Part 33 (2/2)

16, 18--.

W. H. C. DS

No 17 will arrive at DS, at 10:20 A. M., with the following:

1 HH goods Chgo.

2 Livestock Kansas City.

3 Mdse ”

1 Emgt. outfit St. Louis.

6 Coal Houston.

6 Wheat Chgo.

7 Empty sys. flats Flat Rock.

-- Total 26

H. G. B.

All work is done over the initials of the division superintendent and in his name. These reports keep the despatchers fully informed as to what may be expected, and arrangements can be made to keep the trains moving without delay. Of course the report ill.u.s.trated above is for but one train, necessarily it must be much longer when many trains are running.

At some regular time during the day all the agents on the division send in a car report. This is copied by the despatcher's operator and shows how many and what kind of cars are on the side tracks; the number of loads ready to go out; the number and kind of cars wanted during the ensuing twenty-four hours; and if the station is a water station, how many feet of water are in the tank; or if a coaling station, how many cars of coal there are on hand; and lastly, what is the character of the weather. On some roads weather reports are sent in every hour.

In view of all this, I think it is not too much to say, that the eyes of the despatcher see everything on the road. There are a thousand and one small details, in addition to the momentous matters of which he has charge, and the man who can keep his division clear, with all trains moving smoothly and on time, must indeed possess both excellent method and application, and must have the ability and nerve to master numerous unexpected situations the moment they arise. He is not an artisan or a mechanic, _he is a genius_.

CHAPTER XV

AN OLD DESPATCHER'S MISTAKE--MY FIRST TRICK

I had become thoroughly proficient and more frequently than ever Borroughs would let me ”spell” for him for a while each day. Be it said to his credit, however, he was always within hearing, when I was doing any of his work. He was carefulness personified, and the following incident only serves to show what unaccountable errors will be made by even the best of men.

One cold morning in January, I started to the office as usual. The air was so still, crisp and biting that the air-pumps of the engines had that peculiar sharp, snappy sound heard only in a panting engine in cold weather. They seemed almost imbued with life. As I went into the office at eight o'clock to go to work, the night man remarked that I must be feeling pretty brash; my spirits seemed so high. And in fact, that was no joke; I was feeling fine as silk and showed it all over. But as I said good morning to Borroughs, I noticed that he seemed rather glum, and I asked: ”What's the matter, Dad? Feeling bad this morning?”

He snapped back in a manner entirely foreign to him, ”No, but I don't feel much like chaffing this day. I feel as if something was going to happen, and I don't like the feeling.”

I answered, ”Oh! bosh, Dad. You'll feel all right in a few minutes; I reckon you've got a good old attack of dyspepsia; brace up.”

Just then the wires started up, and he gruffly told me to sit down and go to work and our conversation ceased. That was the first time he had ever used anything but a gentle tone to me, and I felt hurt. The first trick is always the busiest, and under the stress of work the incident soon pa.s.sed from my mind. Pat remarked once, that the general superintendent was going to leave Chaminade in a special at 10:30 A. M., on a tour of inspection over the road. That was about all the talking he did that morning. His work was as good as ever, and in fact, he made some of the prettiest meets that morning I had ever seen.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”... Half lying on the table, face downward, dead by his own hand”]

About 10:35, I asked Borroughs to allow me to go over to the hotel to get a cigar. I would be gone only a few minutes. He a.s.sented, and I slipped on my overcoat and went out. I wasn't gone over ten minutes, and as I stepped into the doorway to come upstairs on my return, I heard what sounded like a shot in the office. I flew upstairs two steps at a time, and never to my dying day will I forget the sight that met my gaze. Borroughs, whom I had left but a few moments before full of life and energy, was half lying on the table, face downwards, dead by his own hand. The blood was oozing from a jagged wound in his temple, and on the floor was the smoking pistol he had used. Fred Bennett, the chief despatcher, as pale as a ghost, was bending over him, while the two call boys were standing near paralyzed with fright. It was an intensely dramatic setting for a powerful stage picture, and my heart stood still for a minute as I contemplated the awful scene. Mr. Hebron, the division superintendent, came in from the outer office, and was transfixed with horror and amazement when he saw the terrible picture.

Bennett turned to me and said, ”Bates, come here and help me lift poor Borroughs out of this chair.”

Gently and carefully we laid him down on the floor and sent one of the badly frightened boys for a surgeon. Medical skill was powerless, however, and the spirit of honest Pat Borroughs had crossed the dark river to its final reckoning.

Work in the office was at a standstill on account of the tragic occurrence, but all of a sudden I heard Monte Carlo calling ”DS” and using the signal ”WK,” which means ”wreck.” Bennett told me to sit down and take the trick until the second trick man could be called. I went over and sat down in the chair, still warm from the body of my late friend, and wiping his blood off the train sheet with my handkerchief, I answered.

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