CHAPTER TEN
When Tim returned to the editorial room after lunch that day themanaging editor summoned him to his office.
"I've got an assignment that is somewhat different from your usual runof things," explained Carson, "but I'm sure you'll enjoy it. TheSouthwestern railroad is speeding up the time of its midnight mail. Thenew schedule calls for an average speed of fifty-one miles an hour. Thesuperintendent of this division has invited me to send a reporter on thefirst trip tonight. How would you like to ride the cab of the mail downto Vinton?"
"I'd like it, Mr. Carson," replied Tim. "I've always wanted to ride inthe cab of a fast train."
"You'll have your chance tonight," smiled the managing editor, "for if Iknow anything about train schedules the mail is going to throw the milesup her stack when she hits her stride."
Carson telephoned the railroad offices that Tim would ride the cab thatnight.
"You'd better go down to the station about eleven o'clock," said themanaging editor. "You'll get your pass at the ticket office. Then godown to the roundhouse and get aboard the engine there. The engineer andconductor will be expecting you. This is quite an event for the railroadpeople and I want to give them a good yarn. I'll send Ralph to Vintonthis afternoon in the _Good News_ and he'll wait there and bring youhome in the morning. One of the staff photographers will be at thestation to take flash-lights when the mail pulls out."
"I'll finish my aviation column for tomorrow," said Tim, "and then getsome old clothes for I don't imagine it will be any too clean on theengine."
When Ralph returned from an assignment he was told to take the _GoodNews_ and fly to Vinton, there to await the arrival of Tim on themidnight mail.
Tim accompanied his flying companion to the airport and helped him wheelthe _Good News_ out of the hangar.
"Traveling on a train will seem kind of slow compared to the _GoodNews_," suggested Ralph.
"I don't know about that," replied Tim. "The mail's new schedule is ahair raiser and they'll have to pound the steel pretty hard to maketheir time. It won't be any picnic, I can tell you that."
Ralph, satisfied that the motor was thoroughly warm and ready for itstask, waved at Tim.
"See you in the morning," he called. Then he whipped the _Good News_across the field and streaked into the southwest.
Tim watched the plane until it disappeared before he turned to the carwhich had brought them from town. On his way back to the city he droveleisurely, thoroughly enjoying the sweetness of the spring afternoon.
The road swung onto a viaduct that spanned the myriad rails of theSouthwestern. A transcontinental limited was pulling into the longstation, feathery puffs of steam drifting away from the safety valve.The train came to a stop, porters swung their stools down on theplatform and the passengers descended. The engineer dropped down fromthe cab and started oiling around the iron speedster of the rails.
There was something thrilling, fascinating about it and Tim lookedforward with high interest to his trip that night. He drove on up town,returning the car to the garage.
After dinner alone he walked to his room, found a suit of coveralls andan old cap and bandanna handkerchief. These he rolled up and wrapped inpaper. That done he sat down for an hour of reading the latest aviationjournals and at eight o'clock he set his alarm clock for ten-thirty andlaid down for a nap.
The next thing Tim knew the alarm was ringing steadily and he rousedhimself from the deep sleep into which he had fallen. He washed his faceand hands in cold water and felt greatly refreshed, ready for whateverthe night might have in store in the way of adventure.
On the way to the station Tim stopped at an all night restaurant andenjoyed a platter of delicious country sausage. Then he continued hiswalk toward the railroad yards.
The reporter descended the steps from the viaduct and entered thebrightly lighted station. It was two minutes to eleven when he walked upto the ticket window and introduced himself. The agent on duty handedhim his credentials and told him the shortest way to the roundhouse.
Tim left the station and its glow of light. Outside the night air wascool and he pulled his leather jacket closer around him. Great arclights gleamed at intervals in the yard and a chugging switch enginedisturbed the quiet.
Three blocks from the station was the roundhouse with its countlesschimneys and numberless doors. Tim picked his way carefully over theswitches, skirted the yawning pit that marked the turn-table and enteredthe master mechanic's office at the roundhouse.
The master mechanic, old Tom Johnson, was checking over the schedule ofthe mail with Fred Henshaw, who was to pull the mail.
"What do you want?" growled Johnson when he saw Tim standing in thedoorway.
"I'm from the _News_," replied Tim. "The superintendent wanted areporter to ride the mail tonight."
"What's your name?" asked the master mechanic.
"Tim Murphy."
"Oh, so you're the flying reporter," smiled Johnson as he got out of hischair and shook hands with Tim. "I've read a lot about you. Glad to knowyou. Meet Fred Henshaw. He'll give you a few thrills tonight."
Tim and the engineer shook hands.
"We won't go as fast as you do by plane," smiled the engineer, "Butwe'll go places." "I'm looking forward to the trip," said Tim. "It willbe a real experience."
The telephone rang and the master mechanic answered.
"The dispatcher says the mail will be in on the advertised," he said."That gives us a break for the test run."
Henshaw nodded and motioned for Tim to accompany him into theroundhouse.
Electric lights high up under the roof tried vainly to pierce theshadows which shrouded the hulking monsters of the rails as they restedin their stalls. There must have been fourteen or fifteen locomotives inthe roundhouse, some of them dead; others breathing slowly andrhythmically, awaiting their turn to be called for service on the road.
At the far end of the roundhouse there was a glare of light as hostlersfinished grooming the 1064 for its run that night on the mail.
The 1064 was the latest thing the Southwestern boasted in the way offast-passenger motive power. It was capable of hauling sixteen all-steelPullmans at seventy miles an hour and was as sleek and trim as agreyhound.
The engineer took his torch and made a final inspection to be sure thateverything was in readiness for the test run. Then he extinguished thetorch, threw it up into the cab, and motioned for Tim to follow him.
The little engineer scrambled up the steps and swung into the cab. Timfollowed but with not nearly as much grace.
The fireman was busy with a long firehook and the glow from the opendoor of the firebox lighted the cab with a ruddy brilliance. When theiron doors of the firebox slammed shut and the fireman straightened up,the engineer introduced his fireman, Harry Benson.
Introductions completed, the engine crew fixed a place for Tim on theseat behind the engineer.
Henshaw looked at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. He stuck his headout the window and looked at the turn-table. It had been swung intoplace ready for the 1064 to steam out of the house.
Harry Benson started the bell ringer, Henshaw released the air andopened the throttle a notch. The 1064 came to life, steam hissed fromits cylinders, the drivers quivered and moved slowly in the reversemotion. The 1064 slid out of the roundhouse, rocked a little as it wentover the turn-table and then eased down the darkened yards until it cameto a stop near the end of the long train shed.
At eleven-fifty a penetrating whistle came through the night to befollowed several minutes later by the blazing headlight of the westboundmail.
The long string of mail cars came to a halt in front of the station, theengine which had brought them in was cut off, and steamed down the yardon its way to the roundhouse. A lantern at the head end of the mailsignalled for the 1064 to back down and Henshaw set the engine in motionagain.
With a delicate handling of the air he nosed the tender of the 1064against the head mail car.
The work of coupling the engine to the trainwas a matter of seconds. Then Henshaw tested the air. It workedperfectly and the midnight mail was ready to continue its westward raceacross the continent.
The interior of the cab was lighted by a green-shaded bulb just abovethe gauges on the boiler. The sides were in the shadows and there was noreflection to bother the engineer as he stared into the night.
The conductor ran forward along the train and handed a sheaf of ordertissues into the cab. Henshaw and his fireman read them together to makesure that they understood every order.
"Slow order for that new bridge at Raleigh is going to hurt," was theonly comment the engineer made as he climbed back on his box.
Mail trucks rumbled along the platform as extra crews hastened the workof unloading and loading the mail. Then they were through. The mail wasready for the open steel.
The conductor's lantern at the back end of the train flashed in the"high ball" and Henshaw answered with two short, defiant blasts of thewhistle.
The engineer dusted the rails with sand, opened the throttle, and the1064 settled down to its night's work. With nine steel cars of mail tohold it down, the giant engine plunged out of the yards.
Over the switches they clattered, the cab rocking and reeling as theystruck the frogs. They had a straight shot through the yards to the mainline and Henshaw wasted no time in getting the 1064 into its stride.
They flashed past the outer signal towers and now only two twin ribbonsof steel lay ahead of them. The mail was speeding down the right-handwestbound track. They would meet the eastbound trains coming down theleft-hand pair of rails.
The needle on the speed indicator mounted steadily as Henshaw opened thethrottle notch by notch. The 1064's exhaust was a steady, deafeningvolley that made conversation impossible.
Block signals popped up in the searching rays of the headlight todisappear in the thunder of the train almost before Tim had time to readtheir signals. But the engineer saw them all and knew that the steelhighway ahead of him was clear.
Harry Benson was busy feeding the fire. He swayed to and fro in theglare from the open firebox. First to the tender, then to the cab with ascoop of coal, then back to the tender for more coal.
By the time the mail was five miles out of Atkinson, Henshaw had the1064 near the peak of its stride. They were rolling down the line atbetter than seventy miles an hour. It was a dizzy pace and the cabrocked and rolled over the steel.
Tim marveled at the easy grace of the fireman as he swung back and forthbetween the cab and the tender, feeding great shovels of coal into thehungry firebox.
The mail flashed through sleeping villages and past darkened farmhouses.The country through which they were speeding was sparsely settled andthere were few grade crossings. Only occasionally did Henshaw reach forthe whistle cord and send a sharp warning into the night.
Raleigh was their first scheduled stop and five miles this side of thecity they slid down into a valley where a roaring stream rushed underthe rails. A repair crew had been strengthening the bridge and had notquite completed their work. As a result the dispatcher had put out aslow order which called for a speed not in excess of thirty miles anhour over the bridge. Henshaw glanced at his watch and grumbled tohimself as he pinched the mail down to comply with the orders. The airbrakes ground hard on the wheels and Tim looked back at the train.Sparks were flying from every truck, cascading in showers along theright-of-way.
They rumbled over the bridge and Henshaw opened up again. Every minutecounted and he rolled the mail into Raleigh at a lively clip.
There was no need to handle the mail as he would a cracktranscontinental limited with extra fare passengers and a diner full ofchinaware and Henshaw whipped the mail into the station and ground herdown hard. They stopped with a jerk that jarred every bone in Tim'sbody.
The doors of the mail cars were rolled open and the crew started tossingthe pouches. Henshaw picked up his torch, lighted it, and dropped downto oil around while Benson pulled the spout down from the nearby watertank and gave the engine a drink.
High speed means lots of steam and steam means water and more water.Hundreds of gallons gushed into the tank on the tender and the firemanhad just completed his task when they got the highball. He was still ontop of the tender when Henshaw cracked his throttle and started the mailon another leg of its fast run.
The fireman scrambled down off the swaying tender, opened the firebox,and started throwing in coal like a man possessed. There was a slightgrade out of the station at Raleigh and the laboring exhaust fairlypulled the fire out the stack.
Once over the grade the 1064 hit her stride and they rolled away alongthe foothills of the Great Smokies. This particular main stem of theSouthwestern ran through the foothills for several hundred miles,finally finding a pass through which the rails continued their journeyto the coast.
The running would be more precarious now and there was only one morestop and that for water at the village of Tanktown, a hamlet where a fewrailroad men made their home.
Tim was fascinated by the precision with which the great locomotiveworked, with the confidence the engineer displayed in its handling andwith the dexterity of the fireman as he fed fuel to the firebox.
On and on rushed the mail, the speed never under sixty miles an hour andsometimes well over seventy. Just before they plunged into the foothillsthey struck a stretch of ten miles of almost straight track with onlyone or two gentle grades.
Henshaw yelled at his fireman and Benson grinned and motioned for theengineer to open the throttle. The bar went back into the last notch andTim felt the engine pulsate with new power. The needle on the speedindicator climbed to seventy-five and kept on. It paused at eighty andthen went on up to eighty-three. They were bouncing around in the cabwhen the little air whistle which the conductor uses in signalling theengine peeped.
Henshaw waited until the conductor had signalled several times before heeased off on the throttle and they dropped down to the slow pace ofsixty-five miles an hour.
"I guess we gave the boys behind a thrill," yelled Henshaw and thefireman nodded as he straightened up to rest his weary muscles.
Once in the foothills where the grades were frequent and the curvestighter, their speed dropped below sixty miles an hour.
When they stopped at Tanktown for coal and water, they were sevenminutes ahead of their schedule and Henshaw took ample time to touch upthe journals and bearings of the great engine with liberal doses of oil.
The conductor ran forward.
"What's the idea," he demanded. "Were you trying to put us all in theditch?" "Keep cool, keep cool," grinned Henshaw. "Our orders were tomake time and we made it."
"Our orders didn't call for eighty-three miles an hour," sputtered thetrainman. "Next time you try a stunt like that I'll pull the air onyou."
"You'll lose time if you do," smiled the engineer. "You sit back in yourmail cars and I'll do the worrying about keeping the train on therails."
The fireman yelled that he was ready to go. Henshaw looked at his watchand climbed into the cab.
The whistle blasted two short, sharp calls and the flagman on the backend swung aboard. The mail sped on the last lap of its inaugural run onthe new schedule.
Mile after mile disappeared behind the red lights of the last car. Theywere less than forty miles from the end of the division when they swungaround a curve to see the rails ahead of them disappear in an inferno offlame.
Henshaw jammed on the air and leaned far out of the cab. Tim droppeddown in the gangway and looked ahead. A small patch of timber throughwhich the right-of-way passed was on fire, and a wall of flame barredtheir way.
The engineer pinched his train down to a stop about two hundred yardsfrom the burning timber. Even at that distance they could hear the roarof the flames and feel the heat from the cauldron of fire.
"Looks like this is the end of your run," said Tim.
"Don't know," replied the engineer. "We might make it."
"Going to try
and run the fire?" asked the fireman.
"Orders say to get the mail through to the west end on time," said theengineer, "And orders are orders. What say, boys?"
"I say yes," grinned the fireman. "The steel ought to hold us and we cancoast through without much push or pull on the rails."
"I'm riding the mail," said Tim when the engineer turned to him.
"Then here we go," decided Henshaw. He threw over the reverse lever andstarted backing away from the flames. When the 1064 was a mile from theburning timber he brought the train to a stop.
Mail clerks and trainmen had their heads out the doors, wondering whatthe engineer was going to do.
The conductor hurried up.
"We'll have to stay here," he told the engineer.
"Stay here? Well, I guess not," replied Henshaw. "Orders say 'on time'at the west end. If you're going to stay with this train, swing on andmake it snappy. We're going to run for it."
The conductor protested but the engineer set his train in motion and theconductor finally swung on one of the mail cars and climbed inside.
The 1064 picked up speed rapidly and they rolled down on the fire.
"Duck down behind the boiler when I yell," said the engineer and Tim andthe fireman nodded that they understood.
The distance between the pilot and the flames was decreasing rapidly.Tim slid off the box behind the engineer and clung to one side of thecab. The world ahead was a wall of fire that leaped toward the heavens.Tim heard the engineer yell and he ducked behind the head of the boiler.
The engine swayed sickeningly but held to the steel. There was the roarof the fire, the stifling heat that seemed to sear its way into hislungs, hot brands filled the cab and he felt his hair scorching in theterrific heat. Then the engine stumbled onto cool steel and they werethrough the burning timber and into the cool night air again.
Tim shook the cinders from his hair and straightened up. He looked forthe engineer and found Henshaw industriously beating out tongues offlame which were licking around the window. Between flailing his arms atthe fire he would stop momentarily to widen out on the throttle as the1064 swung into her stride again.
The reporter turned to the fireman's side of the cab. Benson wasmissing.
With a cry of alarm, Tim summoned the engineer from his side of the cab.
"The fireman's gone!" he cried.
Both of them felt the hand of death grip at their hearts. Perhaps alurch of the cab had thrown Benson out and into the flaming woods. Therewould have been no chance for his survival and they looked at each otherwith horror written in their faces.
The shock of the sudden tragedy left Tim speechless and the engineerclimbed slowly back to his throttle. There was no joy in the cab of the1064 over their victory with the flames for Henshaw had lost the bestfireman he had ever had.
Tim was used to sudden shocks but the one of turning to look for thefireman and finding him gone was one that would remain with him throughlife.
The needle on the steam gauge wavered and started down as the 1064 madeits heavy demands for power. Someone must keep the fire hot.
Henshaw glanced anxiously at his watch.
"We're right on the dot now," he shouted at Tim. "If you can throw theblack diamonds for about thirty minutes we'll go into the west end ontime."
"I'll do my best," shouted Tim above the noise of the madly workingmachinery.
A foot lever which operated a small steam engine opened the door of thefirebox and Tim stepped on the lever. The heavy iron doors swung openand he looked into a white-hot pit. The fire was thin in spots and hepicked up Benson's scoop, set his legs for the pitch and roll of thecab, and swung a scoop of coal into the firebox. The first one wentwhere he intended it but on the second attempt they struck a tight curveand most of the coal went up the engineer's neck.
Henshaw laughed.
"Better luck next time," he shouted encouragingly.
Tim took a fresh grip on the scoop and in less than five minutes had aneven bed of coal scattered over the firebox.
There was something strange and mysterious about the woods being on fireand it troubled Tim, who sought some solution as he swayed from tenderto firebox and back to tender. Here it was, the spring of the year, andthat patch of woods afire. A campfire started by tramps might havespread, but Tim doubted that thought. Sparks from a passing train mighthave been the cause but for some reason, perhaps just a newspaperman'sintuition, he felt that there was something sinister behind the cause ofthe fire.
"Take it easy, we're almost in," shouted Henshaw as he pointed to thelights of Vinton as they swung around a curve.
Tim stuck his scoop into the coal pile and straightened up for the firsttime since he had taken the fireman's place.
The muscles in his back ached and his arms were sore, but he felt thathe had earned his ride. His thoughts still on the fire, he stepped overto the engineer's side of the cab.
"Anything of special value on tonight?" he asked.
"Don't know for sure," replied Henshaw as he eased up on the throttle."There were rumors back at Atkinson that there was a lot of _specie_aboard for some coast bank. Never can tell but the mail usually has apouch or two of valuable mail."
Tim was silent as Henshaw guided the mail through the maze of tracksthat marked the east entrance of the yards at Vinton. Green and redlights blinked out of the night at them.
There was the hollow roar as they rumbled past long lines of freightcars on the sidings, the sharp exhaust of a laboring switch engine, themultiple lights of the roundhouse and finally the station itself loomedin the rays of their headlight.
At the far end of the big depot Tim could see another engine waiting tobe hooked onto their train to continue the mail's dash for the coast.
Henshaw cracked his throttle just enough to bring them in with aflourish and stopped his scorched string of mail cars at the station ontime to the second.
When Tim dropped out of the cab he was astounded to see Colonel RobertSearle, head of the state police, striding toward him.
"Hello, Murphy," said the officer, "what's this I hear about you fellowsrunning through a piece of burning timber?"
"That's right, Colonel," said Tim. "We struck a patch about forty milesdown the line and it looked for a time like we weren't going to getthrough. Then Mr. Henshaw, the engineer, decided to run for it."
"You didn't waste much time when you first stopped for the fire didyou?"
"Not any more than we had to," said the engineer. "The string ofvarnished cars was stepping on a fast schedule."
"Then that explains why there wasn't a million dollar robbery on thisline tonight," said the head of the state police.