Ben looked his surprise.
"Did you know who shoved that there lumber back off of ye?"
Our friend shook his head doubtfully.
"God did it, partner. You might say a word of thanks, if yer felt so inclined. So long." And the dirt-begrimed, tobacco-painted face disappeared.
CHAPTER X.
THE MARCH TO FORT DUQUESNE.
The train man was as good as his word. Ere they climbed the mountains to the pretty town of Alatoona, that sits perched like a crow's nest, on the summit of the Alleghanies, he transferred Ben to another car. And when they reached Alatoona, and the train changed crews, he not only gave him into the care of another brakeman of the new crew, but, as the train would stop there half an hour, he took him to his own home and made him eat a substantial meal.
Daylight was fading out of the west when the train drew out of Alatoona. The car with the barrels in had been left, and our hero was now safely stowed in one loaded with pig iron that had been brought off of the Williamsburg branch. Darkness prevented the traveller from viewing the glorious mountain scenery, in the train's descent from the hills. The great Horse Shoe Bend, with its panoramic views of mountains, woodlands, and valleys; the old grade on the opposite mountains, where—in times of yore—they sailed canal boats over the hills on rails, and deposited them safely in their native elements on the western slope, together with the many enchanting scenes this road runs through, were all lost to him. Nor did he see Johnstown, with its great Cambria Iron and Steel Works, the largest in the world (and a popular resort of hundreds of tramps who journey that way and toast their sides among its many fires and furnaces). Nor could he view the noisy little Conemaugh, that led the rail road along its bank to the foot hills below. We say Ben saw none of these, for, in the first place it was night, and in the second, his patron—the new brakeman—had shut him up in the car, and told him to keep the doors and end gates closed, both as a matter of protection from the prying eyes of road officials, and to prevent a horde of impecunious travellers—like Ben—from entering. The last was by no means visionary advice, for at nearly every station and side track the doors and windows were tried by tramps, who had awaited the shades of night to aid them in "jumping" a train.
Ben, still somewhat weak from his recent adventure, yet feeling in a peaceful state of mind from the assurance of his ride and the beneficial effect of the hearty supper he had made at the home of the hospitable brakeman in Alatoona, dozed on the pig iron. His bed was a hard one, to be sure; but when one side was dented so as to be no longer endured (which occurred every little while) he turned over on another; and by so revolving discovered the important fact that a man is in possession of four sides with which he may lie on the hardest of beds in comparative comfort by judiciously using them in rotation. That is continually turning from left to right or right to left, as the case may be, so that when No. 1 is worn out No. 4 will be fresh, and ready for use.
When they arrived in the outskirts of the city of Pittsburg, the brakeman appeared at the end gate and told Ben he had best disembark at East Liberty and walk into the city, to avoid being seen by watchmen at the lower yards. Cleveland thanked him for the ride, and, as the train slacked up, dismounted to find himself in the suburbs of the Smoky City, in the grey of the dawn.