Glover's train pulled into Medicine Bend, in the rain, at half-past two

o'clock. The face in the Lalla Rookh had put an end to thoughts of

sleep, and he walked up to his office in the Wickiup to work until

morning on his report. He lighted a lamp, opened his desk with a clang

that echoed to the last dark corner of the zigzag hall, and, spreading

out his papers, resumed the figuring he had begun at Wind River

station. But the combinations which at eleven o'clock had gone fast

refused now to work. The Lalla Rookh curtains intruded continually

into his problems and his calculations dissolved helplessly into an

idle stare at a jumble of figures.

He got up at last, restless, walked through the trainmaster's room,

into the despatcher's office, and stumbled on the tragedy of the night.

It came about through an ambition in itself honorable--the ambition of

Bud Cawkins to become a train-despatcher.

Bud began railroading on the Wind River. In three months he was made

an agent, in six months he had become an expert in station work, an

operator after a despatcher's own heart, and the life of the line; then

he began looking for trouble. His quest resulted first in the

conviction that the main line business was not handled nearly as well

as it ought to be. Had Bud confided this to an agent of experience

there would have been no difficulty. He would have been told that

every agent on every branch in the world, sooner or later, has the same

conviction; that he need only to let it alone, eat sparingly of brain

food, and the clot would be sure to pass unnoticed.

Unfortunately, Bud concealed his conviction, and asked Morris Blood to

give him a chance at the Wickiup. The first time, Morris Blood only

growled; the second time he looked at the handsome boy disapprovingly.

"Want to be a despatcher, do you? What's the matter with you? Been

reading railroad stories? I'll fire any man on my division that reads

railroad stories. Don't be a chump. You're in line now for the best

station on the division."

But compliments only fanned Bud's flame, and Morris Blood, after

reasonable effort to save the boy's life, turned him over to Martin

Duffy.

Now, of all severe men on the West End, Duffy is most biting. His

smile is sickly, his hair dry, and his laugh soft.

"Despatcher, eh? Ha, ha, ha; I see, Bud. Coming down to show us how

to do business. Oh, no. I understand; that is all right. It is what

brought me here, Bud, when I was about your age and good for something.

Well, it is a snap. There is nothing in the railroad life equal to a

despatcher's trick. If you should make a mistake and get two trains

together they will only fire you. If you happen to kill a few people

they can't make anything more than manslaughter out of it--I know

that because I've seen them try to hang a despatcher for a passenger

wreck--they can't do it, Bud, don't ever believe it. In this state ten

years is the extreme limit for manslaughter, and the only complication

is that if your train should happen to burn up they might soak you an

extra ten years for arson; but a despatcher is usually handy around a

penitentiary and can get light work in the office, so that he's thrown

more with wife poisoners and embezzlers than with cutthroats and

hold-up men. Then, too, you can earn nearly as much in State's prison

as you can at your trick. A despatcher's salary is high, you

know--seventy-five, eighty, and even a hundred dollars a month.




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