done nothing even if they had had food. This morning they are at it, but they are so weak that they can’t do much, but with what you’ve got on your sled we’ll get through.”
He went back with me, and there were Burrdock and Sours and Allenham and some others, all shoveling at the cut with the men; and in the car was Mr. Clerkinwell, now recovered from his sickness, but weak from the lack of food. I won’t try to tell how glad they were to see me; but I was gladder to see them. I felt that I was out of the prison of Track’s End at last; and so many times I had thought I never should get out alive!
“And why didn’t you die a thousand times from loneliness,” cried Mr. Clerkinwell, after he had talked a few minutes, “if from no other cause?”
“Oh,” I answered, “I had some company, you know; then there were callers, too, once in a while.” Then I said to him that “I wrote every Sunday to my mother,” at the 228 which he patted me on the head, just as if I weren’t taller than he!
The men all came in and we got up a sort of a meal; at least there was plenty of coffee, bacon, and beans. Then they went at the shoveling again, the engineer got up steam, and soon we left the short platform and little cube of a house at the siding behind. There was a snow-plow on the engine, and the men now worked with so much energy that we bucked along through the cuts, and before sundown were at Track’s End. So, on Monday, March 21st, the train which had gone away on Friday, December 17th, was back again, with a long whistle and a cheer from every man, and barks from Kaiser which lasted longer than all.
I had told part of my story, and we all went over to the Headquarters House, Allenham to arrest Pike. He was gone. The barn had been broken open that morning and one of his ponies taken out. How he ever did it with his broken leg was more than any of us could tell, but he had done it, and it seemed no use to try to follow him. I saw my mistake in telling him so much; but it was too late to remedy it. 229
The next day another train came, bringing a whole crowd of Track’s-Enders; and that night they held a little meeting at the hotel and were for giving me a reward for what I had done (which was no more than I had been left to do); but I told them, No, that Mr. Sours had paid me my wages according to agreement and that I couldn’t take any reward; but when Mr. Clerkinwell got up and took off his watch and chain (gold they were, you may be sure) and said I must take that whether or no, so that when I “looked for the time o’ day I would always remember that a townful of people, and especially a certain old gentleman, thanked me and did not forget what I had done”–when Mr. Clerkinwell did this, I say, and I guess there were tears in his eyes, what could I do but take it? and take it I did, and wear it to this day.
MR. CLERKINWELL GIVING ME HIS WATCH AND CHAIN