THE STATION-MASTER said nonchalantly that he had nothing to do with it, and from out the telegraph-office he brought a stout, wooden chair which he set down in the dark strip of shade which ran along the pine platform under the eaves of the station. The back of this chair being tilted against the building, the station-master sat down in it, put his heels on the wooden round, took from his pocket a jack-knife, and began to whittle a stick, an occupation which the momentary pausing of the express seemed to have interrupted. There was nothing of the glass of fashion or the mould of form about the station-master. He was dressed in weather-worn trousers, held to his thin frame by a pair of suspenders quite evidently home-made, which came over his shoulders, and underneath this was a coarse, woollen shirt, open at the throat because the button had gone. On top of all this was a three-year-old, dilapidated straw hat which had once possessed a wide brim, but was now in a state of disrepair in thorough keeping with the costume. Yet in spite of appearances he was a capable young man who could work a telegraphic machine at reasonable speed, was well up in the business pertaining to Slocum Junction, and had definite opinions regarding the manner in which the affairs of the nation should be carried on. Indeed, at that moment he was an exemplification of the independence for which his country had fought and bled. No one knew better than he that the Greased Lightning Express would never have halted for an instant at Slocum Junction unless it did so to put off a person of some importance. But that important person had begun to give his opinion of the locality in language that was painful and free, the moment he realised the situation, and the station-master signified his resentment by sitting down in the chair and assuming a careless attitude, which told the stranger plainer than words that he could go to the devil if he wished. For all he knew, the obstreperous person who had stepped from the express might be his chief, but the station-master made no concession to that possibility.
Opposite him in the blazing sunlight stood a dapper young man grasping a neat hand-bag. He might have posed as a tailor's model, and he offered a striking contrast to the unkempt station-master. He cast an almost despairing look at the vanishing express, now a mere dot in the horizon, with a trail of smoke, as if it were a comet that had run aground. Then he turned an exasperated face upon the complacent station-master.
"You are not responsible for the situation, eh? You don't seem to care much, either."
"Well, to tell the truth, stranger, I don't."
"You mean to tell me there's no train for two hours and a half on the branch line?"
"I never said anything of the sort, because there isn't any branch line."
"No branch line? Why, there it is before my eyes! There's a locomotive, of a kind, and a composite passenger and freight-car that evidently dates from the time of the Deluge. Noah used that car!" cried the angry stranger.
"Well, if Noah was here, he wouldn't use it for two hours and a half," said the station-master complacently.
"I don't understand what you mean," protested the stranger. "Is there, or is there not, a train in two hours and a half?"
"Of course there is."
"You said a minute ago there wasn't."
"I didn't say anything of the kind; and if you weren't adding your own natural heat to the unnatural heat of the day, you'd learn something. You were talking about branch lines; I said there is no branch line. That's all."
"Then what's the meaning of those two lines of rust running to the right?"
"There's five or six thousand people," droned the station-master, "who'd like to know what that object you're referring to really is. Leastways, they used to want to know, but lately they've given up all curiosity on the subject. They're the shareholders, who put up good money to have that road made. We call it the Farmers' Road, and it isn't a branch, but as independent as the main line."
"Or as yourself," hazarded the young man.
"Well, it's independent, anyhow," continued the station-master, "and I've nothing to do with it."
"Haven't the cursed fools who own it the sense to make it connect with anything on the main line?"
"Of course, we're all fools unless we come from Chicago," said the station-master imperturbably.
"I didn't say that," commented the stranger.
"No, I did. If your dome of thought was in working order, I shouldn't need to explain these things; but as I've nothing particular to do, I may as well teach a man from Chicago his A B C. You stepped off the express just now owning the whole country, populated with fools, according to you. I've been station-master here for eighteen months, and I never saw that express stop before. Now, I'm not such a fool, but I know that a man who steps off the Greased Lightning is one of two things. He is either a big bug with pull enough on the railway company to get them to stop the Greased Lightning for him, or else he's a tramp who can't pay his fare, and so is put off."
"Oh, you've sized me up, have you? Well, which am I? The millionaire or the tramp?"
"When you stepped off, I thought you were the millionaire; but the moment you opened your mouth,. I knew you were the tramp."
Jack Steele laughed with very good-natured heartiness.
"Say, old man, that's all right. The drinks are on me, if there was a tavern near, which there doesn't seem to be. I suppose there's no place in this forsaken hole where on a hot day like this a man can get a cooling drink?"
"Stranger, you're continually jumping at conclusions and landing at the wrong spot. Allow me to tell you"—here he lowered his voice a bit—"that you don't raise no blush to my cheeks by anything you can say; but there's a lady in the waiting-room, and if I were you, I'd talk accordingly."
The change in the cocksure attitude of Jack Steele was so sudden and complete that it brought a faint smile of gratification to the gaunt face of the station-master.
"Great Heavens!" whispered the crestfallen young man, "why didn't you tell me that before?"
"Well, you've been kind of monopolising the conversation, and I haven't had much chance to speak up to now. One would suppose that if a man had a thinking-machine in his head at all, he would know that the little road couldn't connect with a train that never stopped here."
"Of course, of course," said Jack hurriedly, his mind running on the language he had used in the first moments of chagrin at finding himself marooned at this desolate junction, which might have been heard by the unseen lady in the waiting-room. He hoped his voice hadn't carried through the pine wall.
"Well, station-master, I apologise. And now, if you will kindly tell me what the Farmers' Road does connect with, I'll be very much obliged."
"The Farmers' Road runs two trains a day," said the station-master sententiously, as if he were speaking of some mighty empire. "The train consists, as you see, of a locomotive and a mixed car. The first train comes in here at nine o'clock in the morning, connecting with the local going east. It then returns to Bunkerville, and reaches here in the afternoon at three o'clock, to connect with the local going west. That little train doesn't know there are any flyers on our line; all it knows is that the eastern local comes in somewhere about nine o'clock in the morning, and the western local arrives anywhere between three and five in the afternoon. So a Chicago man can't step jauntily off the express he has managed to stop, and expect to get a train to Bunkerville whenever he chooses."
"Admirably stated," said Jack Steele. "And if you will condescend further to enlighten a beclouded intellect, would you mind explaining what the deuce the little train is doing here at this hour? If I follow your argument, it should have returned to Bunkerville after the nine o'clock local came in, and should not have arrived here until just before three o'clock."
"Your befogged brain is waking up," said the station-master encouragingly. "The phenomenon to which you have called attention happens once or twice a week. If you cast your eye to the other end of the platform, you will see piled there an accumulation of miscellaneous freight. The Farmers' Road has just dumped that upon us, and to do so has taken a special trip. That stuff will go east on Number Eight, which is a freight train that will stop here some time in the afternoon when it sees the signal set against it."
"I comprehend," said Jack; "and I venture on my next proposition with great diffidence, caused by increasing admiration of yourself and the lucid mind you bring to bear on Western railway procedure. If I have followed your line of argument as unerringly as the farmers' train follows the Farmers' Road, his nibs the engineer must take the train back to Bunkerville so that he may return here on his regular trip to meet the three o'clock western local. If I am right, what is to prevent him from going now, taking me with him, and giving me an opportunity at Bunkerville to transact my business and catch the regular train back? for I am going further west, and would like to intercept the local, which would save me spending an unnecessary night at Bunkerville, and wasting most of to-morrow as well."
"The reasons are as follows. His nibs, as you call him, is engineer, conductor, brakesman, and freight handler. When he came in, he had to carry that freight from his car to the platform where you see it. That takes time, even if the day were not so oppressively hot as it is. So, instead of keeping up his fire under the boiler, and burning useless coal, he banks the furnace as soon as he arrives. Then he takes his time bringing the boxes to the platform. If he returned to Bunkerville, they would give him something to do there: here he is out of reach; besides, he would have to draw his fires, and start anew about two o'clock, and that he doesn't want to do. He has, therefore, curled himself up in the passenger car, put a newspaper over his face to keep off the flies, and has gone to sleep. When the proper moment arrives, he will stir up his fire, go to Bunkerville, and then be ready to make the return trip on one expenditure of coal. Now do you understand?"
"Yes, thank you, I do; and this has given me an idea."
"That's a good thing, and I can easily guess what your idea is. But before putting it into operation, I should like to mitigate a slight you have put on Slocum Junction. You made a sarcastic remark about cool drinks. Now, I beg to inform you that the nine o'clock local from the west slides off on this here platform every morning a great big square cold chunk of ice. That chunk of ice is growing less and less in a big wooden pail in the telegraph-office, but the water that surrounds it is as cold as the North Pole. If you have anything in your hip pocket or in that natty little valise which mitigates the rigour of cold water, there's no reason why you shouldn't indulge in a refreshing drink."
"Station-master," said Jack, laughing, "you ought to be superintendent of this road, instead of junction boss. You're the wisest man I've met in two years."
Saying this, he sprang the catch of the handbag and drew forth a bulky, wicker-covered, silver-topped flask.
"I propose we adjourn to the telegraph-office," he added, "and investigate that wooden pail."
The station-master led the way with an alacrity that he had not heretofore exhibited. The result of the conference was cheerful and refreshing.
"Now," said the station-master, drawing the back of his hand across his lips, "what you want is a special train to Bunkerville. A man from the city would get that by telegraphing to the superintendent at the terminus and paying twenty dollars. A man from the country who had some sense would go to Joe the engineer and persuade him he ought to wake up and return to Bunkerville at once."
"How much would be required to influence Joe?"
"Oh, a couple of dollars would be wealth. A silver dollar in front of each eye will obscure the whole western prairie if placed just right."
"Very well, I'll go out and place 'em."
"You are forgetting your flask," said the station-master, as Mr. Steele snapped shut his valise.
"No, I'm not. That flask and its contents belong to you, as a reward for being patient and instructive when a darned fool let loose from the city happened your way."
And this showed Jack Steele to be a reader of his fellow-man; for while the engineer might accept the two dollars, the independent station-master certainly would not have done so. That glib official, however, seemed to have no particular words for this occasion, so he changed the subject and said—
"If you persuade Joe to go, I wish you'd remember the lady in the waiting-room. She's a Miss Dorothy Slocum, and a powerful nice girl, that teaches school in Bunkerville. Fact is, this junction was named after her father. Used to be the principal man round these parts; but he lost his money, and now his girl's got to teach school. I never knew him—he was dead long before I came here. She's been visiting relatives. This is vacation time, you know."
"All right. You tell her there's a special leaving in a few minutes, and that she's very welcome to ride upon it."
With that Jack Steele went out into the furnace of the sun across the dusty road and entered the composite car. The Farmers' Road did not join rails with the main line, and so caused much extra handling of freight. The engine stood there simmering in the heat, both external and internal, a slight murkiness of smoke rising from its funnel, shaped like an inverted bell.
"Hallo, Joe!" cried Steele, as he entered the car. "Don't you yearn for home and friends?"
The man was sprawling on two seats, with a newspaper over his head, as the station-master had predicted.
"Hallo!" he echoed, sitting up and shaking away the sheet of paper, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing, except that if the spirit should move you to get over to Bunkerville with this ancient combination, five dollars will be transferred from my pocket into yours."
"’Nough said," cried Joe, rising to his feet. "It'll take me about twenty minutes to get the pot boiling again. You don't happen to have the fiver about you, I suppose? I haven't seen one for a couple of years."
"Here you are," replied Steele, drawing a crisp bill from his purse.
The engineer thrust it into the pocket of his greasy overall.
"I'll toot the whistle when I'm ready," he said.
This financial operation accomplished, John Steele returned to the station. The station-master was standing by the door of the waiting-room conversing pleasantly with someone within. Jack Steele pushed past him and was amazed to see so pretty a girl sitting on the bench that ran round the bare walls of the uninviting room.
"Will you introduce me?" inquired the city man, handing his card to the station-master.
"Miss Slocum," said the latter, "this is Mr. John Steele, of Chicago."
The young man removed his fashionable straw hat.
"Miss Slocum," he said, "I desire to apologise to you. I'm afraid that when I found myself stranded on the platform outside, I used language which can hardly be justified, even in the circumstances. But I had no idea at the time that there was a lady within miles of us."
"I was much interested in my book," replied the girl, with a smile, "and was not paying attention to what was going on outside."
She held up a book, between whose leaves her forefinger was placed.
"Well, Miss Slocum. it must have been a pretty absorbing story, and I am deeply grateful to it for acting as a non-conductor between my impulsive observations and your hearing. Nothing excuses intemperate language, as the station-master here has taught me through the force of a benign example. Still, if anything could exculpate a man, I should think it would be the exasperating conduct of this Farmers' Railroad, as they call it."
"Indeed," said Miss Dorothy archly, "the book had really no right to interfere, because I am one of the owners of the railway, and so perhaps it was my duty to listen to complaints of a passenger. Not that I have anything to do with the management of the line; I am compelled to pay my fare just like the rest."
"I should be delighted if you would accept a ride on your own road as free as if you carried a superintendent's pass. I am going to Bunkerville in my own private car, as I shall feel honoured if I may extend the courtesies of the same."
"The station-master has just told me you were kind enough to offer a poor vagrant a lift to Bunkerville. I wished to buy a ticket, but this haughty official of the main line so despises our poor little road that he will not sell me one."
"Indeed," said the station-master, "I haven't the power, nor the tickets. They don't entrust me with any business so tremendous. Joe starts his rickety engine going, then leaves it to jog along as it likes, and comes through the car to collect the fares. They have no tickets, and perhaps that's why the road has never paid a dividend."
"Oh, you mustn't say that!" protested the girl. "Poor Joe has not got rich out of his occupation, any more than the shareholders have made money on their shares. If you will permit me to pay my fare to Joe, Mr. Steele, I shall be only too happy to take this early opportunity of getting to Bunkerville."
"I couldn't think of it, Miss Slocum; in fact, I must prohibit any communication between Joe and yourself, fearing you, as an owner of the road, may learn by what corrupt practices I induced Joe to make the trip."
The girl laughed, but before she could reply, a wheezy "Toot-toot!" outside announced that Joe had already got steam up.
"I'll carry your valise across," said the obliging station-master, while Miss Dorothy Slocum picked up her lighter belongings and accompanied Mr. John Steele to the shabby little passenger-car. Joe was leaning out with a grin on his smeared face, which was there probably because of the five-dollar bill in his trousers pocket. The station-master placed the valise in the baggage section of the car, and raised his tattered hat as the little train started gingerly out for the open country.
It was a pretty landscape through which they passed, with little to indicate that the prairies were so near at hand. The line ran along a shallow valley, well wooded, especially by the banks of the stream that wandered through it, which even at this parched season of the year was still running its course with dear water in it, and Miss Slocum informed the Chicago man that it flowed from a never-drying spring some ten miles on the other side of the main line. The little road was as crooked as possible, for the evident object of its constructors had been to avoid bridging the stream, piling up any high embankments, or excavating deep cuttings. The pace, therefore, was exceedingly slow; nevertheless, John Steele did not find the time hang heavily on his hands. At first the girl seemed somewhat shy and embarrassed to find herself the only passenger except this gallant young business man; but he tactfully put her at her ease by pretending much interest in the history of the road, with which he soon learned she was somewhat unfortunately familiar.
"Yes," she said, "the building of this road was the greatest financial disaster that ever occurred in this section of the country. My father was one of its chief promoters. When the Wheat Belt Line, by which you came here from Chicago, was surveyed through this part of the State, those interested in the neighbourhood expected that it would ran through Bunkerville, which would become a large town. The railway people demanded a large money bonus, which Bunker county refused, because Bunkerville was in the direct line, and they thought the railway must come through there, whether a bonus were paid or not. In fact, the first survey passed just north of Bunkerville. But our poor little village was not so important as its inhabitants imagined, and the next line surveyed was twenty miles away. For once the farmers were too shrewd. They thought, as they put it, that the new line was a bluff, and did not realise their mistake until too late. My father had been in favour of granting the bonus, but he was out-voted. Perhaps that is why the railway people called their station Slocum instead of Bunkerville, which was twenty miles distant. The next nearest railway line was forty-five miles away, and two years after the Wheat Belt Line began operations, it was proposed to organise a local company to construct a railway from Slocum, through Bunkerville to Jamestown, on the other line. Bonuses were granted all along the route, and besides this the State legislature gave a subsidy, and, furthermore, passed a Bill to prevent competition, prohibiting any railway to parallel the Farmers' Road for sixty miles on either side."
"Does that law still stand on the statute books of the State?" asked Steele, with increasing interest.
"I think so. It has never been repealed to my knowledge."
"Well, I should doubt its being constitutional. Why, that ties up more than seven thousand square miles of the State into a hard knot, and prevents it from having the privilege of further railway communication."
"In a measure it does," said the girl. "You may run as many lines as you like north and south, but not east and west."
"It's a wonder the Wheat Belt Line didn't contest that law," said Steele.
"Well, I've been told that this law is entirely in the interests of the Wheat Belt Line, although the farmers didn't think so when they voted for the Bill. You see, the Wheat Belt Line was already in operation east and west, and could not be affected by that Act, and, of course, the same Bill which prevented competition to the Farmers' Road also, in a measure, protected the Wheat Belt Line through the same district."
"By Jove!" said Steele, his eyes glistening, "this is a proposition which contains some peculiar points. Well, go on, what happened?"
"Oh, disaster happened. In spite of the legislation and bonuses, the road was a complete failure, and ruined all who were deeply interested in it. The farmers subscribed stock to the amount of something like a hundred thousand dollars, but this money, with the sum of the legislative grant and the bonuses, was all swallowed up in the first twenty miles, and in getting the rolling-stock and equipment, such as it is. The line was never pushed through to Jamestown, and there arose litigation about some of the bonuses that had been paid, and, all in all, it was a most disastrous business. It was hoped that the Wheat Belt Line would come to the rescue and buy the unfinished road, but they would not look at it. This section has never paid a dividend, and is supposed to be doing well when it produces enough money for expenses and repairs. The shares can now be bought for five cents on the dollar, or less."
"How much of it do you possess, Miss Slocum?"
"I have a thousand shares, and my father told me not to part with them, because he was certain that some day they would be valuable."
For a few moments there was silence in the car, and the girl, glancing up at her companion, found his ardent gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that was embarrassing. She flushed slightly and turned her head to look out of the window at the familiar scenery they were passing. It would have surprised the young man could he have read the thoughts that occupied the mind of this extremely pretty and charmingly modest girl who sat opposite him. Here is practically what she said to herself—
"I am tired of this deadly dull village in which I live, and here, at last, is a way out. I read in his eyes the beginning of admiration. He shall be the youthful Moses to lead me into the Promised Land. Through this lucky meeting I shall attain the city if I but play my cards rightly."