BY E. MUNSON
Every one admitted he had a good heart in him. Even his bitterest enemy, Kid Alderson, was willing to make that concession, but qualified it by adding that he “was so blamed unlucky and peculiar, a body never knowed when he was in to clear.”
This singularity extended to his name. “H-o-s-s-e-l-k-u-s, accent on the sel,” he was wont to explain, with something like a shade of weariness, when a new operator faltered on his long patronymic.
Eben J. Hosselkus was engineer of Engine Seventeen-Forty-Three.
With the meagre data available, it is difficult to determine whether the name Hosselkus belongs to the Anglo-Saxon, Indo-European, or Teutonic family; but no such uncertainty attached to the origin of its unfortunate bearer. He was an unmistakable Yankee; rather below the medium height, lean and wiry; his mild, light-blue eyes were overshadowed by bushy and frowning eyebrows, and his grizzled mustache bristled with a singular ferocity, which the weakness of mouth and chin immediately belied. The whole man was decidedly contradictory. When first addressed, his manner was brusque and his voice gruff; but, after a few terrible expletives, his tone would soften and his most positive assertions invariably ended with an appeal for confirmation. “Now ain’t it so, for a fact? Now wouldn’t you say so, ’f you’uz me?” he would ask, while his wistful eyes wandered from face to face in search of support or sympathy, perhaps.
He was the oldest engineer on the division, and the most unfortunate. Two decades of brakemen and conductors had twisted and distorted his luckless surname in every conceivable way; but to all appellations, from “Old Hoss” to “Hustle-Cuss,” he ever accorded the same ready response.
Of late years he had been known simply as “Hard Luck.” When a train-crew would reach the end of the division, wan and famished from a protracted sojourn at some desert-siding, the first inquiry of their sympathetic brethren would be: “Who was pullin’ you?” “Old Hard Luck, of course,” was the seldom varied reply.
Old Hosselkus had probably suffered more “moving accidents by flood and field” than any other man ever lived through. And yet he was a thoroughly competent engineer. He was an earnest student of mechanical engineering, and could explain the mysteries of “link motion,” the principles of the “injector,” and the working of the Westinghouse automatic air-brake in a singularly lucid manner. Nothing pleased him better than to enlighten a green fireman upon some knotty point, and the walls of the roundhouse and bunkhouse are still covered with his elaborate chalk and pencil diagrams of the different parts of the locomotive.
As far back as he could remember, it had been the dream of Hosselkus’s life to be a regular passenger-engineer—in railroad parlance, to “pull varnished cars.” This was the goal upon the attainment of which the best efforts of his life had been concentrated, and still, after twenty years’ service, he seemed as far as ever from success. Many times he had almost achieved it, but always something had happened to prevent, some unaccountable and unavoidable piece of ill-luck. Finally, his name became so synonymous with disaster that the “Company” hesitated to intrust the valuable equipment of an express-train and the lives of the traveling public to him. Thus, as the years went by, old Hard Luck had become accustomed to crawling out from under the disgruntled engine of a side-tracked worktrain or way-freight to acknowledge the patronizing wave of the hand, as some former fireman of his whizzed by with a passenger-train or an “officers’ special.” Despair, however, had no place in his heart, and he still reveled in the fancied joys of pulling the fast express, and dreamed of that happy time when, to the customary inquiry as to the time of his departure, he would be able to answer: “I go out on Number Three.”
There is a great difference in engineers; some can step off the foot-board at the end of a long run looking as fresh and clean as at the start, while, to judge from the appearance of others, one would imagine they had made the journey in the ash-pan. Hosselkus belonged to the latter class. It would have required some more powerful solvent than simple soap and water to have removed the soot and grime that had gradually accumulated in the wrinkles and hollows of his countenance during the years of arduous service. There was some excuse for him, however, seeing that so much of his life had been spent upon superannuated “ten-wheelers,” which, as every one knows, are awkward machines to oil, on account of their wheels being so low and close together. Then, too, he had so many accidents. He scarcely ever made a round trip without “slipping an eccentric,” “bursting a flue,” or “burning out his grates,” not to mention more serious mishaps, such as derailments, head and hind-end collisions, or running into slides and wash-outs. Much practice had made him almost perfect in “taking down a side,” or disconnecting a locomotive, while some of his exploits in the fire-box, plugging flues, rivaled the exhibition given by the Hebrew children in that seven times heated furnace of Holy Writ.
But while his extensive experience upon the road had developed habits of self-reliance and a certain readiness in emergencies, it was not calculated to impart that gloss or polish which enables one to shine in society. Hard Luck’s only appearance within the charmed circle had been when he acted as pall-bearer at the funeral of a division superintendent, and upon that occasion he had scandalized his colleagues by appearing without the conventional white gloves, and a hurried and embarrassed search of his pockets only brought to light a bunch of “waste” and a “soft hammer,” articles which, though almost indispensable on a locomotive, are not essential to the success of a well-ordered interment.
Gamblers say that if one is but possessed of sufficient capital, the most persistent run of ill-luck may eventually be broken, and so it proved in Hosselkus’s case.
An “officers’ special,” carrying the leading magnates of the road upon a tour of inspection, was expected, and Engine Seven-Seventy-Seven, the fastest locomotive on the division, and Bill Pearson, an engineer with a record, had been held in readiness for some time to take them out.
The engine, with a full tank of the best coal, had already been run out of the roundhouse, and the train-dispatcher had the freights safely side-tracked, and satisfactory “meets” with the passenger-trains about figured out, when he was interrupted in his study of the train-sheet by a nervous ring at the telephone. The dispatcher answered it himself, and the foreman of the roundhouse announced that Pearson was sick, and unable to take the special out.
“That’s bad,” mused the dispatcher, but added, a moment later: “Well, send the next best man, and get a move on; they’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“They ain’t none,” replied the roundhouse.
“No other engineer?” shouted the dispatcher.
“Well, there’s only Perkins on the yard-engine and Hard Luck just in on Scott’s work-train—might double him out again—that’s all.”
The dispatcher rushed into the adjoining room to consult the superintendent.
It was in the midst of the busiest season, and every available engineer was out upon the road.
“Hard Luck? nonsense!” said the superintendent when he was informed of the situation. “Tell Pearson he must take the special out—this is a nice time for him to get sick!”
The roundhouse was notified, and replied that Pearson was “foamin’ awful—his wife’s got him jacked up and two doctors workin’ on him,” yelled the foreman.
“This is terrible! terrible!” groaned the superintendent. “Perkins is only a boy, we can’t put him on, and Hosselkus will never get over the division without something happening—never in the world!” and the perspiration started upon his forehead. The whistle of the special aroused him to the necessity of immediate action.
“Tell them to put Hosselkus on, and get him out as quick as possible—we are in the hands of Providence anyway, I suppose,” he added to himself.
All was hurry and excitement when the special pulled in. The engine that brought it in was cut off and hurried out of the way, while the huge, well-groomed “Three-Sevens” backed slowly down in charge of Hosselkus, whose heart swelled chokingly as the brazen clangor of her bell pealed out.
But the beginning was ominous. The engine was unfamiliar to him and worked more stiffly than he had expected, so that when he backed down to be coupled on, he struck the train with a momentum that jarred its occupants uncomfortably.
“Lord! Lord!” moaned the superintendent as he wiped his clammy brow and sought to divert the directors’ attention from the mishap by suggesting some needed improvements in the “Company’s” water supply.
Presently he excused himself and went ahead to the engine to interview Hard Luck. He found him with an oil-can in one hand and a bunch of waste in the other, engaged in the important duty of “oiling ’round.”
Hosselkus had had no time to change his greasy jumper and overalls for cleaner ones; his hasty wash had merely imparted a smeary look to his countenance, and the badge on his cap was upside down, but his eyes sparkled beneath their shaggy brows, his mustache bristled savagely, and the whole man was nervously alert as, with a squirt of oil here, a dab of the waste there, and feeling carefully each key and bearing to detect any signs of heating, he worked his way around the mighty racer. He was just finishing his round when the superintendent came up.
“Now, Hosselkus,” said the latter, appealingly, “do be careful and try and get us over the division in some kind of shape—make time, and, for heaven’s sake, don’t break down on the road. If you make a first-class run, I’ll see what we can do about getting a passenger run for you.”
Hosselkus put away his tallow-pot, wiped his hands on the bunch of waste, which he then carefully placed in his pocket to serve as a handkerchief, and at length spoke: “Colonel,” he said, “don’t you lose no sleep over this excursion—we’ll git there in the biggest kind of shape—this mill has got it in her, an’ if I can’t coax a move out of her, I’ll run a stationary the rest of my life. Now, these kid-engineers of yours, they ain’t up in mechanics like they’d oughter be—not but what they’re good boys—mind you, I’m not sayin’ a word agin ’em—but they waste her stren’th—they don’t really savvy the theory. Now——”
“Yes, yes,” hurriedly interrupted the superintendent; “I know, but we must be getting out of here, and don’t forget that passenger run—it’s manslaughter, if not murder in the first degree,” he said to himself, as he hastened back; “but if we escape with our lives, he shall have the run.”
The conductor waved his hand, Hosselkus opened the throttle slightly and the steam shrilled through the cylinder-cocks as the special moved down the yard. Slowly he threaded the network of tracks, cut-offs, and blind switches, and then more rapidly by the long siding opposite the row of cottages, where the families of the conductors and engineers lived. And instinctively he felt the eyes of the women upon him, and that they were saying: “Well, if there ain’t that crazy fool on Pearson’s Three-Sevens, with a passenger special! Wouldn’t that kill you?” for women are jealous divinities—they would not that man should have any other gods or goddesses before them, and, as Hosselkus worshiped only a locomotive, a thing of steel and iron, they made of him a by-word and a reproach. But at that moment, Hard Luck cared but little for their disdain; he only thought of his triumph, and the discordant clanging of the bell of the Three-Sevens sounded in his ears as a pæan of victory. “At last—at last,” seemed to say its brazen tongue.
The last switch was passed, and Hosselkus, forgetting the lightness of his train, opened the throttle so suddenly that the engine fairly leaped forward, while passengers’ necks received a violent wrench.
“This engineer of yours, colonel,” said the general superintendent, spitting out the end of a cigar he had involuntarily swallowed, “is just off a pile-driver, is he not?”
The colonel laughed a joyless laugh. “The fact is,” he replied, “the regular man was taken sick at the last moment, and we had no one but this fellow to put on. He is an old engineer, but not used to the engine. I think he will improve when he gets the hang of it.”
“I hope so—I hope so,” said the general, fervently, as he lit a fresh cigar; “there is evidently room for improvement.”
But presently even the anxious superintendent was forced to admit they were moving. Telegraph-poles, that had appeared and disappeared with majestic deliberation, began to flit by the windows with a frequency and abruptness very unusual in those stately objects; quicker and less rhythmic came the click of the wheels as each rail was passed, and the leaps of the engine at each revolution of the driving-wheels were merged into a continuous, convulsive shudder. The passengers no longer experienced the sensation of being drawn along, but felt as though projected through space, and the more timid clung to their seats to avoid soaring off through the roof. Trainmen who could traverse undisturbed the reeling roofs of a fast freight, made their way through the swaying cars with difficulty.
Old Hard Luck was evidently “getting there,” and the superintendent prayed silently that he might maintain the speed to the end.
At the first stop he went forward to congratulate the engineer. The fireman was under the engine “hoeing out,” and Hosselkus, sooty but triumphant, was “oiling ’round.”
“How’d’s that suit you, colonel?” he cried, as his superior approached; “the old girl’s a-crawlin’, ain’t she?”
“You’re doing fine, Hosselkus—fine, but keep it up—pound her on the back, for the porter tells me the wine is getting low and they’re liable to see something to beef about. Keep ’em a-rollin’, and the passenger run is yours.” The colonel had risen from the ranks, and at times, unconsciously, lapsed into the old dialect.
“Don’t you worry none, we’ll git there. Gimme this mill, colonel, an’ none of the other boys on the division ’ud ever get a smell of my smoke. An’ she does it so easy, reminds of your maw’s old rocker—just handle her right, don’t crowd her, that’s the main point. Now my theory’s like this, we’ll say the cylinder receives so much——”
But the colonel had fled. Hard Luck carried his theory with him, for he never succeeded in obtaining a listener to whom he could expound it.
No accident occurred, however; the speed was maintained, and the special reached Oleson’s Siding so far in advance of the train-dispatcher’s calculations that quite a wait was necessary while Number Three, the east-bound express, toiled up the grade.
Hosselkus lit the headlight, for the sun was impaled upon one of the peaks of the distant Sierras, whose eastern slopes were already purpling with shades of evening.
It was the last stop. Below him wound the tortuous Goose-Neck Grade, with the division terminus at its foot. The run was nearly ended.
Having finished oiling, Hosselkus leaned against the cylinder-head and gazed abstractedly down the track. A brakeman was seated on the head-block of the switch, throwing stones at an adjacent telegraph-pole, and moodily speculating upon the probabilities of “getting in” in time for supper, while an occasional breath of wind from the valley brought with it, from far down the grade, the puffing of the engines on Number Three.
He had succeeded. The record would be broken beyond a doubt; but as the cool breeze of sunset blew in his face, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was tired, and he remembered then that he had been on the road for over forty-eight hours.
The smell of heated tallow struck him, for the first time, as being a singularly unappetizing odor, and he looked over the huge machine with something akin to dissatisfaction in the expression of his face. He sighed, and the brakeman asked if she was coming—meaning the train.
“No,” replied Hard Luck; “she ain’t showed up ’round the bend yet—I’uz just thinkin’.”
“Well, here she’s a-comin’.”
Hosselkus clambered to his seat, and as soon as the express-train had cleared the switch it was opened by the brakeman, and the special was once more under way.
Leaning uncomfortably now to this side, now to that, and with angry grinding of flange on rail, it swept around the curves with ever-increasing speed. A crashing roar, a flare of yellow sunset light reflected from rocky walls, told of a cutting safely passed, while bridge, and culvert, and trestle bellowed again as the engine cleared them at a bound.
The Three-Sevens devoured the way. Again and again Hosselkus proved the correctness of his theory by the terrific bursts of speed with which the mighty engine responded to his every impulse; but his nerves were no longer responsive to the exultant thrill of triumph. A sickening foreboding griped his heart; yet, whenever he would have shut off steam and slackened speed, an unconquerable impulse restrained him; for, in the exhaust of the engine and the roar of wheels, he fancied he heard one word repeated over and over again, with maddening persistency: “Hurry! hurry! hurry! hurry!” And the fireman, as he shoveled in coal and struggled to maintain his difficult footing, noted with wonder, not unmixed with uneasiness, that Hosselkus was working steam on grades where it was usual to “let them down” under the restraining pressure of the air-brakes.
The lagging summer twilight gradually deepened until the illuminated faces of clock and steam-gauge stood out with pallid distinctness in the gloom of the cab. Lights in lonely section-houses shot past, and occasionally a great flare of red rushed upward from the momentarily opened door of the fire-box. The dazzling light of the furnace revealed old Hard Luck crouching forward on his seat, one hand on the throttle, the other grasping the reversing lever. His features were set and sharpened, and so pale that through its grimy enameling his face looked positively blue. An occasional swift, comprehensive glance took in clock, steam-gauge, and water-glass, and then his eyes were again fixed upon the arrowy torrent of ties that streamed into the glare of the headlight and disappeared beneath the pilot with unbroken, dizzying swiftness. At last a white post flitted by and Hosselkus relaxed. He glanced at the clock, and the next moment a long, wailing blast of the whistle warned the yardmen at the division’s end.
The record was broken; the passenger run was his at last; old Hard Luck had actually got over the division without a mishap and in time never before equaled; but instead of exulting over it, as he shut off steam, he found himself marveling how faint and far away the whistle had sounded; had he not felt the vibration of the escaping steam, he would hardly have believed it was the Three-Seven’s stentorian voice. Undoubtedly there was something wrong; he would have to fix it the first thing in the morning. The engine lurched over the switches, and Hosselkus cursed the sudden fog that had dimmed the switch-lamps so he could hardly tell red from white, but at length he pulled up before the Railway Hotel—fortune favored him to the last, he made a splendid stop.
With a great sigh of relief he leaned back on his seat, while the eating-house gong banged and thundered a hospitable welcome to the belated guests.
“You made a magnificent run, Hosselkus. I’ll fix it with the master-mechanic—you go out on Number Three to-morrow,” called out the superintendent, as he hurried by.
Presently a yardman uncoupled the engine and waved his lantern. “All right!” called out the fireman, who was standing in the gangway.
The engineer made no move.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the switchman, climbing into the cab; “Why in——” The light of his lantern fell upon the engineer’s face; he paused suddenly, for it was white beneath the grime.
Hard Luck was taken from the engine, laid upon a bench, and a physician hastily summoned. Engineers, with smoky torches, and trainmen, with lanterns, crowded around with bated breath, while the doctor listened long and attentively for a sound of life, but only the air-pump on the Three-Sevens sighed softly, as the light rings of smoke from her stack floated up, and up, and up in the quiet air, where still a tinge of twilight lingered.
“Dead!” said the doctor, and the tension was relaxed.
Then they all praised their late comrade, and all agreed that the old fellow had a good heart in him, anyway—that is, all but the doctor, who, as he rose and carefully wiped his spectacles, muttered something about “Organic weakness—told him so.”
The next day, as the superintendent had promised, Hard Luck went out on Number Three—but he went in a box, lashed to the platform of the baggage-car.