Part 23 (1/2)

Old Dan and Mrs. MacCaffery didn't talk about their troubles. You'd never get the blues on their account, no matter how intimate you got with them. But everybody knew the story, of course, for everybody knows a thing like that; and everybody knew that dollars were scarce up at the MacCafferys' shanty for, though they didn't know how much old Dan sent East each year, they knew it had to be a pretty big slice of what was coming to him to make much impression on that five thousand dollars at the other end--and they wondered, naturally enough, how the MacCafferys got along at all. But the MacCafferys got along somehow, outwardly without a sign of the hurt that was deeper than a mere matter of dollars and cents, got along through the years--and Mrs. MacCaffery got a little grayer, a little more gentle and patient and sweet-faced, and old Dan's hair narrowed to a fringe like a broken tonsure above his ears, and--but there's our ”clearance” now, and we're off with a clean-swept track and ”rights through” into division.

Dan was handling the cab end of one of the local pa.s.senger runs when things broke loose in the East--a flurry in Wall Street. But Wall Street was a long, long way from the Rockies, and, though the papers were full of it, there didn't seem to be anything intimate enough in a battle of brokers and magnates, bitter, prolonged, and to the death though it might be, to stir up any excitement or enthusiasm on the Hill Division. The Hill Division, generally speaking, had about all it could do to mind its own affairs without bothering about those of others', for the Rockies, if conquered, took their subjection with bad grace and were always in an incipient state of insurrection that kept the operating, the motive power and the maintenance-of-way departments close to the verge of nervous prostration without much let-up to speak of. But when the smoke cleared away down East, the Hill Division and Big Cloud forgot their bridge troubles and their washouts and their slides long enough to stick their tongues in their cheeks and look askance at each other; and Carleton, in his swivel chair, pulled on the amber mouthpiece of his brier and looked at Regan, who, in turn, pulled on his scraggly brown mustache and reached for his hip pocket and his plug. The system was under new control.

”Who's H. Herrington Campbell when he's at home?” spluttered Regan.

”Our new general manager, Tommy,” Carleton told him for the second time.

Regan grunted.

”I ain't blind! I've read that much. Who is he--h'm? Know him?”

Carleton took the pipe from his mouth--a little seriously.

”It's the P. M. & K. crowd, Tommy. Makes quite an amalgamation, doesn't it--direct eastern tidewater connection--what? They're a younger lot, pretty progressive, too, and sharp as they make them.”

”I don't care a hoot who owns the stock,” observed Regan, biting deeply at his blackstrap. ”It's the bucko with the overgrown name in the center that interests me--who's he? Do you know him?”

”Yes,” said Carleton slowly. ”I know him.” He got up suddenly and walked over to the window, looked out into the yards for a moment, then turned to face the master mechanic. ”I know him, and I know most of the others; and I'll say, between you and me, Tommy, that I'm blamed sorry they've got their fingers on the old road. They're a cold, money-grabbing crew, and Campbell's about as human as a snow man, only not so warm-blooded. I fancy you'll see some changes out here.”

”I turned down an offer from the Penn last week,” said the fat little master mechanic reminiscently, ”mabbe I----”

Carleton laughed--he could afford to. There was hardly a road in the country but had made covetous offers for the services of the cool-eyed master of the Hill Division, who was the idol of his men down to the last car tink.

”No; I guess not, Tommy. Our heads are safe enough, I think. When I go, you go--and as the P. M. & K. have been after me before, I guess they'll let me alone now I'm on their pay roll.”

”What kind of changes, then?” inquired Regan gruffly.

”I don't know,” said Carleton. ”I don't know, Tommy--new crowd, new ways. We'll see.”

And, in time, Regan saw. Perhaps Regan himself, together with Riley, the trainmaster, were unwittingly the means of bringing it about a little sooner than it might otherwise have come--perhaps not.

Ultimately it would have been all the same. Sentiment and H.

Herrington Campbell were not on speaking terms. However, one way or the other, in results, it makes little difference.

It was natural enough that about the first official act of the new directors should be a trip to look over the new property they had acquired; and if there was any resentment on the Hill Division at the change in owners.h.i.+p, there was no sign of it in Big Cloud when the word went out of what was coming. On the contrary, everybody sort of figured to make a kind of holiday affair of it, for the special was to lay off there until afternoon to give the Big Fellows a chance to see the shops. Anyway, it was more or less mutually understood that they were to be given the best the Hill Division had to offer.

Regan kept his pet flyer, the 1608, in the roundhouse, and tinkered over her for two days, and sent for Dan MacCaffery--there'd been a good deal of speculation amongst the engine crews as to who would get the run, and the men were hot for the honor.

Regan squinted at old Dan--and squinted at the 1608 on the pit beside him.

”How'd you think she looks, Dan?” he inquired casually.

The old engineer ran his eyes wistfully over the big racer, groomed to the minute, like the thoroughbred it was.

”She'll do you proud, Regan,” he said simply.

And then Regan's fat little hand came down with a bang on the other's overalled shoulder--that was Regan's way.

”And you, too, Dan,” he grinned. ”I got you slated for the run.”

”Me!” said MacCaffery, his wizened face lighting up.

”You--sure!” Regan's grin expanded. ”It's coming to you, ain't it?