Read Ebook: The Sex Side of Life: An Explanation for Young People by Dennett Mary Ware

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Ebook has 207 lines and 12732 words, and 5 pages

There was a train coming in at the moment, and Allan paused to watch the accountant with his note-book; then he went on to the office to leave the two letters addressed to John Marney, the yardmaster, a genial Irishman with bronzed face and beard tinged with gray, who knew the yards and the intricacies of "making up" better than most people know the alphabet. Allan knew him well, for many an evening had he spent in the little shanty, where conductors and brakemen assembled, listening to tales of the road--tales grave and gay, of comedy and tragedy--yes, even of ghosts! If I stopped to tell a tenth of them, this book would never be. finished!

"How are ye, Allan?" the yardmaster greeted him, as he opened the door. "So ye've got a new job?"

"Yes, sir; official mail-carrier," and he handed him the letters.

"Hum," grunted Marney; "this road never was over-liberal. You're beginnin' at th' bottom, fer sure!"

"Just where I ought to begin! I've got to learn the ropes before I can begin to climb."

"Well, it won't take ye long, my boy; I know that," said Marney, his eyes twinkling. "You'll soon begin t' climb, all right; they can't kape ye down!"

"I fully expect to be superintendent some day," said Allan, laughing.

"Of course ye will!" cried the other. "I don't doubt it--not fer a minute. Yes--an' I'll live t' see it! I'll be right here where I've allers been; an ye mustn't fergit old Jack Marney, me boy."

"I won't," Allan promised, still laughing. "I'll always speak to you, if I happen to think of it."

"I'll certainly try not to," Allan assured him, and went out with a livelier sense of the dangers of the yard than he had ever had before; and, indeed, the yardmaster had not overstated them, though the crushing and maiming and killing which went on there were due in no small degree to the carelessness and foolhardiness of the men, who grew familiar with danger and contemptuous of it from looking it every day in the face, and took chances which sooner or later ended in disaster.

The person Allan had next to find was the master-mechanic, whose office was a square, one-storied building behind the great shops which closed in the lower end of the yards. He knew the shops thoroughly, for he had been through them more than once under Jack Welsh's guidance, and had spent many of his spare moments there, for there was a tremendous fascination about the intricate and mammoth machinery which filled them, almost human in its intelligence, and with which so many remarkable things were accomplished.

So on he went, past the great roundhouse where stood the mighty engines groomed ready for the race, or being rubbed down by the grimed and sweaty hostlers after a hundred-mile run; past the little shanty with "21" in big figures on its door--headquarters of Section Twenty-One, and receptacle for hand-car and tools,--the hand-car which he had pumped along the track so many times, the tools with which his hands had grown familiar. The door of the "long-shop" lay just beyond, and he entered it, for the shortest path to the master-mechanic's office lay through the shops; and Allan knew that he would probably find the official he was seeking somewhere among them, inspecting some piece of machinery, or overseeing some important bit of work.

The "long-shop," so named from its peculiar shape, very long and narrow, is devoted wholly to repairing and rebuilding engines. Such small complaints as leaking valves and broken springs and castings may be repaired in the roundhouse, as the family medicine-chest avails for minor ailments; but for more serious injuries the engines must be taken to the experts in the long shop, and placed on one of the operating-tables there, and taken apart and put together and made fit for service again. When the injuries are too severe--when, in other words, it would cost more to rebuild the engine than the engine is worth--it is shoved along a rusty track back of the shop into the cemetery called the "bone-yard," and there eventually dismantled, knocked to pieces, and sold for "scrap." That is the sordid fate, which, sooner or later, overtakes the proudest and swiftest empress of the rail.

In the long-shop, four or five engines are always jacked up undergoing repairs; each of them has a special gang of men attached to it, under a foreman whose sole business it is to see that that engine gets back into active service in the shortest possible time.

And even if the visitor was not confused by this tangle of machinery, he was sure to be confounded by the noise, toward which every man in the shop contributed his quota. The noise!--it is difficult to give an adequate idea of that merciless and never-ceasing din. Chains clanked, drills squeaked, but over and above it all was the banging and hammering of the riveters, and, as a sort of undertone, the clangour from the boiler-shop, connected with the long-shop by an open arch. The work of the riveters never paused nor slackened, and the onlooker was struck with wonder and amazement that a human being could endure ten hours of such labour!

Allan, closing behind him the little door by which he had entered, looked around for the tall form of the master-mechanic. But that official was nowhere in sight, so the boy walked slowly on, glancing to right and left between the engines, anxious not to miss him. At last, near the farthest engine, he thought that he perceived him, and drew near. As he did so, he saw that an important operation was going forward. A boiler was being lowered to its place on its frame. A gang of men were guiding it into position, as the overhead crane slowly lowered it, manipulated by a lever in the hands of a young fellow whose eyes were glued upon the signalling hand which the foreman raised to him.

"Easy!" the foreman shouted, his voice all but inaudible in the din. "Easy!" and the boiler was lowered so slowly that its movement was scarcely perceptible.

There was a pause, a quick intaking of breath, a straining of muscles--

"Now!" yelled the foreman, and with a quick movement the young fellow threw over the lever and let the boiler drop gently, exactly in place.

The men drew a deep breath of relief, and stood erect, hands on hips, straightening the strained muscles of their backs.

There was something marvellous in the ease and certainty with which the crane had handled the great weight, responsive to the pressure of a finger, and Allan ran his eyes admiringly along the heavy chains, up to the massive and perfectly balanced arm--

Then his heart gave a sudden leap of terror. He sprang forward toward the young fellow who stood leaning against the lever.

"Look out!" he cried, and seizing him by the arm, dragged him sharply backwards.

The next instant there was a resounding crash, which echoed above the din of the shop like a cannon-shot above the rattle of musketry, and a great block smashed the standing-board beside the lever to pieces.

A NEW FRIEND

The crash was followed by an instant's silence, as every man dropped his work and stood with strained attention to see what had happened; then the young fellow whose arm Allan still held turned toward him with a quick gesture.

"Why," he cried, "you--you saved my life!"

"Yes," said Allan; "I saw the block coming. It was lucky I happened to be looking at it."

"Lucky!" echoed the other, visibly shaken by his narrow escape, and he glanced at the splintered board where he had been standing. "I should say so! Imagine what I'd have looked like about this time, if you hadn't dragged me out of the way!"

The other men rushed up, stared, exclaimed, and began to devise explanations of how the accident had occurred. No one could tell certainly, but it was pretty generally agreed that the sudden rebound from the strain, as the boiler fell into place, had in some way loosened the block, thrown it away from its tackle, and hurled it to the floor below.

But neither Allan nor his companion paid much attention to these explanations. For the moment, they were more interested in each other than in anything else. A sudden comradeship, born in the first glance they exchanged, had arisen between them; a mutual feeling that they would like to know each other--a prevision of friendship.

"My name is Anderson," the boy was saying, his hand outstretched; "my first name is James--but my friends call me Jim."

"And my name is Allan West," responded Allan, clasping the proffered hand in a warm grip.

"Oho!" cried Jim, with a start of surprise, "so you're Allan West! Well, I've always wanted to know you, but I never thought you'd introduce yourself like this!"

"Always wanted to know me?" repeated Allan in bewilderment. "How could that be?"

"Hero-worship, my boy!" explained Jim, grinning at Allan's blush. "Do you suppose there's a man on this road who hasn't heard of your exploits? And to hero-worship there is now added a lively sense of gratitude, since you arrived just in time to save me from being converted into a grease-spot. But there--the rest will keep for another time. Where do you live?"

"At Jack Welsh's house," answered Allan; "just back of the yards yonder."

"All right, my friend," said Jim. "I'll take the liberty of paying you a call before very long. I only hope you'll be at home."

"I surely will, if you'll let me know when to look for you," answered Allan, heartily. "But I've got some letters here for the master-mechanic--I mustn't waste any more time."

"Well!" said Jim, smiling, "I don't think you've been exactly wasting your time--though of course there might be a difference of opinion about that. But there he comes now," and he nodded toward the tall figure of the master-mechanic, who had heard of the accident and was hastening to investigate it.

Allan handed him his letters, which he thrust absently into his pocket, as he listened with bent head to the foreman's account of the mishap. Allan did not wait to hear it, but, conscious that the errand was taking longer than it should, hurried on to deliver the other letters. This was accomplished in a very few minutes, and he was soon back again at his desk in the trainmaster's office.

He spent the next half-hour in sorting the mail which had accumulated there. The trainmaster was busy dictating letters to his stenographer, wading through the mass of correspondence before him with a rapidity born of long experience. Allan never ceased to be astonished at the vast quantity of mail which poured in and out of the office--letters upon every conceivable subject connected with the operation of the road--reports of all sorts, inquiries, complaints, requisitions--all of which had to be carefully attended to if the business of the road was to move smoothly.

There was no end to it. Every train brought a big batch of correspondence, which it was his duty to receive, delivering at the same time to the baggage-master other packets addressed to employees at various points along the road. The road took care of its own mail in this manner, without asking the aid of Uncle Sam, and so escaped a charge for postage which would have made a serious hole in the earnings.

As soon as he had received the mail, Allan would hasten up-stairs to his desk to sort it. Always about him, echoing through the office, rose the clatter of the telegraph instruments. The trainmaster had one at his elbow, the chief-dispatcher another, and in the dispatchers' office next door three or four more were constantly chattering. It reminded Allan of nothing so much as a chorus of blackbirds.

Often Mr. Schofield would pause in the midst of dictating a letter, open his key and engage in conversation with some one out on the line. And Allan realized that, after all, the pile of letters, huge as it was, represented only a small portion of the road's business--that by far the greater part of it was transacted by wire. And he determined to master the secrets of telegraphy at the earliest possible moment. It was plainly to be seen that that way, and that way only, lay promotion.

He was still pondering this idea when, the day's work over, he left the office and made his way toward the little house perched high on an embankment back of the yards, where he had lived ever since he had come to Wadsworth, a year before, in search of work. Big-hearted Jack Welsh had not only given him work, but had offered him a home--and a real home the boy found it. He had grown as dear to Mary Welsh's heart as was her own little girl, Mamie, who had just attained the proud age of seven and was starting to school.

Allan found her now, waiting for him at the gate, and she escorted him proudly up the path and into the house.

"Well, an' how d' you like your new job?" Mary asked, as they sat down to supper.

"First rate," Allan answered, and described in detail how he had spent the day.

Mary sniffed contemptuously when he had finished.

"I don't call that sech a foine job," she said. "Why, anybody could do that! A boy loike you deserves somethin' better! An' after what ye did fer th' road, too!"

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