Part 13 (1/2)
The Million-Dollar Freight-Train
It was the second month of the strike, and not a pound of freight had been moved; things looked smoky on the West End.
The general superintendent happened to be with us when the news came.
”You can't handle it, boys,” said he, nervously. ”What you'd better do is to turn it over to the Columbian Pacific.”
Our contracting freight agent on the coast at that time was a fellow so erratic that he was nicknamed Crazyhorse. Right in the midst of the strike Crazyhorse wired that he had secured a big silk s.h.i.+pment for New York. We were paralyzed.
We had no engineers, no firemen, and no motive power to speak of. The strikers were pounding our men, wrecking our trains, and giving us the worst of it generally; that is, when we couldn't give it to them. Why the fellow displayed his activity at that particular juncture still remains a mystery. Perhaps he had a grudge against the road; if so, he took an artful revenge. Everybody on the system with ordinary railroad sense knew that our struggle was to keep clear of freight business until we got rid of our strike. Anything valuable or perishable was especially unwelcome.
But the stuff was docked and loaded and consigned in our care before we knew it. After that, a refusal to carry it would be like hoisting the white flag; and that is something which never yet flew on the West End.
”Turn it over to the Columbian,” said the general superintendent; but the general superintendent was not looked up to on our division. He hadn't enough sand. Our head was a fighter, and he gave tone to every man under him.
”No,” he thundered, bringing down his fist, ”not in a thousand years!
We'll move it ourselves. Wire Montgomery, the general manager, that we will take care of it. And wire him to fire Crazyhorse--and to do it right off.” And before the silk was turned over to us Crazyhorse was looking for another job. It is the only case on record where a freight hustler was discharged for getting business.
There were twelve car-loads; it was insured for eighty-five thousand dollars a car; you can figure how far the t.i.tle is wrong, but you never can estimate the worry that stuff gave us. It looked as big as twelve million dollars' worth. In fact, one scrub-car tink, with the glory of the West End at heart, had a fight over the amount with a sceptical hostler. He maintained that the actual money value was a hundred and twenty millions; but I give you the figures just as they went over the wire, and they are right.
What bothered us most was that the strikers had the tip almost as soon as we had it. Having friends on every road in the country, they knew as much about our business as we ourselves. The minute it was announced that we should move the silk they were after us. It was a defiance; a last one. If we could move freight--for we were already moving pa.s.sengers after a fas.h.i.+on--the strike might be well accounted beaten.
Stewart, the leader of the local contingent, together with his followers, got after me at once.
”You don't show much sense, Reed,” said he. ”You fellows here are breaking your necks to get things moving, and when this strike's over if our boys ask for your discharge they'll get it. This road can't run without our engineers. We're going to beat you. If you dare try to move this stuff we'll have your scalp when it's over. You'll never get your silk to Zanesville, I'll promise you that. And if you ditch it and make a million dollar loss, you'll get let out anyway, my buck.”
”I'm here to obey orders, Stewart,” I retorted. What was the use of more? I felt uncomfortable; but we had determined to move the silk: there was nothing more to be said.
When I went over to the round-house and told Neighbor the decision he said never a word, but he looked a great deal. Neighbor's task was to supply the motive power. All that we had, uncrippled, was in the pa.s.senger service, because pa.s.sengers must be moved--must be taken care of first of all. In order to win a strike you must have public opinion on your side.
”Nevertheless, Neighbor,” said I, after we had talked a while, ”we must move the silk also.”
Neighbor studied; then he roared at his foreman.
”Send Bartholomew Mullen here.” He spoke with a decision that made me think the business was done. I had never happened, it is true, to hear of Bartholomew Mullen in the department of motive power; but the impression the name gave me was of a monstrous fellow; big as Neighbor, or old man Sankey, or Dad Hamilton.
”I'll put Bartholomew ahead of it,” muttered Neighbor, tightly. A boy walked into the office.
”Mr. Garten said you wanted to see me, sir,” said he, addressing the master mechanic.
”I do, Bartholomew,” responded Neighbor.
The figure in my mind's eye shrunk in a twinkling. Then it occurred to me that it must be this boy's father who was wanted.
”You have been begging for a chance to take out an engine, Bartholomew,”
began Neighbor, coldly; and I knew it was on.
”Yes, sir.”