The Iron Horse, R. M. Ballantyne [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

“th–this is positively miraculous. Here is a cheque for fifty pounds, and—but read for yourself.”

Netta seized the letter and read it aloud. It ran thus:—

“Clarendon Hotel, London.

“Dear Madam,—There is a little girl living in your neighbourhood, in whose father I have a deep interest. I am particularly anxious to give this child, Gertrude Marrot by name, a good plain education. Understanding that your daughter has had considerable experience in teaching the young, and is, or has been, engaged in tuition, I venture to propose that she should undertake the training of this child, who will attend at your daughter’s residence for that purpose at any hours you may deem most suitable. In the belief that your daughter will have no objection to accept of this trust I enclose a cheque for 50 pounds—the first year’s salary—in advance. I am, dear madam, your very obedient servant,

“Samuel Tough.”

Although the above can scarcely be considered a brilliant achievement of Edwin Gurwood, it nevertheless accomplished its purpose; for the letter was, in all respects, so very unlike Captain Lee, that neither Mrs Tipps nor her daughter suspected him for an instant. On the contrary, they took it in good faith. Netta wrote a reply by return of post agreeing to the proposal, and on the day following began her pleasant task, to the inexpressible delight of Gertie, who would joyfully, on any terms whatever, have been Netta’s slave—not to mention pupil.

A considerable time after this happy arrangement had been made, Mrs Durby, in a moment of confidential weakness, related to little Gertie the circumstances attending the loss of the diamond ring. Gertie, on returning home, communicated the matter to Loo, and gave it as her opinion that it was a pity such a valuable ring had been lost.

“Couldn’t father find out about it somehow?” she asked with a hopeful look—hopeful because she believed her father capable of doing anything he chose to set his mind to.

“Perhaps he could, but he won’t be home to-night,” replied Loo, thoughtfully.

“I think Sam Natly could tell us how to find it. Suppose I go and ask him,” said Gertie.

Loo laughed, and said she thought Sam couldn’t help them much. The child was, however, a resolute little thing, and, having taken up the idea, determined to go and see Sam forthwith, as he was on duty not far from John Marrot’s cottage.

Sam had recently been advanced from the position of a porter, to the responsible office of a signalman. The great sin he had committed in going to sleep in a first-class carriage, when unable to keep his eyes open, had been forgiven, partly because it was his first offence, partly because of the good and opportune service he had rendered on the day of the attempted robbery, and partly on account of his being one of the steadiest and most intelligent men on the line. Sam’s wife, under the care of Mrs Tipps and Mrs Durby, had made a marvellous recovery, and Sam’s gratitude knew no bounds. Mrs Tipps happened to refer to him one day when conversing with Captain Lee, and the latter was much pleased to discover that the man in whom Mrs Tipps felt so much interest, was the same man who had come to his help in the hour of his extremity. He therefore made inquiry about him of the station-master at Clatterby. That gentleman said that Sam was a first-rate man, a stout, hard-working, modest fellow, besides being remarkably intelligent, and clear-headed and cool, especially in the midst of danger, as had been exemplified more than once in cases of accident at the station, in addition to which Sam was a confirmed abstainer from strong drink. All these facts were remembered, and when the block system of signalling was introduced on that part of the line Sam was made a signalman.

The scene of his new labours was an elevated box at the side of the line, not far from Gertie’s home. As this box was rather curious we shall describe it. It was a huge square sentry-box, with three of its sides composed of windows; these commanded a view of the line in all directions. On the fourth side of the box hung a time-piece and a framed copy of signal regulations. There was a diminutive stove in one corner, and a chest in another. In front of the box facing the clock were two telegraphic instruments, and a row of eight or ten long iron levers, which very much resembled a row of muskets in a rack. These levers were formidable instruments in aspect and in fact, for they not only cost Sam a pretty strong effort to move them, but they moved points and signals, on the correct and prompt movements of which depended the safety of the line, and the lives of human beings.

Just before little Gertie reached the station, Sam happened to be engaged in attempting to take his dinner. We use the word attempting advisedly, because our signalman had not the ghost of a chance to sit down, as ordinary mortals do, and take his dinner with any degree of certainty. He took it as it were, disjointedly in the midst of alarms. That the reader may understand why, we must observe that the “block system” of signalling, which had recently been introduced on part of the line, necessitated constant attention, and a series of acts, which gave the signalman no rest, during certain periods of his watch, for more than two minutes at a time, if so long. The block system is the method of protecting trains by “blocking” the line; that is, forbidding the advance of trains until the line is clear, thus securing an interval of space between trains, instead of the older and more common method of an interval of time. The chief objection to the latter system is this, that one accident is apt to cause another. Suppose a train despatched from a station; an interval of say quarter of an hour allowed and then another sent off. If the first train should break down, there is some chance of the second train overtaking and running into it. With the block system this is impossible. For instance, a train starts from any station, say A, and has to run past stations B and C. The instant it starts the signalman at A rings a telegraph bell to attract B’s attention, at the same time he indicates on another telegraphic instrument “Train on line,” locks his instruments in that position, and puts up the “stop” signal, or, blocks the line. B replies, acknowledging the signal, and telegraphs to C to be ready. The moment the train passes B’s station, he telegraphs to C, “Train on line,” and blocks that part of the line with the semaphore, “Stop”, as A had done, he also telegraphs back to A, “Line clear,” whereupon A lets a second train on, if one is ready. Very soon C sends “Line clear” to B, whereupon B is prepared to let on that second train, when it comes up, and so on ad infinitum. The signals, right and left are invariably repeated, so that there is no chance of mistake though the failure of the telegraph instruments, because if any of these should fail, the want of a reply would at once induce a telegram through the “speaking” instrument with which each station is furnished, and which is similar to the telegraph instruments used at most railway stations, and the line would remain “blocked” until a satisfactory answer set it free. The working of the semaphore signals, which are familiar to most people as tall posts with projecting moveable arms, is accomplished by the mechanical action of the “levers” before mentioned. There are two “distant” signals and one “home” signal to be worked by each man. Besides these there are levers for working the various “points” around the station which lead to sidings, and when these levers are in action, i.e. placed for the shunting of a goods train, they self-lock the levers that “block” the line, so that while this operation of shunting (which just means shoving a train to one side out of the way) is going on, the signalman could not make the mistake of letting a train pass the distant signal—the thing is rendered impossible.

From this it will be seen that the signalman has entire control of the line, and if we consider that shunting of waggons, carriages, and trains is a pretty constant and lively operation at some stations, we can easily conceive that the office of signalman can only be filled by a very able and trustworthy man.

As we have said, just before Gertie’s arrival Sam Natly chanced to be attempting to dine. The telegraph needles pointed to “Line clear” on both sides of him. Dinner consisted of a sort of Irish stew cooked in a little square iron pan that fitted into the small stove. Being a placid, good-humoured man, not easily thrown off his balance either mentally or physically, Sam smiled slightly to himself as he put the first bit of meat into his mouth. He thought of his wife, wished that she was there to assist in the eating of it and shut his lips on the savoury morsel. A piece of potato was arrested by the sharp telegraph bell—one beat—of warning. The potato followed the meat as he was in the act of rising. Sam touched his telegraphic bell in reply to his signal-friend on the right, and “Train on line” was marked by a telegraphic needle pointing to these words. As the train was yet a great way off, at least as to distance, he sat down again and disposed of bit number two. Number three followed, and he had made some approach to engulfing number four when a shrill whistle struck his ear. Up he sprang, glanced at the time-piece, wiped his mouth, and went to the levers. He touched his bell—a single note of warning to his signal-friend on the left and received a reply, one beat, meaning “Ready.” The train appeared, came up like a rocket and went past like a thunderbolt. When Sam saw its red tail-light, and thus knew that all the train was there,—that none of the tail carriages or trucks had broken loose and been left behind,—he gave a mighty pull to one of the levers, which turned up the arms of his distant signal, and thus blocked the line to all other trains. The needle was now “pegged down” or fixed at “Train on line,” so that there could be no mistake about it, and no trusting to memory. Having accomplished this, he went to a large book which lay open on a desk in a corner, glanced at the time-piece, recorded the passage of the train—a passenger one, and once more sat down to dinner.

The distance between his station and the next to the left was somewhat greater than that on the right, so that at least three mouthfuls in succession, of the Irish stew, were disposed of before the wicked little bell summoned him again. He rose as before with alacrity, rung his bell in reply, and unstopped his needle. The friend on his left at once pointed it to “Line clear,” whereupon Sam again went to his levers, and lowered the obstructing arms on his right. Having thus a clear line on right and left, he sat down for the third time to dinner, with a clear head and a clear conscience.

But he was interrupted sooner than before, indeed he had barely got one mouthful deposited when he was rung up by the friend on his right, with two beats of the bell, to pass a heavy goods train, which, with something like the impatience of stout people in crossing dangerous roads, was anxious to get on and out of the way as fast as possible, for it knew that a ‘limited mail’ was tearing after it, at a