Part 12 (1/2)

”I am not!” replied Sammy Durgan buoyantly to Sammy Durgan. ”'Tis not the first time I've been fired, and did I not read that there's MacMurtrey begging for men up at The Gap? And him being a new man and unknown to me, 'tis a job sure. 'Tis only my name might stand in the way, for 'tis likely 'twill be mentioned in his hearing on account of the bit of trouble down yonder. But 'tis the job I care for and not the name. I'll be working for MacMurtrey to-morrow morning--I will that! And what's more,” added Sammy Durgan, beginning to blink fast, ”I'll show 'em yet, Maria, and Regan, and the rest of 'em. Once in every man's life he gets his chance. Mine ain't come yet. I thought it had to-day, but I was wrong. But it'll come. You wait! I'll show 'em some day!”

Sammy Durgan lost himself in meditation. After a little, he spoke again.

”I'm not sure about the law,” said Sammy Durgan, ”but on account of the fellow that the bullet hit, apart from MacMurtrey taking note of it, 'twould be as well, anyway, if I changed my name temporarily till the temper of all concerned is cooled down a bit.” Sammy Durgan rose from the stump. ”I'll start West,” said Sammy Durgan, ”and get a lift on the first way-freight before the word is out. I'm thinking they'll be asking for Sammy Durgan down at Big Cloud.”

And they were. It was quite true. Down at headquarters they were earnestly concerned about Sammy Durgan. Sammy Durgan had made no mistake in that respect.

”Fire Sammy Durgan,” wired the roadmaster to the nearest station for transmission by first train to Pat Donovan, the section boss--and he got this answer back the next morning:

I. P. SPEARS, Roadmaster, Big Cloud: Sammy Durgan missing.

P. DONOVAN.”

Missing--that was it. Just that, nothing more--as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up, Sammy Durgan had disappeared. And while Carleton grew red and apoplectic over the claim sheet for damages presented by the moving-picture company, and Regan fumed and tugged at his scraggly brown mustache at thought of the damage to his rolling stock--Sammy Durgan was just missing, that was all--just missing.

n.o.body knew where Sammy Durgan had gone. n.o.body had seen him. Station agents, operators, road bosses, section bosses, construction bosses and everybody else were instructed to report--and they did. They reported--nothing. Regan even went so far as to ask Mrs. Durgan.

”Is ut here to taunt me, yez are!” screamed Mrs. Durgan bitterly--and slammed the door in the little master mechanic's face.

”I guess,” observed Regan to himself, as he gazed at the uncommunicative door panels, ”I guess mabbe the neighbors have been neighborly--h'm? But I guess, too, we're rid of Sammy Durgan at last; and I dunno but what that comes pretty near squaring accounts for window gla.s.s and about a million other incidentals. Only,” added the little master mechanic, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes, as he walked back to the station, ”only it would have been more to my liking to have got my hands on him first--and got rid of him after!”

But Regan, and Carleton, and Mrs. Durgan, and the Hill Division generally were not rid of Sammy Durgan--far from it. For a week he was missing, and then one afternoon young Hinton, of the division engineer's staff, strolled into the office, nodded at Carleton, and grinned at the master mechanic, who was tilted back in a chair with his feet on the window sill.

”I dropped off this morning to look over the new grading work at The Gap,” said Hinton casually. ”And I thought you might be interested to know that MacMurtrey's got a man working for him up there by the name of Timmy O'Toole.”

”Doesn't interest me,” said Regan blandly, chewing steadily on his blackstrap. ”Try and spring it on the super, Hinton. He always bites.”

”Who's Timmy O'Toole?” smiled Carleton.

Hinton squinted at the ceiling.

”Sammy Durgan,” said Hinton--casually.

There wasn't a word spoken for a minute. Regan lifted his feet from the window sill and lowered his chair legs softly down to the floor as though he were afraid of making a noise, and the smile on Carleton's face sort of faded away as though a blight had withered it.

”What was the name?” said Carleton presently, in a velvet voice.

”Timmy O'Toole,” said Hinton.

Carleton's hand reached out, kind of as though of its own initiative, kind of as though it were just habit, for a telegraph blank--but Regan stopped him. It wasn't often that the fat, good-natured little master mechanic was vindictive, but there were times when even Regan's soul was overburdened.

”Wait!” said Regan, with ferocious grimness. ”Wait! I'll make a better job of it than that, Carleton. I'm going up the line myself to-morrow morning on Number Three--and _I'll_ drop off at The Gap.

Timmy O'Toole now, is it? I'll make him sick!” Regan clenched his pudgy fist. ”When I'm through with him he'll never have to be fired again--not on this division. Still looking for an emergency to rise to, eh? Well, I'll accommodate him! He'll run up against the hottest emergency to-morrow morning he ever heard of!”

And Regan was right--that was exactly what Sammy Durgan did. Only it wasn't quite the sort of emergency that Regan----But just a moment till the line's clear, there go the cautionaries against us.

If it had been any other kind of a switch it would never have happened--let that be understood from the start. And how it ever came to be left on the main line when modern equipment was installed is a mystery, except perhaps that as it was never used it was therefore never remembered by anybody. Nevertheless, there it stood, an old weather-beaten, two-throw, stub switch of the vintage of the ark.

Two-throw, mind you, when a one-throw switch, even in the days of its usefulness, would have answered the purpose just as well, better for that matter. No modern drop-handle, interlocking safety device about it. Not at all! A handle sticking straight out like a sore thumb that could creak around on a semi-circular guide, with a rusty pin dangling from a rusty chain to lock it--if some itinerant section hand didn't forget to jab the pin back into the hole it had the habit of worming its way out of! It stood about a quarter of the way down the grade of The Gap, which is to say about half a mile from the summit, a deserted sentinel on guard over a deserted spur that, in the old construction days, had been built in a few hundred yards through a soft spot in the mountain side for camp and material stores.

As for The Gap itself, it was not exactly what might be called a nice piece of track. Officially, the grade is an average of 4.2; practically, it is likened to a balloon descension by means of a parachute. It begins at the east end and climbs up in a wriggling, twisting way, hugging gray rock walls on one side, and opening a canon on the other that, as you near the summit, would make you catch your breath even to look at over the edge--it is a sheer drop. And also the right of way is narrow, very narrow; just clearance on one side against the rock walls, and a whole canon full of nothingness at the edge of the other rail, and----But there's our ”clearance” now.