Part 13 (2/2)

”You want to get killed, Bartholomew.”

Bartholomew smiled, as if the idea was not altogether displeasing.

”How would you like to go pilot to-morrow for McCurdy? You to take the 44 and run as first Seventy-eight. McCurdy will run as second Seventy-eight.”

”I know I could run an engine all right,” ventured Bartholomew, as if Neighbor were the only one taking the chances in giving him an engine.

”I know the track from here to Zanesville. I helped McNeff fire one week.”

”Then go home, and go to bed, and be over here at six o'clock to-morrow morning. And sleep sound; for it may be your last chance.”

It was plain that the master-mechanic hated to do it; it was simply sheer necessity.

”He's a wiper,” mused Neighbor, as Bartholomew walked springily away. ”I took him in here sweeping two years ago. He ought to be firing now, but the union held him back; that's why he hates them. He knows more about an engine now than half the lodge. They'd better have let him in,” said the master-mechanic, grimly. ”He may be the means of breaking their backs yet. If I give him an engine and he runs it, I'll never take him off, union or no union, strike or no strike.”

”How old is that boy?” I asked.

”Eighteen; and never a kith or a kin that I know of. Bartholomew Mullen,” mused Neighbor, as the slight figure moved across the flat, ”big name--small boy. Well, Bartholomew, you'll know something more by to-morrow night about running an engine, or a whole lot less; that's as it happens. If he gets killed, it's your fault, Reed.”

He meant that I was calling on him for men when he absolutely couldn't produce them.

”I heard once,” he went on, ”about a fellow named Bartholomew being mixed up in a ma.s.sacree. But I take it he must have been an older man than our Bartholomew--nor his other name wasn't Mullen, neither. I disremember just what it was; but it wasn't Mullen.”

”Well, don't say I want to get the boy killed, Neighbor,” I protested.

”I've plenty to answer for. I'm here to run trains--when there are any to run; that's murder enough for me. You needn't send Bartholomew out on my account.”

”Give him a slow schedule and I'll give him orders to jump early; that's all we can do. If the strikers don't ditch him, he'll get through, somehow.”

It stuck in my crop--the idea of putting the boy on a pilot engine to take all the dangers ahead of that particular train; but I had a good deal else to think of besides. From the minute the silk got into the McCloud yards we posted double guards around. About twelve o'clock that night we held a council of war, which ended in our running the train into the out freight-house. The result was that by morning we had a new train made up. It consisted of fourteen refrigerator-cars loaded with oranges, which had come in mysteriously the night before. It was announced that the silk would be held for the present and the oranges rushed through. Bright and early the refrigerator-train was run down to the ice-houses and twenty men were put to work icing the oranges. At seven o'clock McCurdy pulled in the local pa.s.senger with engine 105. Our plan was to cancel the local and run him right out with the oranges.

When he got in he reported the 105 had sprung a tire; it knocked our scheme into a c.o.c.ked hat.

There was a lantern-jawed conference in the round-house.

”What can you do?” asked the superintendent, in desperation.

”There's only one thing I can do. Put Bartholomew Mullen on it with the 44, and put McCurdy to bed for No. 2 to-night,” responded Neighbor.

We were running first in, first out; but we took care to always have somebody for 1 and 2 who at least knew an injector from an air-pump.

It was eight o'clock. I looked into the locomotive stalls. The first--the only--man in sight was Bartholomew Mullen. He was very busy polis.h.i.+ng the 44. He had good steam on her, and the old tub was wheezing as if she had the asthma. The 44 was old; she was homely; she was rickety; but Bartholomew Mullen wiped her battered nose as deferentially as if she had been a spick-span, spider-driver, tail-truck mail-racer.

She wasn't much--the 44. But in those days Bartholomew wasn't much; and the 44 was Bartholomew's.

”How is she steaming, Bartholomew?” I sung out; he was right in the middle of her. Looking up, he fingered his waste modestly and blushed through a dab of crude petroleum over his eye.

”Hundred and thirty, sir. She's a terrible free steamer, the old 44; I'm all ready to run her out.”

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