As the train stopped a squad of men sprang from each car and cleared spaces in which the companies might form. Then the gray columns poured forth quietly, steadily, and without a break until the ten companies were full and the regiment stood in line, rigid, motionless, and expectant.
When all was in readiness the colonel came to the door of the car, from a window of which Myles and Billings had watched the forming troops, and said:
“Now, Mr. Manning, will you let me introduce you to my boys?”
Myles hesitated. He had dared face death in the heat of that exciting race against time; but to face a thousand men was quite another thing.
It was Billings who urged him on by saying:
“Come, old man, don’t keep the music waiting. They’ve got to toot or burst.”
The next moment he found himself standing on the platform beside the colonel, while on that of the adjoining car stood Billings, smiling affably, and evidently prepared to receive any honors that might be showered upon him.
“Men of the 50th,” said the colonel, in a loud, clear voice, that was distinctly heard by every one of those before him, “I have the honor of presenting to you a New York reporter who has rendered to us this day the greatest service one human being may render unto his fellows. His name is – ” the colonel paused, lifted his hand, and with a mighty roar, startling in its suddenness and volume, the thousand throats of the regiment took the words from his mouth and shouted as one man.
“M-y-l-e-s M-a-n-n-i-n-g. Fizz-fizz-fizz, boom-boom-boom, Ti-gah!”
As the great shout rolled away among the listening mountains a sharp word of command rang out, and was echoed from company to company along the whole line. The band struck up “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and, marching as proudly as though under the eyes of the President of the United States, the superb, glittering regiment passed in review before bruised, ragged, mud-stained Myles Manning. Each company as it passed him presented arms, and the gleaming sword of each officer was raised in salute. It was not until they had all gone by that poor Myles remembered that in his bewilderment he had not acknowledged a single salute.
Billings had, though; and for whatever his fellow-reporter left undone the little man’s appreciative smiles and graceful hat-liftings amply atoned.
CHAPTER XVI.
RECALLED AND DISMISSED
AFTER the unexpected honor shown him by the boys of the 50th, Myles, accompanied by Billings, went to the hotel, where they both enjoyed the luxury of a much-needed bath. When they were ready to dress, Billings, gazing ruefully at his soiled linen, called out to Myles:
“I say, old man, haven’t you got a clean shirt to lend a fellow!”
“Why, yes,” replied Myles, “of course I can lend you one, but – ” here he held out the garment in question, and looked at it doubtfully – “don’t you think it will be a little large for you?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Billings, cheerfully. “I always like my things loose and roomy.”
He certainly had what he liked in this case; for, when arrayed in the shirt and one of Myles’ standing collars, which was three sizes too large, there was little to be seen of him below the eyes that twinkled merrily over the edge of the encircling linen. When, thus enveloped, he appeared on the street, he was everywhere greeted with roars of laughter. It came to be considered a fine joke among his tall friends of the 50th to catch hold of this collar, pull it up, and, gazing down into it as if in search of him, to call out:
“Hello, little one! Come up here a minute, I want to speak to you.”
For answer Billings, making a telescope of his hands, and gazing vaguely upward, would shout back:
“No, I guess not, thank you. It looks pretty cold up there in the clouds.”
Within an hour after the arrival of the New York troops, Mountain Junction underwent a marvellous change. Its streets were quiet and orderly, its saloons closed, and a cordon of slowly pacing, gray-uniformed sentinels completely encircled the great area containing the property of the railroad company. The regiment was quartered in one of the roomy car-shops, and during the four days that it remained there not a man below the grade of captain was permitted to stroll beyond the sentry line except under orders. The telegraph wires were repaired, and Colonel Pepper announced publicly that on and after that date passenger-trains, strongly guarded, would be run regularly both east and west from that point. The strikers were not to be molested, or interfered with in any way, unless they undertook to obstruct travel or destroy property, but they would do either of these things at their peril. He also gave notice that a train would leave Mountain Junction for New York that afternoon.
In the meantime Myles had been so fully occupied with the stirring events of the day, that it was not until he and Billings were in the hotel together that he thought to ask the latter how long he intended remaining at Mountain Junction, and whether he brought any orders from the office for him.
“Why, yes,” replied Billings, “that reminds me that I have a note for you from Mr. Haxall. My orders are to remain here as long as the regiment does, and to return with it. Here’s your note now.”
Opening it Myles read:
“Mr. Manning:
“Upon receiving this note from Mr. Billings you will return to New York and report at this office immediately. Mr. Billings will furnish what money is needed to meet your current expenses. “Yours etc.,
“J. Haxall, City Editor.”
“That’s too bad,” said Billings, as Myles read this short but very decided communication aloud. “I thought you and I were to work together here as we did at New London. Well, it can’t mean anything, except that Joe has got some better job for you. It must be something important too. But of course you won’t think of starting before to-morrow?”
“The note says ‘immediately,’” replied Myles.
“Yes, I know; but even then it can’t mean that a fellow who has been through what you have to-day, and is all knocked up, should set off on the road again without a chance to pull himself together. Why, you can get a doctor’s certificate that you are not fit to travel, and won’t be for several days.”
“A doctor’s certificate might satisfy Mr. Haxall, but it would not satisfy me,” replied Myles, with a faint smile. “I know that I am perfectly well able to travel, and that the ride to New York won’t hurt me any more than staying here.”
Nothing that Billings could say had any effect upon this determination, and when, a few hours later, a train, guarded by a full company of the 50th, was made up for New York, Myles was among its passengers. A number of his new-found soldier friends crowded about him, full of regret at his departure, and urging him to remain with them at least for that night. To them Myles only answered that he was under orders as well as they, and must obey them.
The train was ready to start. The conductor was shouting “All aboard!” and Billings was bidding his friend good-bye, when Myles suddenly exclaimed:
“Oh, Billings, I owe the telegraph operator here fifty dollars. He loaned it to me yesterday, and since then I haven’t had a chance to see him. Will you find and thank him for me, and tell him I will write, and return the money as soon as I reach New York?”
“All right!” shouted Billings, as he stepped from the moving train. “That and all other commissions executed by yours truly, at moderate charge.”
The captain commanding the escort that accompanied the train came and sat down beside the young reporter. He was a quiet but determined-looking fellow, as sun-browned and broad-shouldered as Myles himself. His intelligent conversation served to banish the anxious thoughts that on account of his unexpected recall were beginning to oppress the latter. Myles could not help contrasting his manner with the boastful swagger of Lieutenant Easter and the neat gray uniform worn by his present companion with the gorgeous plumage of the other. He interested the captain, whose name was Ellis, by describing the capture of the train on which he had ridden the day before, and the comical plight to which its escort had been reduced. When he told Captain Ellis that the assistant division superintendent had also been made a prisoner and carried off by the strikers the other said:
“He must have escaped then, for I heard of him in his uncle’s office just before we started. The colonel was talking to the superintendent, and, as I went in for final instructions, I heard the latter say that his assistant had only just returned from a trip over the western division and that – ”
“The superintendent!” exclaimed Myles. “The division superintendent? Is he at Mountain Junction?”
“Yes, he came in on a special a few minutes before we left and reported that no new damage had been done to the track.”
This was startling information to Myles, for it recalled the fact, which he had utterly forgotten, that he still had the key of the safe.
Supposing the superintendent should even now be asking for it and Ben should be obliged to confess that it was not in his possession. What would be the result? Of what might not poor Ben be suspected? He had not dreamed of such a complication as this. Why had he been such a fool as to insist upon having that key anyhow? After all, it was none of his business to try to guard the company’s property in that way. If they trusted Ben and he was unworthy, that was their own affair. Now what was to be done?
So occupied was Myles with this train of thought that his companion asked him a question unheeded; and, thinking it had not been heard above the noise of the cars, he repeated it.
“I beg your pardon,” said Myles, starting from his reverie, “did you speak?”
“I only asked if you ever met the division superintendent?”
“No, I never did. But I have got the key to his safe, and was wondering how I could return it most quickly.”
“That is curious,” said the captain. “Was it intrusted to your keeping for fear lest the strikers might get hold of it?”
“Yes – that is, not exactly. It was intrusted to my keeping, but not wholly on account of the strikers,” replied Myles, with some confusion. “You see, I can’t tell you how it came into my possession without breaking a promise, but if it is not returned at once I am afraid trouble will result.”
“Does not the division superintendent know that you have it?” asked the captain, with an air of surprise.
“No; that’s just it; and I wouldn’t have him know it if it could be helped.”
The captain was more than ever puzzled by this, but was far too polite to give utterance to his thoughts.
“You might return it by express,” he suggested.
“So I might,” said Myles, brightening at the thought. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll send it back by express from the first station.”
With this he drew the troublesome key from his pocket, where it had remained for two days unthought of, and the captain gazed at it curiously. They hunted up some brown wrapping-paper and did the key up in a package that was left with the express agent at the next station. It was directed to the Assistant Superintendent, Western Division, A. & B. R. R., and the charges on it were paid.
“There is no danger but that it will get there all right?” asked Myles, anxiously, of the agent.
“Oh, no,” was the reply. “Thanks to these gentlemen,” nodding to the gray-uniformed soldiers outside, “trains are running pretty regularly now. Our matter goes through all right, anyhow, whenever there is any thing to carry it, for the strikers haven’t any fight with the express company. They only stop freight and passengers.”
So having satisfied himself that he had done the best thing under the circumstances, Myles returned to the train and dismissed the matter from his mind.
Captain Ellis, with his command, left the train at the eastern end of the Central Division, where they were to remain until the following day, and then return to Mountain Junction. It was quite late at night when Myles bade these friends good-bye. Soon afterward he arranged himself as comfortably as possible in the car seat and fell asleep. When he next awoke his train was nearing New York and a boy was calling the morning papers close beside him.
Myles bought a Phonograph, curious to read the news of the great strike; for, though he was so well acquainted with what had taken place at and near Mountain Junction, it was four days since he had seen a daily paper, and he knew nothing of occurrences in other parts of the country. What was the heading of the first column on the first page? Was he reading it rightly? He went over it again slowly. Yes, there was no mistake. The heading was as plain as type could make it, and it was: “The Great Railroad Strike. Arrival of the 50th Regiment, N. G. S. N. Y. at Mountain Junction. Thrilling Details of their Trip. Daring Deed of a Phonograph Reporter. A Terrible Disaster Averted by his Ready Wit and Prompt Action. The Regiment Appreciates his Service.”
What could it all mean? Could these flattering words refer to him and what he had done? Yes, they could and did. As he read down the long column he found his own name mentioned more than once. There was a full, though perhaps slightly exaggerated, account of his ride, the wreck of his hand-car, the stopping of the train in consequence just in time, and the subsequent scene at Mountain Junction.
How fine it all looked in print! How much more daring and splendid the whole affair seemed now than it had twenty-four hours before, when he, stunned and bruised, was being told that he deserved to be hanged!
“Good for you, Billings, old man! Wait till I get a chance to tell the public what a splendid fellow you are, and what fine fellows all we reporters are any way. Perhaps we won’t be sneered at now so much as we have been.”
Thus thinking, and filled with a very pardonable pride, Myles read and re-read the story. As the train rolled into the station and he stepped from it he wondered if people would stare at him and point him out to each other. He wished he could meet some acquaintance who would call him by name; for, of course, everybody had read the account of his doings and would recognize the Myles Manning at once. How strange that people should be going about their every-day business as if it were the one thing in the world of importance, and great events, worthy of record in the newspapers, were not happening! How commonplace and trivial the things that interested them seemed to him now, in the light of what had so recently taken place!
His first plan was to go directly to the Phonograph office. No, it was too early. Nobody would be there yet. Then he thought he would go to his room, get a change of clothing, and make himself presentable. Would it not be more effective, though, to appear in the office still bearing signs of his late experience? Myles thought it would. He would first get breakfast at a restaurant and then decide what to do next.
By the way, supposing they should see the paper at home? Of course they would, or had by this time. He had subscribed for it and ordered it sent to them when he first became a reporter. What a state of mind they would be in! He ought to telegraph them at once. Acting upon this impulse he stopped at the first telegraph station and sent the following dispatch to his mother:
“Do not be anxious. Am safe. Will be out to-night.
“Myles.”
There, that would allay their anxiety, and it was neatly done in just ten words. He wrote “Will be out to-night” because it was Saturday, and he meant to spend the following day at home.
Now for breakfast. In the restaurant an intelligent-looking gentleman sat on the opposite side of his table. He had no morning paper, and Myles offered him the Phonograph, anxious to see what effect that first-column story would have upon him. The gentleman thanked him politely, took the paper, glanced carelessly through it, and returned it without comment.
“Exciting story of the strike, isn’t?” ventured Myles.
“Didn’t notice it,” answered the other. “I’m tired of all these strikes, and never waste time reading about them. Life’s too short.”
Myles replied: “Yes, that is so.” But he thought: “What a stupid fellow!”
After all he reached the Phonograph office before any of the other reporters. Mr. Haxall sat in the great room alone. He glanced up from his papers as Myles entered and said:
“Ah, Mr. Manning, that you? Step here a moment, please.”
“Now for a real triumph,” thought Myles. “He must say something in praise for what I have done.”
“You have been absent from this office for five days at Mountain Junction, I believe,” said Mr. Haxall.
“Yes, sir.”
“And in that time we have received but one dispatch from you?”
“Well, sir, I can explain – ” began Myles, eagerly.
“Perhaps this is a sufficient explanation,” interrupted Mr. Haxall, handing him a telegram.
It was: “Your reporter at Mountain Junction too drunk to send any news to-night. Better replace him with a sober man.” And the telegram was dated five days before.
Myles felt as though some one had struck him a blow full in the face.
“But, Mr. Haxall – ” he began.
“This office can accept no excuse for such a neglect of duty as that, Mr. Manning,” said the city editor. “I am very sorry, but I am obliged to ask you to please hand the key of your desk to Mr. Brown.”
CHAPTER XVII.
THE BEST SISTER IN THE WORLD
MYLES stood for a moment motionless in front of Mr. Haxall’s desk like one who is dazed. Gradually the full meaning of the words, “Hand the key of your desk to Mr. Brown,” dawned upon him. He was dismissed from the paper; dismissed for drunkenness and neglect of duty while under orders. He, Myles Manning, the son of a gentleman, and who had always considered himself one, had been drunk, and, because of it, the position which he had been so proud of, so confident of retaining, was no longer his. It was terrible; but, alas! it was true.
Without a word he turned away and went to his own desk. His own desk? No; it was his no longer. Some other fellow, who could keep sober and perform his duty faithfully, would have it now. Mechanically he unlocked the drawer and began to take from it the treasures that had accumulated there: a rough copy of the first thing he ever wrote for the paper, the unfinished manuscript of a special article that he had hoped would win him a name in journalism, a few precious home letters.
While he was thus engaged one of the office-boys laid some mail matter before him. He glanced it over. A loving letter from his mother, full of anxiety as to where he was and what he was doing. They had not heard from him in so long. Kate and his father sent dearest love. They were having a hard struggle with poverty; but they were so proud of him, he was doing so splendidly, that thinking and talking of him kept them cheerful.
Myles thrust this letter into his pocket with a groan. There was a long letter from Van Cleef, full of what he was doing, enlivened by gay bits of description of life at summer resorts. He would be back next week. A note from his old gentleman friend of the Oxygen, asking his dear proxy to dine at the club with him that evening. It was dated that very morning. Then a telegram. It was from Billings, and read:
“Operator says some mistake. Never loaned you any money. Tried to, but you refused. B. W. in town. Furious against you. Do not know what for. Shall I thrash him in your name? Answer.
“Billings.”
This message diverted Myles’ gloomy thoughts for a moment. If the telegraph operator had not loaned him the money, who had? Here was a mystery. Well, whoever it was would claim his own fast enough. He would have to wait, though. As well try to extract blood from a stone as money from him now. He was not only penniless, but hopeless of ever earning another cent.
Now a couple of reporters came in. They had read the morning’s papers and were full of enthusiasm over the brave deed of one of their number. Seeing Myles at his desk they rushed up to congratulate him. This was more than the poor fellow could bear, and, hastily gathering up his papers, he hurried from the office, laying his key on Mr. Brown’s desk as he passed it.
The two reporters stared after him amazed and indignant.
“It is curious how stuck up some folks can get with a little notoriety,” said one.
“Yes,” replied the other, “too stuck up to accept congratulations from ordinary every-day chaps like us. Well, the next time he may congratulate himself, but you can safely depend upon it that I won’t run the risk of another such snub from him.”
As Myles went down stairs he thought he might as well collect his week’s salary, and stepped into the cashier’s office to do so. The usual little brown envelope was handed to him, and he put it into his pocket without stopping to open it there.
Arrived at his own room he locked the door and gave way to his grief, mortification, and anger. Nobody ever had such hard luck as he; nobody was ever so shamefully treated. Mr. Haxall was a monument of injustice and tyranny. How he hated him! How he hated everybody! Thus he raved to himself as he paced furiously up and down the narrow limits of his room.
Thus an hour was passed, and still the tumult raged. He was desperate. He knew not which way to turn, and could see no hope in any direction. Should he go home? Should he stay in the city and try for other work, or should he fly to some distant part of the country where he was unknown, and begin all over again? Each of these plans was rejected as soon as thought of. He could not go home and change their hope and pride in him to shame and sorrow. No; he loved them too dearly for that. There was no use in trying for a position on any other city paper. The story of his disgrace would bar every office door. He could not go to a distant city and start anew because he had no money with which to travel. He had his week’s pay, to be sure; but how far would such a pitiful sum take him? Hardly thinking of what he did he opened the little brown envelope. A slip of paper fluttered to the floor. It was the order on the cashier for the money he had drawn to pay his expenses on his recent trip. As he had rendered no account of these expenses, and as the sum thus drawn was far in excess of his week’s salary, the cashier was obliged to charge the full amount to him and withhold the salary as partial payment.
This last blow was too much. Myles flung himself on his bed and buried his face in the pillows. How long he lay there, utterly forsaken, prostrated, and hopeless, he never knew; but he was finally aroused by a knock at his door.
He felt that he could not see anybody then, and did not answer it. He hoped whoever it was would believe him to be out and go away; but the knock was repeated.
“Who is it?” he called, in a gruff tone.
“It is I, Myles; your Sister Kate. Why don’t you open the door?”
Kate in the city! Kate there at his door! He couldn’t see her. He could not let her see him in his present condition. No, he could not bear it. He was about to tell her so and beg her to go away. Then the thought that she might as well know the worst now as later caused him to change his mind. He unlocked the door, and Kate Manning, happy-looking, and flushed with exercise, entered.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she began, and then, with a sudden change of tone and in a shocked voice, “Why, Myles Manning, what is the matter? I never saw any one look so dreadfully in all my life.”
“Probably you never met anybody who had such cause for feeling dreadfully as I have,” replied Myles, as he placed a chair for his sister and leaned gloomily against the mantel-shelf that nearly filled one side of the little room.
“What do you mean, Myles? Sit down there on the bed and tell me all about it at once,” commanded Kate, nervously pulling off her gloves as she spoke.
Then Myles sat down and told her the whole miserable story, beginning with the day he went to Mountain Junction and ending with the moment of his present disgrace and wretchedness.
“You poor, poor, dear boy!” exclaimed Kate, as he finished, and with her eyes full of sympathetic tears. “I never in my life heard of so much trouble coming to one person all at once. There is one splendid thing about it all, though.”
“Is there?” asked Myles, doubtfully. “What is that?”
“Why, after such a terrible experience you never, never, so long as you live, will touch another drop of liquor; will you, dear?”
“I don’t think I’m likely to.”
“But promise me you won’t!”
“All right, Kate, I promise.”
“There! Now I am really glad it has all happened. But how splendidly you saved that train! Why didn’t you tell Mr. Haxall about it? If you had he couldn’t possibly have done more than to reprimand you. He would never have dismissed you in the world.”
“He knew all about it,” replied Myles. “It’s all in the paper. Haven’t you read the Phonograph this morning?”
“No, I haven’t had a moment’s time to look at the papers to-day. Do you mean that what you did is in the paper, with your name and all?”
For answer Myles handed her his copy of the Phonograph, and she read eagerly at the place he pointed out. Her cheeks flushed as she read, and when she finished she sprang up, and, throwing her arms about her brother’s neck, exclaimed:
“It is simply wonderful, Myles! wonderful! And I should think you’d be the proudest boy in New York City at this minute. Why, just because I am your sister I am the proudest girl in it.”
“I suppose I was just a little proud before I went to the office this morning,” said Myles, gently disengaging himself from his sister’s embrace; “but I guess it was the sort of pride that goeth before a fall. At any rate, I got my fall, and a pretty serious one it was too.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Kate, “What’s one fall? A man ought not to mind such a thing as that. Do as you did when you were a little boy, pick yourself up and run on again.”
“That’s easy enough to say, but hard to do. To begin with, I am disgraced and penniless.”
“Penniless!” echoed Kate, ignoring the other word. “Well, I can remedy that. It’s just what I came to tell you about. I went to the office first, and they said you had gone home. So I came up here. There, sir; now you are not penniless.”
While she spoke she had been unlocking a ridiculous little bag that hung from her arm, and now, taking from it a roll of bills, she thrust them into her brother’s hand.
“Why, Kate, what is this? Where did you get hold of so much money?” exclaimed Myles.
“Earned it, sir!”
“Earned it! You earned it?”
“Yes. I have been trying for it all summer long. I’ve sent drawing after drawing to every illustrated paper and magazine in the country, and they have all been returned, until last week, when I had one accepted at W – ’s.”
“At W – ’s!” interrupted Myles, to whom such a piece of good fortune seemed almost incredible.
“Yes, sir, at W – ’s. The very place of all others in which I most wished to succeed, and where I had the least hope of doing so. They sent a note saying that it was accepted, and I came in town this morning to get the money for it. Twenty-five dollars they gave me. What do you think of that? And it’s all yours, you dear old fellow you! every cent of it. Oh, I’m so proud and glad that it came just at this time, when you needed it so much! And they praised the drawing and gave me an order for another. It is to illustrate a short story, and I’ve got the manuscript here to take home and read and get an inspiration from. Oh, Myles, why can’t you write stories and let me illustrate them? It would be the most splendid thing in the world.
“So it would, but there is one important draw-back to such a scheme.”
“What?”
“My inability to write stories. You have proved that you are able to do your part of such a work, and I have proved myself unable to do mine. From what has happened to-day it is evident that I am not even fit for a reporter’s position, and that is only the first stepping-stone in literary work.”
“Myles Manning, you mustn’t talk so about yourself! You know you have done splendidly ever since you began on the Phonograph, and if that horrid Mr. Haxall wasn’t a perfect stupid, he’d know that he had done a very foolish thing in letting you go. He will wish he had you back, and try to get you too, some day; see if he don’t. Then what a triumph it will be to be able to say: ‘No, I thank you, sir, I have found something better to do.’”
“It is impossible to fancy myself saying any such thing,” answered Myles, with a smile – the first that his face had worn in hours. “But, Kate, it is you who have done splendidly, and it is I who ought to be proud of having such a sister. I am proud, too, just as proud as I can be, of you, but I can’t take your money, dear.”
“Oh, Myles, what shall I do with the hateful money if you don’t take it? That is the one thing that makes money worth having – the power, I mean, that it gives us to help those we love. Don’t take away this great pleasure from me. Don’t, there’s a good boy.”
So these generous young souls struggled with each other, the one to give, and the other against receiving the gift, until finally they reached a compromise. Myles agreed to take ten dollars from his sister as a loan, while she declared she should put the rest aside for his use, and should not touch it so long as there was the slightest chance of his needing it. Then they discussed plans for the future, and Kate said:
“Why not be your own city editor, Myles, and give yourself interesting assignments to work up? I’m sure there are lots of things people want to know about, and if you would only write them up some of the papers would be certain to take your articles – and pay you well for them too.”
“The trouble is there are so many fellows doing that very thing,” answered Myles.
“Well, that is the trouble with every thing. There are quantities of people doing the same thing in every kind of business. If you can only do the same thing a little better than any one else though, or even as well as half of them, you are sure to succeed.”
“A most wise and level-headed speech, sister of mine,” said Myles, laughing, for his spirits were rapidly reviving under the influence of Kate’s cheerfulness and loving sympathy. “I will think seriously of your plan, and if nothing better turns up, why, perhaps I will make a try at it.”