“Ha!” exclaimed Mr Sharp.
“And here it is,” said Blunt taking the shoe from under his chair and laying it on the table.
The superintendent took it up, examined it and then replaced it on the table with a nod, saying, “Proceed.”
“Well, sir, of course I looked well for the other shoe, but didn’t find it; so I came away with what I had got, takin’ care to place a lump of a stone over the foot-print in the clay, so as to guard but not touch it,—for it wasn’t the print of
this
shoe, sir, though somewhat like it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr Sharp again.
After revolving the matter in his mind for some minutes, and consulting with his satellite, Mr Sharp resolved to go down at once to the place and watch the beer-cask.
“It is not very late yet,” he said, “and these thirsty boys will be sure to want a drop of beer to their supper to-night. What makes you so sure that Bill Jones is the thief?”
“Because,” answered Blunt, “I observed that he was the only man at the station that had on a pair of new shoes!”
“Well, come along,” said Sharp, smiling grimly, “we shall find out before long.”
They soon reached the scene of the robbery, and were able to examine the place by the light of the moon, which had just managed to pierce the thick veil of clouds that had covered it during the earlier part of that night. Then they retired to a shady cavern, or hole, or hollow at the foot of the embankment, near to the gap in the hedge, and there they prepared to pass the night, with a heap of mingled clods and stones for their couch, and an overhanging bank of nettles for their canopy.
It was a long weary watch that began. There these patient men sat, hour after hour, gazing at the moon and stars till they almost fell asleep, and then entering into animated, though softly uttered, conversation until they roused themselves up. It was strange converse too, about struggles and fights with criminals and the detection of crime. But it was not
all
on such subjects. No, they forsook the professional path occasionally and strayed, as pleasantly as other men do, into the flowery lanes of social life—talking of friends, and wives, and children, and home, with as much pathos and tenderness as if their errand that night had been to succour some comrade in distress, instead of to watch like wolves, and pounce on unawares, and half throttle if need be, and bear off to punishment, an erring fellow-mortal.
But no fellow-mortal came that night to be thus pounced on, throttled, and borne off. When it became obvious that there was no use in remaining longer, Mr Sharp and his satellite returned to the office, and the former bade the latter go home for the night.
The satellite, thus set free, went home and set immediately—in his bed. The luminary himself postponed his setting for a time, put the thief’s shoe in his pocket and went straight to the residence of Bill Jones, which he reached shortly after the grey dawn had appeared. Here he found Bill in bed; but being peremptory in his demand for admission, Bill arose and let him in.
“You look rather pale this morning, Bill?”
“Bin at work late, sir,” said Bill uneasily, observing that the superintendent was casting an earnest glance all round his room.
Jones was a bachelor, so there wasn’t much of any kind to look at in the room.
“You’ve been treating yourself to a new pair of shoes, I see, Jones, what have you done with the old ones?”
“I—they’re worn-out, sir—I—”
“Yes, I see—ah! here is
one
of them,” said Mr Sharp, drawing an old shoe out of a corner; “you don’t require to look for the other, I’ve got it here,” he added, drawing its fellow from his pocket.
Jones stood aghast.
“Look here, Jones,” said Mr Sharp, gazing sternly into the culprit’s face, “you needn’t trouble yourself to deny the theft. I haven’t yet looked at the sole of
this
shoe, but I’ll engage to tell how many tackets are in it. We have discovered a little lump of clay down near the station, with a perfect impression of a sole having fifteen tackets therein,—three being wanting on the right, side, two on the left, and one at the toe—now, let us see,” he said, turning it up, “am I not a good prophet eh?”
Bill gave in at once! He not only made “a clean breast of it,” but also gave information that led to the capture of his accomplice before that day’s sun went down, and before Mr Sharp allowed himself to go to bed.
Thus did our superintendent winnow the chaff from the wheat continually.
Now, dear reader, do not say, “From all this it would appear that railway servants must be a bad lot of men!” It would be a thousand pities to fail into such an error, when we are labouring to prove to you the very reverse, namely, that the bad ones being continually and well “looked after,” none but the good are left. Our aim necessarily involves that we should dilate much on evil, so that the evil unavoidably bulks large in your eyes; but if we were capable of laying before you all the good that is done, felt and said by the thousands of our true-hearted men-of-the-line, the evil that is mingled with them would shrink into comparative insignificance.
The truth is, that in writing these details we desire to reassure ourself, as well as to comfort you, O timid railway traveller, by asserting and illustrating the unquestionable fact, that if our dangers on the line are numerous and great, our safeguards at all points are far more numerous and much greater.
Chapter Twelve.
Loo’s Garden
The plans of nurses, not less than those of mice and men, are apt to get into disorder. Mrs Durby having packed up the diamond ring in the careful manner which we have described in a previous chapter, essayed to get ready for her important journey to London on pawning purposes intent, but she found that there were so many little preparations to make, both in regard to her own toilette and to the arrangements of Mrs Tipps’ establishment, in prospect of its being left without its first mate for a time, that a considerable period elapsed before she got her anchor tripped and herself ready to set sail with the first fair wind. Worthy Mrs Durby, we may observe, was fond of quoting the late captain’s phraseology. She was an affectionate creature, and liked to recall his memory in this somewhat peculiar fashion.
In anticipation of this journey, Netta went one evening, in company with Emma Lee, to pay Mrs John Marrot a friendly visit, ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring after the health of baby Marrot, who, having recently fallen down-stairs, swallowed a brass button and eaten an unknown quantity of shoe-blacking, had been somewhat ailing. The real object of the visit however, was to ask Mrs Marrot to beg of her husband to take a special interest in Mrs Durby on her journey, as that excellent nurse had made up her mind to go by the train which he drove, feeling assured that if safety by rail was attainable at all, it must be by having a friend at court—a good and true man at the helm, so to speak.
“But la, Miss!” said Mrs Marrot, sitting on the bed and patting the baby, whose ruling passion, mischief, could not be disguised even in distress, seeing that it gleamed from his glassy eyes and issued in intermittent yells from his fevered throat, “if your nurse is of a narvish temperment she’d better not go with my John, ’cause
he
usually drives the Flyin’ Dutchman.”
“Indeed!” said Netta, with a puzzled smile; “and pray, what is the Flyin’ Dutchman?”
A yell and a glare from baby interrupted the reply. At the same instant the 7:45 p.m. express flew past with a roar, which was intensified by the whistle into a shriek as it neared the station. The house trembled as usual. Netta, not unnaturally, shuddered.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss, it’s only the express.”
“Do expresses often pass your cottage in that way?” asked Netta, with a touch of pity.
“Bless you, yes, Miss; they’re always passin’ day and night continooly; but we don’t think nothink of it. We’ve got used to it now.”
“Does it not disturb you at night?” asked Emma Lee in some surprise.
“No, Miss, it don’t—not in the least. No doubt it sometimes
do
influence our dreams, if I may say so. As my son Bob says—he’s a humorous boy is my Bob, Miss—he says, says he, the trains can’t awaken
us
, but they
do
awaken noo trains of ideas, especially w’en they stops right opposite the winder an’ blows off steam, or whistles like mad for five minutes at a time. I sometimes think that Bob is right, an’ that’s w’y baby have took to yellin’ an’ mischief with such a ’igh ’and. They do say that a man is knowd by the company he keeps, and I’m sure it’s no wonder that baby should screech an’ smash as he do, considerin’ the example set ’im day an’ night by them ingines.”
Here another yell from baby gave, as it were, assent to these opinions.
“But, as I was sayin’,” continued Mrs Marrot, “the Flyin’ Dutchman is the name that my ’usband’s train goes by, ’cause it is the fastest train in the kingdom—so they say. It goes at the rate of over sixty miles an hour, an’ ain’t just quite the train for people as is narvish—though my ’usband do say it ain’t more dangerous than other trains—not s’much so, indeed, wich I believe myself, for there ain’t nothink ’appened to my John all the eight years he have drove it.”
“Is sixty miles an hour
very
much faster than the rate of ordinary trains?” asked Emma.
“W’y, yes, Miss. Or’nary trains they run between twenty and forty miles an hour, though sometimes in goin’ down inclines they git up to fifty; but my ’usband
averages
sixty miles an hour, an’ on some parts o’ the line ’e gits up the speed to sixty-five an’ siventy. For my own part I’m quite hignorant of these things. To my mind all the ingines seem to go bangin’ an’ rushin’ an’ yellin’ about pretty much in the same furious way; but I’ve often ’eard my ’usband explain it all, an’
he
knows all about it Miss, just as if it wor A, B, C.”
Having discussed such matters a little longer, and entered with genuine sympathy into the physical and mental condition of baby, Netta finally arranged that her old nurse should go by the Flying Dutchman, seeing that she would be unable to distinguish the difference of speed between one train and another, while her mind would be at rest, if she knew herself to be under the care of a man, in whom she could trust.
“Well, Miss, I dessay it won’t much matter,” said Mrs Marrot, endeavouring to soothe the baby, in whom the button or the blacking appeared to be creating dire havoc; “but of course my ’usband can’t attend to ’er ’isself, not bein’ allowed to attend to nothink but ’is ingine. But he’ll put ’er in charge of the guard, who is a very ’andsome man, and uncommon polite to ladies. Stay, I’ll speak to Willum Garvie about it now,” said Mrs Marrot, rising; “he’s in the garding be’ind.”
“Pray don’t call him in,” said Netta, rising quickly; “we will go down to him. I should like much to see your garden.”
“You’ll find my Loo there, too,” said Mrs Marrot with a motherly smile, as she opened the door to let her visitors out. “You’ll excuse me not goin’ hout. I dursn’t leave that baby for a minute. He’d be over the—there he—”
The sentence was cut short by a yell, followed by a heavy bump, and the door shut with a bang, which sent Emma and her friend round the corner of the house in a highly amused frame of mind.
John Marrot’s garden was a small one—so small that the break-van of his own “Flyin’ Dutchman” could have contained it easily—but it was not too small to present a luxuriance, fertility, and brilliance of colour that was absolutely magnificent! Surrounded as that garden was by “ballast” from the embankment, broken wheels and rail, bricks and stones, and other miscellaneous refuse and
débris
of the line, it could only be compared to an oasis in the desert, or a bright gem on a rugged warrior’s breast. This garden owed its origin to Lucy Marrot’s love for flowers, and it owed much of its magnificence to Will Garvie’s love for Lucy; for that amiable fireman spent much of his small wage in purchasing seed and other things for the improvement of that garden, and spent the very few hours of his life, not claimed by the inexorable iron horse, in assisting to cultivate the same.
We use the word ‘assisting’ advisedly, because Loo would not hear of his taking this sort of work out of her hands. She was far too fond of it to permit that, but she had no objection whatever to his assistance. There never was, so Will and Loo thought, anything like the love which these two bore to each other. Extremes meet, undoubtedly. Their love was so intensely matter of fact and earnest that it rose high above the region of romance, in which lower region so many of our race do delight to coo and sigh. There was no nonsense about it. Will Garvie, who was naturally bold—no wonder, considering his meteor-like style of life—saw all the flowers in the garden as well as any other man, and admired them more than most men, but he said gravely that he wouldn’t give the end of a cracked boiler-tube for the whole garden, if she were not in the midst of it. At which Loo laughed heartily, and blushed with pleasure, and made no other reply.
It was quite delightful to observe the earnestness with which these two devoted themselves to the training of honeysuckle and jessamine over a trellis-work porch in that preposterously small garden, in which there was such a wealth of sweet peas, and roses, and marigolds, and mignonette, and scarlet geraniums, and delicately-coloured heliotropes, that it seemed as though they were making love in the midst of a glowing furnace. Gertie was there too, like a small female Cupid nestling among the flowers.
“A miniature paradise,” whispered Emma, with twinkling eyes, as they approached the unconscious pair.
“Yes, with Adam and Eve training the flowers,” responded Netta quite earnestly.
Adam making love in the fustian costume of the fireman of the “Flying Dutchman” was an idea which must have struck Emma in some fashion, for she found it difficult to command her features when introduced to the inhabitants of that little Eden by her friend.
“I have called to tell Mrs Marrot,” said Netta, “that my old nurse, Mrs Durby, is going to London soon, and that I wished your father to take a sort of charge of her, more for the sake of making her feel at ease than anything else.”
“I’m quite sure he will be delighted to do that,” said Loo; “won’t he, Will?”
“Why, yes,” replied the fireman, “your father is not the man to see a woman in distress and stand by. He’ll give her in charge of the guard, for you see, ma’am, he’s not allowed to leave his engine.” Will addressed the latter part of his remarks to Netta.
“That is just what Mrs Marrot said, and that will do equally well. Would
you
like to travel on the railway, Gertie?” said Netta, observing that the child was gazing up in her face with large earnest eyes.
“No,” answered Gertie, with decision.
“No; why not?”
“Because it takes father too often away, and once it nearly killed him,” said Gertie.
“Ah, that was the time that my own dear mother received such a shock, I suppose?”
“No, ma’am,” said Will Garvie, “Gertie is thinkin’ of another time, when Jack Marrot was drivin’ an excursion train—not three years gone by, and he ran into a lot of empty trucks that had broke loose from a train in advance. They turned the engine off the rails, and it ran down an embankment into a ploughed field, where it turned right over on the top of Jack. Fortunately he fell between the funnel and the steam-dome, which was the means of savin’ his life; but he got a bad shake, and was off duty some six or eight weeks. The fireman escaped without a scratch, and, as the coupling of the leading carriage broke, the train didn’t leave the metals, and no serious damage was done to any one else. I think our Gertie,” continued Will, laying his big strong hand gently on the child’s head, “seems to have taken an ill-will to railways since then.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it,” observed Emma Lee, as she bent down and kissed Gertie’s forehead. “I have once been in a railway accident myself, and I share your dislike; but I fear that we couldn’t get on well without them now, so you and I must be content to tolerate them, Gertie.”
“I s’pose so,” was Gertie’s quiet response, delivered, much to the amusement of her audience, with the gravity and the air of a grown woman.
“Well, good-evening, Gertie, good-evening,” said Netta, turning to Garvie; “then I may tell my nurse that the engine-driver of the express will take care of her.”
“Yes, ma’am, you may; for the matter o’ that, the fireman of the express will keep an eye on her too,” said the gallant William, touching his cap as the two friends left that bright oasis in the desert and returned to Eden Villa.
Chapter Thirteen.
Treats of Railway Literature, Sleepy Porters, Crowded Platforms, Foolish Passengers, Dark Plotters, Lively Shawls, and Other Matters
John Marrot was remarkably fond of his iron horse. No dragoon or hussar that we ever read of paid half so much attention to his charger. He not only rubbed it down, and fed and watered it at stated intervals, but, when not otherwise engaged, or when awaiting the signal to start a train, he was sure to be found with a piece of waste rubbing off a speck of dust here or a drop of superfluous oil there, or giving an extra polish to the bright brasses, or a finishing touch to a handle or lever in quite a tender way. It was evidently a labour of love!
On the day which Mrs Durby had fixed for her journey to London, John and his fireman went to the shed as usual one hour before the time of starting, being required to do so by the “Rules and Regulations” of the company, for the purpose of overhauling the iron horse.
And, by the way, a wonderful and suggestive volume was this book of “Rules and Regulations for the guidance of the officers and servants of the Grand National Trunk Railway.” It was a printed volume of above two hundred pages, containing minute directions in regard to every department and every detail of the service. It was “printed for private circulation;” but we venture to say that, if the public saw it, their respect for railway servants and railway difficulties and management would be greatly increased, the more so that one of the first “rules” enjoined was, that
each
servant should be held responsible for having a knowledge of all the rules—those relating to other departments as well as to his own. And it may not be out of place, certainly it will not be uninteresting, to mention here that one of the rules, rendered prominent by large black capitals, enjoined that “
The Public Safety Must Be The First And Chief Care
of every officer and servant of the company.” We have reason to believe that all the railways in the kingdom give this rule equal prominence in spirit—probably also in type. In this little volume it was likewise interesting to note, that civility to the public was strictly enjoined; and sure we are that every railway traveller will agree with us in the opinion that railway agents, guards, and porters, all, in short with whom the public come in contact, obey this rule heartily, in the spirit and in the letter.
The particular rules in the book which affected our engine-driver were uncommonly stringent, and very properly so, seeing that the lives of so many persons depended on the constancy of his coolness, courage, and vigilance. John Marrot, like all the engine-drivers on the line, was a picked man. In virtue of his superior character and abilities he received wages to the extent of 2 pounds, 10 shillings per week. Among other things, he was enjoined by his “rules and regulations,” very strictly, to give a loud whistle before starting, to start his train slowly and without a jerk, and to take his orders to start only from the guard; also, to approach stations or stopping places cautiously, and with the train well under control, and to be guided in the matter of shutting off steam, by such considerations as the number of vehicles in the train, and the state of the weather and rails, so as to avoid violent application of the brakes. Moreover, he was bound to do his best to keep to his exact time, and to account for any loss thereof by entering the cause of delay on his report-ticket. He was also earnestly enjoined to use every effort which might conduce to the safety of the public, and was authorised to refuse to proceed with any carriage or waggon which, from hot axles or otherwise, was in his opinion unfit to run. These are but a few specimens culled from a multitude of rules bearing on the minutest details of his duty as to driving, shunting, signalling, junction and level crossing, etcetera, with all of which he had to become not merely acquainted, but so intimately familiar that his mind could grasp them collectively, relatively, or individually at any moment, so as to act instantaneously, yet coolly, while going like a giant bomb-shell through the air—with human lives in the balance to add weight to his responsibilities.
If any man in the world needed a cool clear head and a quick steady hand, with ample nightly as well as Sabbath rest, that man was John Marrot, the engine-driver. When we think of the constant pressure of responsibility that lay on him, and the numbers in the kingdom of the class to which he belonged, it seems to us almost a standing miracle that railways are so safe and accidents so very rare.
While our engine-driver was harnessing his iron steed, another of the railway servants, having eaten his dinner, felt himself rather sleepy, and resolved to have a short nap. It was our friend Sam Natly, the porter, who came to this unwise as well as unfair resolution. Yet although we are bound to condemn Sam, we are entitled to palliate his offence and constrained to pity him, for his period of duty during the past week had been fifteen hours a day.
“Shameful!” exclaims some philanthropist.
True, but who is to take home the shame? Not the officers of the company, who cannot do more than their best with the materials laid to their hands; not the directors, who cannot create profits beyond the capacity of their line—although justice requires us to admit that they might reduce expenses, by squabbling less with other companies, and ceasing unfair, because ruinous as well as ungenerous, competition. Clearly the bulk of the shame lies with the shareholders, who encourage opposition for the sake of increasing their own dividends at the expense of their neighbours, and who insist on economy in directions which render the line inefficient—to the endangering of their own lives as well as those of the public. Economy in the matter of railway servants—in other words, their reduction in numbers—necessitates increase of working hours, which, beyond a certain point, implies inefficiency and danger. But the general public are not free from a modicum of this shame, and have to thank themselves if they are maimed and killed, because they descend on railways for compensation with a ruthless hand; (shame to Government here, for allowing it!) and still further, impoverish their already over-taxed coffers. Compensation for injury is just, but compensation as it is, and has been claimed and awarded, is ridiculously unfair, as well as outrageously unwise.
Fortunately Sam Natly’s wicked resolve to indulge in undutiful slumber did not result in evil on this occasion, although it did result in something rather surprising. It might have been far otherwise had Sam been a pointsman!
In order to enjoy fully the half-hour which he meant to snatch from duty, Sam entered a first-class carriage which stood on a siding, and, creeping under a seat, laid himself out at full length, pillowing his head on his arm. Tired men don’t require feather-beds. He was sound asleep in two minutes. It so happened that, three-quarters of an hour afterwards, an extra first-class carriage was wanted to add to the train which John Marrot was to “horse” on its arrival at Clatterby. The carriage in which Sam lay was selected for the purpose, drawn out, and attached to the train. Tired men are not easily awakened. Sam knew nothing of this change in his sleeping apartment.
Meanwhile Clatterby station became alive with travellers. The train drew up to the platform. Some passengers got out; others got in. The engine which brought it there, being in need of rest, coal, and water, moved off to the shed. John Marrot with his lieutenant, Garvie, moved to the front on his iron horse, looking as calm and sedate in his conscious power as his horse looked heavy and unyielding in its stolidity. Never did two creatures more thoroughly belie themselves by their looks. The latent power of the iron horse could have shot it forth like an arrow from a bow, or have blown the whole station to atoms. The smouldering fires in John’s manly breast could have raised him from a begrimed, somewhat sluggish, driver to a brilliant hero.
Some of the characters who have already been introduced at Clatterby station were there on this occasion also. Mr Sharp was there, looking meditative as usual, and sauntering as though he had nothing particular to do. Our tall superlative fop with the sleepy eyes and long whiskers was also there with his friend of the checked trousers. Mr Sharp felt a strong desire to pommel these fops, because he had found them very difficult to deal with in regard to compensation, the fop with the checked trousers having claimed, and finally obtained, an unreasonably large sum for the trifling injury done to his eye on the occasion of the accident at Langrye station. Mr Sharp could not however, gratify his desire. On the contrary, when the checked trousers remarked in passing that it was “vewy disagweeable weather,” he felt constrained to admit, civilly enough, that it was.
The two fops had a friend with them who was not a fop, but a plain, practical-looking man, with a forbidding countenance, and a large, tall, powerful frame. These three retired a little apart from the bustle of the station, and whispered together in earnest tones. Their names were the reverse of romantic, for the fop with the checked trousers was addressed as Smith, he with the long whiskers as Jenkins, and the large man as Thomson.
“Are you sure he is to go by this train?” asked Thomson, somewhat gruffly.
“Quite sure. There can be no mistake about it,” replied Jenkins, from whose speech, strange to say, the lisp and drawl had suddenly disappeared.
“And how are you sure of knowing him, if, as you say, you have never seen him?” asked Thomson.
“By the bag, of course,” answered Smith, whose drawl had also disappeared unaccountably; “we have got a minute description of the money-bag which he has had made peculiarly commonplace and shabby on purpose. It is black leather but very strong, with an unusually thick flat handle.”
“He’s very l