# The Kidnapping of Rockervelt

Extracted from the Windsor magazine, vol. 18, 1903, pp. 135-147. Accompanying illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo omitted.
THE KIDNAPPING of ROCKERVELT
By ROBERT BARR.
IT was a nasty night, with a drizzling rain that was nearly as thick as a fog—a rain that obscured the signals and left the rails so slippery that a quick stop was almost impossible—yet just the sort of night that might make a quick stop imperative if disaster were to he averted.
Red-headed Jimmy Callahan, station-master, telegrapher, ticket-agent, and man-of-all-work in the lone shanty known on the railway map in Hitchen's Siding, ignored by all other maps, stood beside the telegraph-instrument wondering whether the rain had affected the efficiency of the wires, or whether the train despatcher had gone crazy. Here was Number Sixteen, the freight from the west, coming in, and there were no orders for her. Number Three, known to the outside world as the "Pacific Express," the fastest train on the road, was already forty minutes overdue, tearing westward through the night somewhere, and Jimmy did not know where. All he knew was that she was trying to make up lost time as well as the greasy metals would allow, and here he stood without orders!
Once more he seized the key, and calling the despatcher's office in Warmington, once more demanded: "What orders for Sixteen?" Then he went outside, and on his own initiative kicked away the iron clutch that released the distant semaphore. The red star of danger glimmered through the drizzle to the east, which might hold the express if she saw it in time.
Number Sixteen had drawn up to the platform, and her conductor came forward, Jimmy running to meet him, shouting as he ran—
"Sidetrack your train, Flynn! Sidetrack her on the jump!"
"Where's my orders?" asked the conductor.
"There's no orders. I order you. Get her off the main line at once."
"Your orders! Well, for cold cheek——"
Jimmy lost none of the precious moments in argument, but, turning from the angry conductor, yelled to the engineer—
"Whistle for the switch, and kick her back on to the siding. Number Three may be into you any moment."
No youth in Jimmy's position has a right to give a command to an engineer over the head of a conductor, neither should his orders to the conductor be verbal—they must be documentary. Jimmy was shattering fixed rules of the road, and he knew it.
The conductor of a perishable-goods train thinks himself nearly as important as if he ran an express, so Flynn was rightly indignant at this sudden assumption of unauthorised command by a no-account youth at a no-account station. But a conductor is usually in a comparatively safe place, while the driver of an engine has to take the brunt of a head-on collision; so the grimy Morton at the throttle did not stand on etiquette, hut blew the whistle for an open switch and backed his train into the siding. Callahan watched the switch light turn to safety again, heaved a sigh of relief, then put his stalwart arms to the lever and slowly pulled off the red light to the east, and left the main line clear for the through express.
"What's all this sweat about?" cried Flynn. "Where's Number Three?"
"I don't know," replied Callahan quietly.
"You don't know? Well, I'm blessed! I'll tell you one thing, my red-headed youngster. If Number Three has lost more time, and I'm ordered on to the next siding, you'll lose your job."
"I know it," replied Callahan quietly.
Jimmy turned in from the platform to the telegraph-room, and Flynn followed him. As they advanced, the instrument began a wild rataplan, and Callahan paused, raising his hand for silence. Even one like Flynn, who did not understand its language, felt that the machine was making a frantic, agonised appeal.
"Listen to that" cried Callahan, a note of triumph in his voice.
"What's it saying?" whispered the conductor, awed in spite of himself.
"‘Sidetrack Sixteen! Sidetrack Sixteen! In Heaven's name sidetrack Sixteen!' There's your orders at last, Flynn. It's lucky you didn't wait for them."
The final words were obliterated by a roar as of a descending avalanche, and the express tore past, ripping the night and the silence, fifty miles an hour at the least, the long line of curtained windows in the sleeping-cars shimmering in the station lights like a dimly seen wavering biograph picture—there and away while you drew your breath. In the stillness that followed, the brass instrument kept up its useless, idiotic chatter. A heavy step sounded on the platform, and the engineer appeared at the door, his face ghastly in its pallor, the smudges on it giving a heightening effect of contrast.
"Jove, Flynn!" he gasped, "that was a close call."
The conductor nodded, and each man strode forward as if impelled by a single impulse and grasped a hand of the youngster. Callahan laughed nervously, saying—
"They're pretty anxious in the city. I must answer."
Then he went to the instrument and sent the cheekiest message that had ever gone over the wires from a subordinate to a superior.
In the Train Despatcher's office at Warmington, one hundred and twenty miles to the east of Hitchen's Siding, the force was hard at work under the electric light. John Manson, division superintendent, strolled in, although it was long past his office hours; but he was one of those indefatigable railroad men loth to take his fingers off the pulse of the great organisation he controlled, and no employé of the road could be certain of any hour of the night or day when Manson might not be standing unexpectedly beside him. As this silent man surveyed the busy room, listening to the click of the telegraphic sounders, which spoke to him as plainly as if human lips were uttering the language of the land, he was startled by a cry from Hammond, the train despatcher. Hammond sprang like a madman to the sender, and the key, at lightning speed, rattled forth—"Sidetrack Sixteen! Sidetrack Sixteen!"
Instinctively the division superintendent knew what had happened. To the most accurate of men, faithful and exact through years of service, may come an unaccountable momentary lapse of vigilance. The train despatcher had forgotten Number Sixteen! Instantly the road spread itself out before the mind's eye of the superintendent. He knew every inch of it. The situation revealed itself to his mathematical brain as a well-known arrangement of men and pawns would display to an expert what could or could not be done on the chess-board. He knew where Number Three would lose further time on the up-grades, but now, alas! it was on the level in the flat country, where every minute meant a mile. Nevertheless, there was one chance in a thousand that the express had not yet reached Hitchen's, and his quick mind showed him the right thing to be done.
"Tell him to stop Number Three," he snapped forth.
The despatcher obeyed. Where disaster is a matter of moments, there was little use in awaiting the slow movements of a heavy freight-train when the express, a demon of destruction, was swooping down on the scene. There was no answer to the frenzied appeal. Every man in the room was on his feet, and each held his breath as if the crash and the shrieks could penetrate across one hundred and twenty miles into that appalled office. Then the sounder began, leisurely and insolent.
"Keep on your shirt! I sidetracked Sixteen on my own, and set the signal against Three until Sixteen was in. Are you people crazy, or merely plain drunk?"
The tension snapped like an overstrained wire. One man went into shriek after shriek of laughter, another laid his head on his desk and sobbed. Hammond staggered into a chair, and an assistant held a glass of water to his ashen lips. The division superintendent stood like a statue, a deep frown marking his displeasure at the flippant message that had come in upon such a tragic crisis. But a thought of the safety of the trains cleared his brow.
"The man at the siding is that red-headed Callahan, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"Send down a substitute to-morrow, and tell Callahan to report to me."
"Yes, sir."
And this is how Jimmy Callahan came to be John Manson's right-hand helper in the division superintendent's office in the Grand Union Station of Warmington City.
The Grand Union Station is a noble pile in red brick, rough and cut stone and terra-cotta, with a massive corner tower that holds aloft a great clock which gives the city standard time. The tower is the pride of Warmington-a pillar of red cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, with the hours distinct a mile away. The tower may be taken as a monument to the power and wealth of the Rockervelts, although in larger cities they had still more imposing architecture to uphold their fame.
The Manateau Midland, which had its eastern terminus in this immense structure, was merely a link in the Rockervelt chain of admirably equipped railways; but as the title, Union, implied, other roads, mostly bankrupt or branch lines of the Midland, had running rights into the Grand Union Station.
For a country youth like Callahan to be transferred, at an enhanced salary, from a lone pine shanty on the prairie to this palatial edifice in the city, was like being translated bodily to heaven. Now he had his chance, and that was all he asked of Fate. He delighted in railway work. The strident screech of the whistles, the harsh clanking of cars coming together, all the discordant sounds of the station-yard, were as orchestral music to him, and he never tired of the symphony. He speedily became the most useful man about the place, and was from the first the most popular. He had a habit of dashing here and there bare-headed, and to heat or cold was equally indifferent. The clerks called him "The Brand," possibly from the phrase about the brand snatched from the burning, and the yard-men called him "The Torch." They said his red head stopped the Pacific Express, and had no idea how closely they were treading on the heels of truth. Jimmy took everything in good part, and always laughed loudest at the jokes on himself. There was not a trace of malice in the lad, and he was always ready with a cheery word or a helping hand. He seemed able to do anything, from running an engine to tapping a wire, and was willing in every emergency to work night and day, without a grumble, till he dropped from fatigue. Silent John Manson watched Jimmy's progress with unspoken approval, and loved him not the less that for all the lad's witty exuberance, not a word had ever passed his lips about that sinister mix-up at Hitchen's Siding. Those things are not to be spoken of, and even the general manager knew nothing of the crisis. The train despatcher had retired, nerve-broken, and the newspapers never guessed why.
But there was one man who did not like Jimmy, and that was no less important a personage than the general manager himself. His huge room in the lower part of the tower was as sumptuously furnished as an eastern palace. T. Acton Blair, general manager of the Manateau Midland, was supposed to be related to the Rockervelt family, but this was perhaps a fallacy put forth to account for such a palpably incompetent man being placed in so responsible a position. He was a bald-headed, corpulent personage, pompous and ponderous, slow moving and slow speaking, saying perfectly obvious things in a deep, impressive voice, as if he were uttering the wisdom of the ages. His subordinate, John Manson, as everybody knew, was responsible for the efficiency of the road; and when he wanted a project carried out, he always pretended it was Blair's original idea, so the general manager got the credit if it was a success, and Manson shouldered the blame if it was not.
One morning, as John Manson was about to leave the general manager's room, after the customary daily interview with his chief, the latter said—
"By the way, Manson, who is that florid individual that rushes about these offices at all hours, as if he thought he was running the whole Rockervelt system?"
"I suspect that is James Callahan, one of my assistants, sir."
"I don't like him, Manson; he seems obtrusive."
"I assure you, sir, he is a most capable man."
"Yes, yes, I dare say; but, as I have often told you, the success of our organisation is in method, not in haste."
"Quite so, sir."
"That person always gives me the idea that something is wrong—that a fire has broken out, or a man has been run over. I don't like it. His clothes are untidy and seem to have been made for someone else. His hair, in disarray, gets on one's nerves. He is uncouth, Manson, uncouth. I shouldn't like Mr. Rockervelt to see that we have such an unkempt person on our clerical staff."
"I'll speak to him, sir; I admit his manner does not do him justice."
"When Manson next encountered Jimmy alone, he spoke with more than his usual severity.
"Callahan, I wish you would pay some attention to your clothes. Get a new business suit and take care of it. Remember you are in the city of Warmington, and not at Hitchen's Siding."
"Yes, sir," said Jimmy contritely, looking down with a new dismay at his grease-stained trousers.
"And get your hair cut—short. I wish also you would abandon your habit of running all over the place without a hat."
"I'll do it, sir."
The hair-cut was not such an improvement as might have been expected, and even Manson's stern face almost relaxed into a smile as he saw the result of the barber's shears. Hitherto Jimmy's head had been a flame; now it resembled an explosion. The shortened red bristles stood straight up like a time-worn brush-broom. And in spite of all determination on his part, Jimmy would forget his hat. The catastrophe came with appalling suddenness. The Pacific Express he had saved, but himself he could not save.
Tearing down the long corridor at breakneck speed, Callahan turned a corner and ran bang into the imposing front of the general manager. That dignified potentate staggered back against the wall gasping, while his glossy silk hat rolled to the floor. Jimmy, brought up as suddenly as if he had collided with a haystack, groaned in terror, snatched the tall hat from the floor, brushed it, and handed it to the speechless magnate.
"I'm very, very sorry, sir," he ventured. But Mr. Acton Blair made no reply. Leaving the culprit standing there, he put on his hat and strode majestically to the division superintendent's room.
"Manson!" he panted, dropping into a chair, "discharge that lunatic at once!"
The division superintendent was too straightforward a man to pretend ignorance respecting the person alluded to. His face hardened into an expression of obstinacy that amazed his chief.
"The Rockervelt system is deeply indebted to Mr. Callahan—a debt it can never repay. He saved Number Three last November from what would have been the most disastrous accident of the year."
"Why was I never told of this?"
"For three reasons, sir. First, the fewer people that know of such escapes, the better; second, Hammond, who was responsible, voluntarily resigned on plea of ill-health; third, Hammond was your nephew."
Mr. T. Acton Blair rose to his feet with that majesty of bulk which pertains to corpulent men. It was an action which usually overawed a subordinate.
"I think you are making a mistake, sir, regarding our relative positions. I am general manager of the Manateau Midland, and as such have a right to be informed of every important event pertaining to the road."
"Your definition of the situation is correct. Both you and Mr. Rockervelt should have been told of the narrow escape of the express."
There was a glitter as of steel in the keen eyes of the superintendent, while the inflated manner of the manner underwent a visible change, like a distended bladder pricked by a pin. Mr. Blair knew well the danger to himself and his vaunted position, if the event under discussion came to the knowledge of the great autocrat in New York, so he tried to give his back-down the air of a masterly retreat.
"Well, well, Mr. Manson, I don't know but you were right. The less such things are talked of, the better. They have a habit of getting into the papers and undermining public confidence, which should be the endeavour of all of us to avoid. Yes, you did quite right, so we will let it go at that."
"And how about Mr. Callahan?"
"After all, Manson, he is your department, and you may do as you please. I should rather see him go, but I don't insist upon it. Good afternoon, Mr. Manson."
The great man took his departure ponderously, leaving Manson somewhat nonplussed. As soon as the door to the corridor closed behind Blair, the door to Manson's secretary's room, which had been ajar during this conversation, flew open, and the impetuous Callahan came rushing in.
"Excuse me, Mr. Manson," he cried, "but I was waiting to see you, and I could not help hearing part of what you and Mr. Blair said. I did not intend to listen; but if I had shut the door, it would have attracted attention, so I didn't know what to do. I suppose he told you we had a head-on collision, round a curve, with no signals cut except my hair?"
The young man tried to carry it off jauntily with a half-nervous laugh, but Manson's face was sober and unresponsive.
"It was all my fault, and you had warned me before," continued Callahan breathlessly. "Now you stood up to the old man for me, and made him back water; but I'm not going to have you get into trouble because of a yahoo like me. I've discharged Jimmy Callahan. I'm going in now to Mr. Blair, and I'll apologise and resign. I'll tell him you warned me to quit rushing round, and I didn't do it. I'm sorry I telescoped him, but not half so sorry as that I disappointed you."
"Nonsense" said Manson severely. "Go back to your desk, and let this rest for a day or two. I'll see the manager about it later on." He noticed the moisture in the younger man's eyes, and the quiver of his nether lip, so he spoke coldly. Emotion has no place in the railway business.
"No, sir, I'd never feel comfortable again. There's lots of work waiting for me, and it won't have to wait long. I'm going for it as I went for Mr. Blair's waistcoat. But I want to tell you, Mr. Manson, that—that all the boys know you're a brick, who'll stand by them if they—if they do the square thing."
And as if his disaster had not been caused by his precipitance, Jimmy bolted headlong from the room before Manson could frame a reply.
The division superintendent put on his hat and left the room less hurriedly than Jimmy had done. He made his way to that sumptuous edifice known as the University Club. The social organisation which it housed had long numbered Manson as a member, but he was a most infrequent visitor. He walked direct to the cosiest corner of the large reading-room, and there, in a luxurious arm-chair, found, as he had expected, the Hon. Duffield Rogers, an aged gentleman with a grey beard on his chin and a humorous twinkle in his eye. Mr. Rogers was a millionaire over and over again, yet he was president of the poorest railway in the State, known as the Burdock Route, whose eastern terminus was in the Grand Union which Manson had just left. He occupied a largely ornamental position on the Burdock, as he did in the arm-chair of the club. He was surrounded by a disarray of newspapers on the floor, and allowed the one he was holding to fall on the pile as he looked up with a smile on seeing Manson approach.
"Hallo, Manson! Is the Midland going to pay a dividend, that you've got an afternoon off?"
"What do you know about dividends?" asked Manson, with a laugh. He seemed a much more jocular person in the club than in the railway-office, and he was not above giving a sly dig at the Burdock Route, which had never paid a dividend since it was opened.
"Oh! I read about 'em in the papers," replied the Hon. Duffield serenely. "How's that old stick-in-the-mud Blair? I'm going to ask the committee to expel him. He has the cheek to swell around here, in my presence, and pretend he knows something about railroading. I'd stand that from you, but not from T. Acton Blair. He forgets I'm president of a road, while he's only a general manager. I tell him I rank with Rockervelt, and not with mere G.M's."
The old millionaire laughed so heartily at his own remarks that some of the habitués of the reading-room looked up sternly at the framed placard above the mantelshelf which displayed in large black letters the word "Silence." Manson drew up a chair beside the old man and said earnestly—
"I came in to see you on business, Mr. Rogers. There is a young fellow in my office who will develop into one of the best railroad men of his time. I want you to find a place for him on your line."
"Oh! we're not taking on any new men. Just the reverse. We laid off the general manager and about fifteen lesser officials a month ago, and we don't miss 'em in the least. I've been trying to resign for the past year, but they won't let me, because I don't ask any salary."
"This man will be worth double his money anywhere you place him."
"I am not saying anything against your man except that we don't want him. The Burdock's practically bankrupt—you know that."
"Still, Callahan, the young fellow I'm speaking of, won't want much money, and he understands railroading down to the ground."
"If he is so valuable, why are you so anxious to get rid of him?" asked the wily president, with a smile.
"I'm not. I'd rather part with all the rest of my staff than with Callahan; but Mr. Blair has taken a dislike to him, and——"
"Enough said," broke in the president of the Burdock. "That dislike, coupled with your own preference, makes the best recommendation any man could ask. How much are you paying Callahan?"
"Ten dollars a week."
The old man mused for a few moments, then chuckled aloud in great apparent enjoyment.
"I'll give him fifteen," he said. "Will that satisfy him?"
"It will more than satisfy him."
"But I pay the amount on one condition."
"What is that, Mr. Rogers?"
"The condition is that he accepts and fills the position of general manager of the Burdock Route."
"General manager!" echoed Manson. "I'm talking seriously, Mr. Rogers."
"So am I, Manson, so am I. And don't you see what a good bargain I'm driving? You say Callahan is first class. All right; I know you wouldn't vouch for him unless this was so. Very well. I get a general manager for fifteen dollars a week; cheapest in the country, and doubtless the best. I confess, however, my chief delight in offering him the position is the hope of seeing old Blair's face when he first meets in conference the youth he has dismissed, his equal in rank if not in salary. It will be a study in physiognomy."
If the staid John Manson thought that Callahan's native modesty would prevent him accepting the management of the Burdock Route, he was much mistaken. When Manson related quietly the result of his interview with the Hon. Duffield Rogers, the youth amazed him by leaping nearly to the ceiling and giving utterance to a whoop more like the war-cry of a Red Indian than the exclamation of a red-headed Irishman. Then he blushed the colour of his hair and apologised for his excitement, abashed by Manson's disapproving eyes.
"I tell you what it is, Mr. Manson, I'll make the road-bed of the old Burdock as good as you've got the Midland, and I'll——"
"Tut, tut" said Manson in his most unenthusiastic tone; "you can do nothing without money, and the Burdock's got none. Be thankful if you receive your fifteen a week with reasonable regularity. Now, here is a letter to the Hon. Duffield Rogers. Give it to the hall-porter at the club, and Mr. Rogers will invite you in. You will find the president a humorous man, and you have a touch of the same quality yourself; but repress it and treat him with the greatest respect, for humorists get along better with dull people like myself than with each other. Although you are leaving the jurisdiction of Mr. Blair, do not forget what I told you about paying attention to your clothes. You will be meeting important men whom you may have to persuade, and it is better to face there well groomed; a prepossessing appearance counts in business. Prepossession is nine points in the game. Here is the letter, so be off." The division superintendent rose and extended his hand. "And now, my boy, God bless you!"
The tone of the benediction sounded almost gruff, but there was a perceptible quaver underneath it, and after one firm clasp of the hand the division superintendent sat down at his desk with the resolute air of a man determined to get on with his work. As for Callahan, he could not trust his voice, either for thanks or farewell, so left the room with impetuous abruptness, and would have forgotten his hat if he had not happened to hold it in his hand.
To the ordinary man the Burdock Route was a badly kept streak of defective rails, rough as a corduroy road. To Jimmy it was a glorious path to Paradise, an air line of tremendous possibilities. He went up and down its length, not in a private car, but on ordinary locals and freight trains. He became personally acquainted with every section foreman and with nearly every labourer between Warmington and Portandit, the western terminus. He found them, as a usual thing, sullen and inert; he left them jolly and enthusiastic, almost believing in the future of the road.
He proved an unerring judge of character, and the useless man was laid off, while the competent were encouraged and promoted. He could handle a shovel with the best of them, or drive in a spike without missing a blow. In a year he had the Burdock Route as level as a billiard-table without extra expenditure of money, and travellers were beginning to note the improvement, so that receipts increased. He induced the Pullman Company to put an up-to-date sleeper on each night train, and withdraw the antiquated cars hitherto in use.
But there was one thing Callahan was not able to accomplish. He could not persuade the venerable president of the road to regard it as anything but a huge joke. The Hon. Duffield Rogers absolutely refused to leave his comfortable chair in the club and take a trip over the Burdock. The president delighted in Callahan's company, and got him made a member of the club, setting him down as a graduate of the Wahoo University, which was supposed to exist somewhere in the remote west. Rogers was a privileged member and a founder of the club, so the committee did not scrutinise his recommendation too closely.
"It's no use, Jimmy," he said. "Life is hard enough at best, without my spending any part of it in a beastly place like Portandit. I hear you have done wonders with the road, but you can't do anything really worth while with a route that has no terminus on the Atlantic. As long as you have to hand over your eastern traffic to the Rockervelts at Warmington, and take what western freight they care to allow you, you are in the clutch of the Rockervelts, and they can freeze you out whenever they like.
You may grade, you may ballast your road, if you will,
But the shadow of Rockervelt's over you still."
Thus Callahan always received his discouragement from his own chief, and with most persons this would ultimately have dampened enthusiasm; but Jimmy was ever optimistic and a believer in his work. One day he rushed into the club, his hat on the back of his head, a loose end of his collar sticking over his ear, and his eyes ablaze with excitement.
"Mr. Rogers, I've solved the problem at last" he cried. "I tell you, we'll make the Burdock the greatest line in this country!"
He shoved away the heaps of magazines from the reading-room table and spread out a map on its surface. The Hon. Duffieid rose slowly to his feet and stood beside the eager young man. A kindly, indulgent smile played about the lips of the aged president.
"Now see here!" shouted Callahan (they were alone together in the room, and the "Silence" placard made no protest). "There's Beechville, on the Burdock Route, and here's Collins' Centre, on the C. P. & N. Between these two points are sixty-three miles of prairie country, as level as a floor. It will be the cheapest bit of road in America; no embankments, no cuttings, no grade at all. Why, just dump the rails down, and they'd form a road of themselves! Once the Burdock taps the C. P. & N., there is our route clear through to tide-water, independent of the Rockervelt System."
Callahan, his face aglow, looked up at the veteran, but the indulgent smile had taken on a cynical touch. Mr. Rogers placed his hand on Jimmy's shoulder in kindly fashion and said slowly—
"If that could have been done, it would have been done long since. You could not get your charter. Rockervelt would buy the Legislature, and it would be impossible to outbid him."
Callahan's clenched fist came down on the map with a force that made the stout table quiver.
"But I've got the charter" he roared, in a voice that made the hall-porter outside think there was a row in the reading-room. The Hon. Duffield Rogers sank once more into his arm-chair and gazed at Jimmy.
"You've got the charter?" he echoed quietly.
"Certainly, and it didn't cost me a cent. The Governor signed it yesterday."
"Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings—" murmured the old man, who had years of experience behind him in the bribing of law-makers. "In Heaven's name, how did you manage it?"
"I went to the capital, got acquainted with the legislators—splendid fellows, all of them—personal friends of mine now; I showed them how such a link would benefit the State, and the Bill went through like that!" Jimmy snapped his fingers.
"Well, I'm blessed!" ejaculated the old-time purchaser of valuable franchises.
"Now, Mr. Rogers, you understand financiering, and you know all the capitalists. I understand the railway business. You get up the money, I'll build the road, and we'll be into New York with a whoop."
For one brief instant Callahan thought he had conquered. Like an old war-horse at the sound of the bugle, Rogers stiffened his muscles for the fight. The light of battle flamed in his eye as the memory of the conquest of millions returned to him. But presently he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and the light flickered out.
"Ah, Jimmy!" he whispered plaintively, "I wish I had met you thirty years ago; but alas! you weren't born then. What a team we would have made! But I'm too old, and, besides, your scheme wouldn't work. I might get up the money, and I might not. The very name of the Burdock is a hoodoo. But even if the money were subscribed and the link built, we would merely be confronted by a railroad war. The Rockervelts would cut rates, and the longest purse would win, which means we would go to the wall."
Callahan sat down with his face in his hands, thoroughly discouraged for the first time in his life. He felt a boyish desire to cry, and a mannish desire to curse, but did neither. The old gentleman rambled on amiably—
"You are a ten-thousand-dollar man, Jimmy, but your line of progress is on some road with a future. Follow my advice and take your charter to that old thief Rockervelt himself. There lies your market."
"How am I do that," growled Jimmy from between his fingers, "when I am an employé of the Burdock?"
"Technically so am I; therefore, as your chief, I advise you to see Rockervelt."
"All right!" cried Callahan, springing to his feet as if his minute of deep despondency bad been time thrown away that could not be spared. He shook hands cordially with the president and returned his genial smile.
On the steps of the club he was surprised to meet John Manson, who, he knew, rarely honoured that institution with his presence.
"I was just going up to see you, Mr. Manson. I want you to do me a favour. I'm going to New York, and I'd like a letter of introduction to Mr. Rockervelt."
The brow of the division superintendent knitted slightly, and he did not answer so readily as the other expected.
"Well, you see, Callahan," he said at last, "I am merely a small official, and Mr. Rockervelt is au important man who knows his own importance. Etiquette prescribes that I should give you a letter to the general manager, and he is the proper person to introduce you to Mr. Rockervelt. So, you see——"
"Oh, very well" exclaimed Callahan shortly, sorry he had asked. This rebuff, following so closely on the heels of his disappointment, clouded his usual good nature. He was about to go on, when Manson detained him, grasping the lapel of his coat.
"Don't be offended, Jimmy; and I'll tell you something no one else knows. I'm going to quit the railway business."
"What?" shouted Callahan, all his old affection for the man surging up within him as he now noted the trouble in his face. Manson quit the railway business! It was as if he had calmly announced his intention to commit suicide.
"That old fool Blair has been making trouble for you?" he cried.
"Oh, no! that is to say, there always has been a slight tension, and it doesn't grow better. I've made a little money—real estate has risen, you know, and that sort of thing—and I've been working hard; so I intend to resign. I take it you have some scheme to propose to Mr. Rockervelt?"
"Yes, I have."
"Very well. Your scheme, if it is a good one, will prove your best introduction. He's an accessible man; but plunge right to the point when you meet him. He likes directness. And, by the way, he will be here Wednesday morning. The big conference of railway presidents begins on Thursday afternoon at Portandit, and he will be there, of course. We attach his private car to Number Three, Wednesday night, and your best time to see him might be in his car during the four miles he's running to the Junction. The express waits for him at the Junction. You haven't much time, but it will prove all the time he'll want to allow you if your project doesn't appeal to him."
"Say!" cried Callahan, athrill with the portent of a sudden idea, "couldn't you persuade Rockervelt to hitch his car to the Burdock 'Thunderbolt'? I'll run him through to Portandit, and save him that dreary daylight trip from Tobasco."
Manson shook his head.
"No; Mr. Rockervelt would go over no other road than his own. I could not propose such a thing, and Mr. Blair would not."
Callahan drew a deep breath.
"Jimmy," said Manson gravely, "you should pay more attention to your personal appearance than you do—your collar's unbuttoned."
Callahan groped wildly round his ear for the missing end, but his mind was on something else. Manson reached for it and quietly buttoned it into place again. Then the two men parted.
Callahan walked down to the Grand Union Station deep in thought. He had determined to take Rockervelt's private car from its place with one of his own pony engines and attach it to his own express, and he was formulating his plans. Once away from the Junction, the Government itself could not stop him. And now we need a railway map to explain the situation. From Warmington to Portandit or to Tobasco was a long night's ride. The "Thunderbolt" left the Junction on the Burdock Route at 8 p.m. The "Pacific Express," on the Midland, left at 8.20; one train from the south side of the station, the other from the north.
At ten minutes to eight, John Manson received a telephone message asking him to remain within call. A short time after, when the men were coupling the private car to the west-bound train, Callahan rushed in to the telephone cabin and shouted—
"That you, Mr. Manson?"
"Yes; who are you?"
"Callahan. Say! I've just coupled Rockervelt's car to the 'Thunderbolt.' Release Number Three, for she will wait in vain. Telegraph all those people that Rockervelt was to meet at Tobasco to-morrow morning, to take the midnight train for Portandit and meet him there."
"Callahan, are you out of your senses?"
"No. It's all as I say. Nothing can stop us."
"I haven't the list of the men that——"
"Then call up Blair. He's on Number Three. You must get the list."
"Callahan, stop before it is too late. This is an outrage. It's kidnapping—brigand's work. You are breaking laws that will——"
"I know, I know. Good night, Mr. Manson."
Callahan rushed out to the platform, nodded to the waiting conductor, swung himself on the Pullman-car, the conductor swung his lantern, and the "Thunderbolt" swung out into the night.
When the deft and silent negro had cleared away the breakfast-dishes next morning and removed the tablecloth, Mr. Rockervelt leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. There was much to think of, and he was thinking much. The car rolled along with gratifying smoothness, and the great man paid no attention to the scenery, otherwise he might have been startled, for he knew well the environment of his own line. As for the negro, all roads were alike to him, as was the case with the coon in the song, and he attended solely and silently to his master's comfort. He hovered about for a few moments, then said deferentially—
"Day's a gennelman, sah, in de sleepah ahead's been asking fur you, sah, two or three times dis mawning, sah. He'd like to have some conversation with you, sah, if you's disengaged."
"Who is he?"
"Here's he's cawd, sah."
Mr. Rockervelt glanced at the card, murmuring: "James Callahan, General Manager, Burdock Route. That's strange." Then aloud: "Show Mr. Callahan in, Peter."
The magnate did not rise as the red head bowed to him, but waved his hand towards a chair, a silent invitation of which his visitor did not avail himself. He recognised the great man at once from the many portraits he had seen of him.
"I hope you have slept well, Mr. Rockervelt," began the new-comer.
"Excellently."
"And I trust you found the road-bed in good order."
Mr. Rockervelt raised his eyebrows and looked with some surprise at the polite inquirer before him.
"My own bed and the road-bed left nothing to be desired, since you are so kind as to ask."
"I am delighted to hear you say so, sir," cried Jimmy with enthusiasm. His host began to fear some demented person had got into his car, and he glanced over his shoulder for Peter, who was not visible.
"Why should you be delighted to hear me praise my own road?" he asked in tones that gave no hint of his uneasiness.
"Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I wished a few minutes' talk with you, and that's not as easy come at as you might think. You are not on your own road, but on the Burdock Route, now rapidly approaching Portandit. I took the liberty last night of hitching your car to this train, sir, instead of to your own Number Three."
Rockervelt sat up in alarm, glanced out of the windows, first on one side, then on the other. Bringing back his gaze to the man before him, hot auger added colour to the usual floridness of his countenance.
"You took the liberty, did you? Well, let me tell you, sir, it is a liberty you will bitterly regret."
"I am sorry to hear you say that, sir," replied Jimmy humbly.
"The liberty! Curse it, sir! you have disarranged all my plans. There are three men in Tobasco whom it is imperative I should meet this forenoon before the convention opens."
"Quite so, sir. I had them telegraphed to take the midnight and meet you at Portandit instead. They'll be waiting for you when you get in, sir."
"The dickens you did!" gasped Rockervelt, sinking back in his chair.
"You see, sir, it's an uneasy conference you would have had on that rocky road to Dublin, the T. and P. A long forenoon's ride, sir, with a road as rough as a rail fence. It would be like coming down the Soo Rapids, only you wouldn't go so quick. You are too good a railroad man, sir, not to hate a day journey, and I counted on that."
"It's a minor matter, but you happen to be right."
"I have a carriage waiting for you, sir. You can drive to your hotel at your ease, hold your conference in your room, and drop in to the convention whenever it pleases you, sir."
"Have you also arranged my return to New York, Mr. Callahan? By what route do you intend to send me back?"
Jimmy laughed that cheerful, infectious laugh of his. He realised that the danger point was passed.
"I hope you will get safe back to New York whatever route you take, sir."
"Thank you. How long have you been general manager of this road?"
"About two years, sir."
"Where did you learn the business?"
"In the greatest railroad school of this world, sir—the Rockervelt System."
The faint shadow of a smile passed over the face of Mr. Rockervelt for the first time during the interview.
"That I take as a handsome return for my testimonial to your road-bed. Why did you leave us?"
"I failed to please Mr. Blair, sir."
"In whose department were you?"
"In the division superintendent's."
"Did you please John Manson?"
"I think I did, sir."
"Um! Well, now, you did not kidnap me for the purposes of pleasant conversation. I don't like to see good men leave us; and if your object in kidnapping me was to come back to us, I may at once admit I am willing to entertain a proposal."
"No, sir. That was not my object, although I make bold to say that an offer from Mr. Rockervelt would exact respect from the greatest in the land, and I'm no exception to my betters. What I wanted, sir, was for you to cast your eye over this map. The red line represents sixty-three miles of level country, and——"
"I see; if a railway were built along that red line, your road would have access to New York independent of me. Well, young man, don't let that red line worry you. I could not allow you to get a charter."
"You're quick to see the possibilities, sir."
"Yes, but there are no probabilities."
"I'm not so sure of that, sir. Like the other fellow's fifteen dollars, I've got the charter in my inside pocket."
"Do you mind showing it to me?" asked Rockervelt, unconsciously finishing the line of the song referred to. Jimmy handed him the documents, and the great man scrutinised them with the quick care of an expert; then he folded them up again, but did not offer to return them. He gazed out upon the flying landscape for a few moments, while Jimmy stood expectant.
"How did you overcome Blair's opposition?" he inquired at last.
"There was no opposition."
The president's brow frowned, and a glint of anger appeared in the cold, calculating eyes.
"I expect Blair to watch the Legislature as well as the railway."
"He watches neither, sir."
Rockervelt glanced sharply at the confident young man who thus dared to asperse one of the minor gods of the Rockervelt System.
"Then who looks after the Midland?"
"John Manson, and does it quietly and well."
"Where did you get the money to put this through? A syndicate?"
"No; I didn't need any money. All I needed was that one of your general managers should be sound asleep, and time to make personal friends of the members of the House."
"I see you are prejudiced against Mr. Blair."
"I am, sir."
Rockervelt pulled himself together as one who has had enough of badinage and now prepares for business. His impassive face hardened, and the onlooker saw before him the man who had ruthlessly crushed opposition, regardless of consequences.
"Now, young man," he began, in a voice that cut like a knife, "do you know the value of these documents?"
"Yes, sir; they're not worth a cent."
"What!" cried Rockervelt, suddenly sitting straight. "I thought you had kidnapped me to hold me up, as is the genial Western fashion. Don't you want to sell this charter?"
"No, sir. I offered the charter to the president of the Burdock, as was my duty, but he said you would beat any combination that might be formed in the long run."
"Yes, or in the short run. Sensible man, Rogers. Well, sir, you do not expect an exorbitant price for a worthless charter?"
"I want no price at all. The charter is yours. But I'd like to offer a bit of advice as well as the charter. Make John Manson manager of the Midland."
"I resolved to do that ten minute ago. Now, what for yourself?"
"Only bear me in mind when you have a place looking for a red-headed man down East."
"Perhaps you expect Manson's vacant post on the Midland?" suggested Rockervelt
"I've no doubt he'd give it to me," replied Jimmy frankly; "but if you mean that Mr. Manson and I have made a deal, we're neither of us that kind of person. Manson knows nothing of this, and is a very anxious man since I telephoned from the Junction last night that I hooked your car to my train. He was warning me against the penalties as I rang him off."
"I believe you. Now, I want a special over your road to bring Manson to Portandit at once."
"Certainly, sir."
"You make arrangements, and I'll telegraph to him as soon as we arrive. I'll give you eight thousand dollars a year to begin on if you'll come to New York."
"I'll take it, sir."
"You don't ask what your duties are to be. Are you so confident you can fulfil them?"
"If they pertain to railroading, I'll guarantee to do them a little better than anyone else."
"That's the kind of man I want."
John Manson had not much to say for himself when, with Jimmy Callahan, he stood before Rockervelt next day, but it was easy to see that the belated recognition and promotion which had come so unexpectedly had made a new man of him.
As he and Jimmy went from the presence together and reached the street, Manson said—
"Now, Callahan, I want you to leave the Burdock and take the vacant division superintendency."
Jimmy laughed joyously as he realised his friend had no notion of what had happened. Manson looked gravely at him and continued—
"It is worth——" He paused, and a scarcely perceptible shade of loving annoyance passed over his face. "Callahan," he said slowly, "your necktie has slipped round under your right ear. When you meet men like Mr. Rockervelt, you cannot be too careful of your personal appearance. Let me put it straight for you."
Callahan raised his chin and laughed again, while Manson tugged at the tie.
"You may laugh, Jimmy, but these little things are sometimes important, and I want to see you succeed as you deserve. There, that's better."
And Jimmy said no word of his eight thousand a year to begin on.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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