Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1891-08-15
LITTLE JOE BRYAN.
WRITTEN FOR THE EVENING STAR By
NARY A. P. sTANSBURY.
GREAT RAILWAY DEPOT MAY NOT


| Of stationary settees and crowds Of hurrying
people, were not quite as familiar to him and
| more home-like than his mothers small, bare
house, which he knew as little more than
place for eating and sleeping.
At an age when any ordinary baby might
have been frightened into commissions by the
shrek Of locomotive Joe, securely fastened
in his cab, would stare for hours through the
great window, undisturbed by the incessant
rush and roar Of arriving and departing trains.
He had been only six months old when the
dreadful accident happened which, at one fell
stroke, made him fatherless and transformed
him from a strong. well-developed infant to
| pitiful creature, which even death refused to
take.
The older yard men told the story even yet
how young Michael Bryan, as straight and
manly fellow as ever left his green old
| native island for the better chances of the new
world this side Of the sea, came whistling ont
| of the round house that morning and stepped
hastily from before an incoming locomotive,
neither seeing nor hearing another rushing up
the parallel track. HIS mates cried out to
hirl-too late! Nobody who saw it would
ever forget the look of agony which distorted
his handsome face in that one horrible instant,
when he recognised his doom, or the perpen-
| dicular leap into the air, from which he fell
OdCh Denedtu tu0 CTuuCulnS WQeelS.
In the excitement and CONSERVATION Of the
| time no messenger had been sent in advance
to prepare the poor young wife for her
trouble, and she stood in the doorway with her
baby growing in her arms when the stout bear
ers paused at her gate with their mangled
burden. She uttered terrible cry and fell
| fainting-the child's tender back striking the
sharp edge Of the door stone.
What pity that it WAS not killed outrightp'
said every body but the mother. She herself
over the little Pickering life kept her from
going mad in the first dreadful months of her
bereavement.
The officers Of the railway company were
kind to poor Mary Bryan. They paid the ex-
penses of the burial, and after little Joe had
| slowly mended. employed her about the depot
| to scrub the floors and keep the glass and wood
work bright and neat.
When Joe was seven years old his mother sent
him to school. He went patiently, day after
day, making no complaint, but she awoke sud-
| denly one night to find him sobbing his heart
| out on the pillow beside her. Only by dint Of
| long coaxing was she able to find out the cause
| of his grief. Some Of the rougher boys-more
| thoughtless than cruel let us hope--had called
him "humpy," and asked if he carried a bag
| of meal on his back.
Mary famed with the fierce anger Of mother
hood.
You shan't 60 another day. she declared
| "The ruf1isns 1 won't have my darlin put
upon by the likes Of them.
SO Joe's schooling had come to untimely
end. Yet, meager as was his stock of book
| learning. the development Of his mind far
| outstripped the growth of his stunted and de-
! formed body. Everybody liked the patient
little fellow, Juggling manfully at his mothers
| heavy water buckets and running willingly at
| every call of the station men. AT twelve years
| old he had picked up no small amount OF in
| formation, especially on railroad topics. He
knew every locomotive on the read. under
stood the intricacies OF side tracks and switches
| and could tell the precise n.omen: when any
particular train might be expected with the ac-
curacy OF a time table.
Yet the very quickness and ardor Of his ma
| ture deepened his sense of his infirmity. The
| glances cast upon him by stranger eyes, some
| pitiful, some curious, others, alas expressive
| only Of annoyance or disgust, ranked like SO
| many arrows in his heart; not one missed its
mark. How wist:ully his eyes followed boys Of
his own age-stra!ght, handsome, happy-who
sprang lightly up and down the steps Of the
coaches or threaded their way along the
crowded platforms. For one day of such per-
| feet. untrammeled life he would have barterel
| all the possible years before him. Yet he never
| put his yearning into words even to his mother.
| Crooked Jces n rum 'un, said one Of his
\ rough acquaintance. HE senses his trouble
well enough, but he don't let or to nobody"
Mr.. Crump, the telegraph operator, was Joe's
| constant friend It was he who, at odd mo-
ments. had taught the boy to read and had in
itiated him into some of the mysteries Of the
clicking instrument which to Joe's imaginative
mind seemed some strange creature with o hid
den life of its own.
1t was growing toward dark one November
| afternoon. Joe-never an unwelcome visitor
| sat curled in a corner OF Mr.. Crump's Office,
| waiting for his mother to finish her work. He
was laboriously spelling out, by the fading
| light. the words upon page OF an illustrated
newspaper, quite oblivious of the ticking. like
that Of a very jerky and rheumatic clock,
which sounded in the room.
| Mr. Crump, too, had a paper before him.
but his ears were alive. Suddenly he sprang
to his feet, repeating aloud the message which
| that moment flashed along the wire.
| Engine No. ITO running wild. Clear track"
| He rushed to the door, shouting the news:
mot second to spare! She'll be down in
| seven minutes!
The word passed like lightning. In a mo-
ment the yard was in wild connection. Men
flew hither and thither, yard engines steamed
wildly away, the switches closing behind
them.
| The main track was barely cleared when 40
came in sight swaying from side to side, hor
wheels threatening to leave the track at each
revolution. She passed the depot like a
meteor, her bell changing with every leap Of
the piston, the steam escaping from her
whistle with the continuous shrek of demon,
| and the occupants OF the cab wrapped from
| view in q cloud of smoke.
Some hundred rods beyond the depot the
| track took q sharp upward grade, from which
| it descended again to strike the bridge across q
narrow but deep and rocky gorge.
Men looked after the flying locomotive and
| then at each other with blanched faces.
They're gone! A miracle can't save EN-"
said one, voicing the wordless terror Of the
rest. III they don't fly the track on the up
grade, they'll go down as soon as they strike
| the trestle."
| The crowd began TO run along the track
some with vain instinct Of helpfulness, others
moved by that morbid curiosity which seeks to
| be Sin at the death"
| But look Midway the long rise the speed
| Of the runaway engine suddenly slackens.
| "What does it mean? she never could "a
| died out in that time!" shouted the old yard
man.
Excitement winged their feet. When the
foremost runners reached the place the smoking
engine stood still In her track. quivering in
every steel-clad nerve, her great wheels still
whizzing round and round amid q fight Of red
sparks from beneath.
what did it What stopped her?''
The engineer, staggeriI; from the cab, with
the pallid face OF the fireman behind him,
pointed without speaking to where o little
pale-faced. crooked-back boy had sunk down,
painting with e1ertion, beside the track. AT
his feet huge oil can lay overturned and
empty.
The crowd stared one at another, open
mouthed. Then the truth flashed upon them.
"He oiled the track!'
"Bully for crooked joel"
"Three cheers! Hurra hurra hurrav'