Spitzer wasn’t much to look at, neither was he of much account on the Hill Division. Some men rise to occasions, others don’t; as for Spitzer—well, he was a snubby-nosed, peaked-faced, touzled-haired little fellow with washed-out blue eyes that always seemed to carry around an apology in their depths that their owner existed, and this idea was backed up a good bit by Spitzer’s voice. Spitzer had a weak voice and that militated against him. The ordinary voice of the ordinary man on the Hill Division was not weak—it was assertive2. Spitzer suffered thereby3 because everybody crawled over him. Nobody thought anything of Spitzer. They all knew him, of course, that is, those whose duties brought them within the zone of Spitzer’s orbit, which was restricted to Big Cloud or, rather, to the roundhouse at Big Cloud. Nobody ever gave him credit for courage enough to call his soul his own. Even when it came to pay day he took his check as though it was a mistake and that it really wasn’t meant for him. He just dubbed4 along, doing his work day after day like a faithful dog, only he was a hanged sight less obtrusive5. Summed up in a word, Spitzer ranked as a nonentity6, physically7, mentally, professionally.
Of course he never got ahead. He just kept on sweeping9 out the roundhouse and puttering around playing bell-boy to every Tom, Dick and Harry10 that lifted a finger at him. Year in, year out, he swept and wiped in the roundhouse. As far as seniority went he was it, but when it came to promotion11 he wasn’t. Promotion and Spitzer were so obviously, so ostentatiously at variance12 with each other that no one ever thought of such a thing. When there was a vacancy13 others got it. Spitzer saw them move along, firing, driving spare, up to full-fledged regulars on the right-hand side of the cabs, men that had started after he did; but Spitzer still wiped and swept out the roundhouse.
Carleton, the super, called him a landmark14, and that hit the bull’s-eye. Summer, winter, fall, spring, good weather, bad weather, five-foot-five-with-his-boots-on Spitzer, lugging15 a little tin dinner-pail, trudged16 down Main Street in Big Cloud as regular as clockwork, and reported at the roundhouse at precisely17 the same hour every morning—five minutes of seven. Never a miss, never a slip—five minutes of seven. The train crews got to setting their watches by him, and the dispatchers wired the meteorological observatory18 every time their chronometors didn’t tally8—that is, tally with Spitzer—and the meteorological crowd put Spitzer first across the tape every shot.
It was just the same at night, only then Spitzer went by the six o’clock whistle. Ten hours a day, Sundays off—sometimes—wiping, sweeping, sweeping, wiping, from his boarding-house to the roundhouse in the morning, from the roundhouse to his boarding-house at night—that was Spitzer, self-effaced, self-obliterated, innocuous, modest Spitzer.
Night times? Spitzer didn’t exist, there was no Spitzer—it wasn’t expected of him! If any one had been asked they would have looked their amazement19, but then no one ever was asked—or asked, which is the same thing the other way. Spitzer was like a tool laid away after the day’s work and forgotten absolutely and profoundly until the following morning. No one knew anything about Spitzer after the six o’clock whistle blew, no one knew and cared less—that is, none of the railroad crowd knew, and they, when all is said and done, were Big Cloud, they owned it, ran it, absorbed it, and properly so, since Big Cloud was the divisional point on the Hill Division.
In the ineffable20 perversity21 of things is the spice and variety of life. Tommy Regan, the master mechanic, was a man not easily jolted23, not easily disturbed. He was very short, very broad, with little black eyes, and a long, scraggly, drooping-at-the-corners, brown mustache. Also, he was blessed with a well-defined, well-nourished paunch—which is a sign irrefutable of contentment, a calm and placid25 outlook upon life in general and particular, and a freedom from the ills of haste and worry. A man with a paunch is a man apart and greatly to be envied, even when that paunch, as was the case with Regan, is of Irish extraction, for then the accompanying touch of Celtic temper makes him more like an ordinary, cross-grained, irritable26, everyday mortal and less of a temperamental curiosity. Regan was justly proud of both—his paunch and his nationality. Regan put it the other way—his nationality and his paunch. That, however, is a matter for individual decision and the relative importance of things is as one sees it; the main thing is that one permitted him to use fiery27 words on occasion, and the other enabled him to preserve, ordinarily, a much to be commended state of equanimity28.
Perversity of perversities! It was Spitzer that jolted Regan—not once, more than once. And before he got through, jolted him so hard that Regan hasn’t got over the wonder of it yet.
“Think of it,” he’ll say, when the subject is brought up. “Think of it! You know Spitzer, h’m? Well, think of it! SPITZER!” And if it’s summer he’ll mop his beady brow, and if it’s winter he’ll twiddle his thumbs with his fingers laced over his embonpoint, which is to say over the lower button of his waistcoat.
Regan’s first jolt22 came to him one morning as, after a critical inspection29 of his pets in the roundhouse—big six- and eight-wheeled mountain engines—-he strolled out and leaned against the push-bar on the turntable, mentally debating the respective merits of a rust-joint and a straight patch as specifically applied30 to number 583 that had been run into the shops the day before for repairs.
A figure emerged from the engine doors at the far end of the roundhouse and came toward him. Regan’s eyes, attracted, barely glanced in that direction, and then went down again in meditation31, as he kicked a little hole in the cinders32 with the toe of his boot—it was only Spitzer.
When he looked up again Spitzer was nearer, quite near. Spitzer had halted before him and was standing33 there patiently, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks, wiping his hands nervously34 on an exceedingly dirty piece of packing which in his abstraction, for Spitzer was plainly abstracted, he had picked up for a piece of waste.
“Huh!” said Regan, staring at Spitzer’s hands, “what you trying to do? Black up for a minstrel show?”
Spitzer dropped the packing as though it had been a handful of thistles, and rubbed his hands up and down the legs of his overalls35.
“Well?” Regan invited.
Spitzer began to talk, rapidly, hurriedly—that is, his lips moved rapidly, hurriedly.
Regan listened attentively36 and with a strained and hopeless expression, as he strove to catch a word and hence the drift of Spitzer’s remarks.
“How?” he demanded, when he saw Spitzer was at an end. “Speak out, man. You won’t wake the baby up.”
Spitzer began all over again. This time he did a little better.
“A dollar twenty-five,” repeated the master mechanic numbly37.
Spitzer brightened visibly, and nodded.
Regan stared, bewildered and dumfounded. Gradually, impossible, incomprehensible, incongruous as it appeared, it dawned on him that Spitzer, even Spitzer, Spitzer was asking for a raise!
“A dollar twenty-five.” was all Regan could repeat over again, and the words came away with a gasp38.
Spitzer, misinterpreting the tone, his face grew rueful and full of trouble. He was appalled39 at his own temerity40 in broaching41 the subject in the first place, but now he had overstepped the bounds—he had asked for too much!
“A dollar twenty,” he ventured, in timid compromise—Spitzer was getting a dollar fifteen.
“How long you been working here?” inquired Regan, recovering a little and beginning to get a grip on himself.
“Four years,” said Spitzer faintly.
“Good Lord!” mumbled42 Regan. “Four years. A dollar twenty-five, h’m? Well, I dunno, I guess we can manage that.” And then, as a new thought suddenly struck him: “What the blazes would you do with more money, h’m?”
But Spitzer only grinned sheepishly as, after murmuring his thanks, he walked back and disappeared in the roundhouse.
“Good Lord!” muttered Regan, looking after him.
“Four years, and a dollar and a quarter, and Spitzer! Good Lord!”
Regan went around more or less dazed all that day. He ordered the patch on 583 when he had definitely decided43 on the rust-joint as the best tonic44 for the engine’s complaint, and he figured out how much one dollar and fifteen cents a day came to for a year barring Sundays, then he did the same with a dollar twenty-five as the multiplicand and compared the results. Spitzer’s demand was not exorbitant45, and it wasn’t much to upset any man—that was just it—it was Spitzer, and Spitzer wasn’t much. Effect, psychological or otherwise, is by no manner of means to be measured by the mere46 magnitude of the cause, it is the phenomenal and unusual that is to be treated with wholesome47 respect, and for safe handling requires a double-tracked, block system with the cautionary signals up from start to finish—the master mechanic found it that way anyhow, and he ought to know.
He unburdened himself that night after supper to Carleton and a few of the others over at division headquarters, which had been moved upstairs over the station, where the chiefs used to meet regularly each evening for a pipe, with a round of pedro thrown in to liven things up a bit—Big Cloud not being blessed with many attractions in the amusement line.
Carleton grinned.
“Bad company,” he suggested. “Hard lot, that of yours over in the roundhouse, Tommy. They’re spoiling his manners. Been a long time in coming, but you know the old story of the water and the stone. What?”
“What in blazes would he do with more money?” inquired Spence, the chief dispatcher, in unfeigned astonishment48.
Regan glared disdainfully. He had put precisely the same question to Spitzer himself, but since then he had been brushing up his mathematics.
“Do with it!” he choked. “Thirty dollars and eighty cents—a year. Hell of a problem, ain’t it?”
“Well, you needn’t run off your schedule,” said Spence, a little tartly49. “You’re the one that’s making most of the fuss over it.”
“Tell you what, Tommy,” remarked Carleton, still grinning, “you want to look out for Spitzer from now on. I guess his emancipation50 has begun—nothing like a start. Before you know it he’ll be running roughshod over the motive51 power department, including the master mechanic.”
“I give him the raise,” said Regan, more to himself than aloud. “‘Twas coming to him, what? Four years, and the first time I ever heard a yip out of him.”
“You’ll hear more,” prophesied52 Carleton; “even if he doesn’t talk very loud.”
“Think so?” said Regan, puckering53 up his eyes.
“I do,” said Carleton.
And Regan did.
Not at once, not for several weeks. But in the meantime a change came over Spitzer. He swept and wiped and reported at five minutes of seven every morning and kept himself just as much in the background, just as much out of everybody’s way, just as unobtrusive as he had before, but Spitzer was none the less changed.
It began the day after he got his raise. It was an indefinite, elusive54, negative sort of a change, not the kind you could lay your hand on and describe in so many words. Regan tried to, and gave it up. The nearest he came to anything concrete was one day when he came around the tail-end of a tender and, unexpectedly, upon Spitzer. Spitzer was sweeping as usual, but Spitzer was also whistling—which was not usual. Regan, it is true, couldn’t puzzle very much out of that, but then Regan had his limitations.
Mindful of Carleton’s words, Regan kept his eye in a mildly curious kind of a way on the little faded, blueeyed drudge55, and as he noticed the first change without being able to define it, he now, after a week or so, noticed a second, with the difference that this time the diagnosis56 was painfully obvious—Spitzer’s return to Spitzer’s normal self. Spitzer stopped whistling.
Regan began to catch Spitzer’s eyes fixed57 on him with a hesitating, irresolute58, anxious gaze about every time he entered the roundhouse. And though he didn’t quite grasp it, something of the truth came to him. Spitzer was screwing up his courage to the sticking point preparatory to another step onward59 in his belated march toward emancipation.
It was a month to the day from the first interview when Spitzer tackled the master mechanic again, and as before, out by the turntable in front of the roundhouse, and, if anything, in a manner even more nervous and ill at ease than on the former occasion. He stammered60 once or twice in an effort to begin—and his effort was utter failure.
Regan eyed him in profound distrust. Once in four years wasn’t so much, and after all, even Spitzer, now that the shock was over, might be expected to do that. But again in a month—and from Spitzer! Something was wrong—perhaps Carleton was right.
“Well,” he snapped, “you got your raise. Ain’t you satisfied?”
Spitzer nodded dumbly.
“Well, then, what’s the matter with you if you’re satisfied?” exploded the master mechanic.
“I want to get———” the last word trailed off into tremulous, quavering incoherency.
“You want to get what?” growled61 Regan. “Don’t sputter62 as though you’d swallowed your teeth. What is it you want to get?”
“Firing,” blurted63 Spitzer after a desperate struggle.
Regan gasped64 for his breath. Spitzer! SPITZER—in a cab! He couldn’t have heard straight.
“Say it again,” whispered the master mechanic.
“Firing,” repeated Spitzer, with more confidence now that the plunge65 was taken.
“Yes,” said Regan weakly to himself. “That’s it. I got it right—firing! He wants to get firing!”
“I—I can do it,” faltered66 Spitzer. “I got to.”
“Eh? What’s that?” said Regan. “You got to? Say, you, Spitzer, what the devil’s the matter with you anyway?”
Spitzer wriggled67 like a worm on a hook, and his face went the color of a semaphore arm—a deep red one. Spitzer was suffering acutely.
“Well, well,” prodded68 Regan. “Release the air! Take the brakes off!”
“I’m,” began Spitzer shamefacedly, “I’m———” He gulped69 down his Adam’s apple hard, twice, and then it came away with a rush: “I’m going to get married to Merla Swenson.”
Regan’s jaw70 sagged71 like the broken limb of a tree, and his eyes fairly popped out and hung down over the roll of his cheeks. Then gradually, very gradually, he began to double up and unhandsome contortions72 afflicted73 his facial muscles. Spitzer! Spitzer was enough! But Spitzer and Merla Swenson! Six-foot-heavy-boned-long-armed Swedish-maiden Merla! Oh, contrariety, variety, perversity of life!
“Haw!” he roared suddenly. “Haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!” And again—only louder. The turner and a helper or two poked75 their noses out of the roundhouse doors to get a line on the disturbance76.
Can a stone float? Can a feather sink? Astonishing, bewildering, dumfounding, impossible, oh, yes; but it was also very funny. It was the funniest thing that Regan had ever heard in his life.
“Haw, haw!” he screamed. “Ho, ho! Haw, haw!”
His paunch shook like jelly, and he held both hands to his sides to ease the pain. He straightened up preparatory to going off into another burst of guffaws77, and then, with his mouth already opened to begin, he stopped as though he had been stunned78. Spitzer was still standing before him, and Spitzer’s head was turned away, but Regan caught it, caught the two big tears that rolled slowly down the grimy cheeks. And in that moment he realized what neither he nor any other man on the Hill Division had ever realized before—that Spitzer, too, was human.
Regan coughed, choked, and cleared his throat. Here was Spitzer in a new light, but the Spitzer of years was not so readily to be consigned79 to the background of oblivion. Spitzer in a cab was as much an anomaly as ever, conjugal80 aspirations81 to the contrary.
“Firing?” said he, with grave consideration that he meant, by contrast, should serve as palliation for the sting of his mirth. “Firing? I’m afraid not. You’re not fit for it. You’re not big enough.”
Spitzer dashed his hands across his eyes.
“I can fire,” he announced with a surprising show of spirit, “an’ I got to. There’s smaller ones than me doing it.”
“What do you mean by ‘got to’?” demanded the master mechanic.
Spitzer shifted uneasily and kicked at the ground.
“Merla an’ me’s been making up for quite a while,” he stammered: “but she wouldn’t say nothing one way or the other till I got a raise.”
“Well, you got it,” said Regan.
Spitzer nodded miserably82.
“Yes, an’ now she says ‘tain’t enough to get married on, an’—an’ we’ll have to wait till I get firing.”
“Good Lord!” murmured Regan, and he mopped his brow in deep perplexity. The destiny of mortals was in his hands—but so was the motive power department of the Hill Division. He could no more see Spitzer in a cab than he could see the time-honored camel passing through the eye of a needle. Then inspiration came to him.
“Look here, Spitzer,” said he, soothingly83. “There ain’t any use talking about firing, and I ain’t going to let you build up any false hopes. But I’ll tell you what, you don’t need to feel glum84 about it. She loves you, don’t she?”
Spitzer’s lips moved.
“H’m?” inquired Regan solicitously85, bending forward.
“Yes; she says she does,” repeated Spitzer in thin tones.
“Yes; well then, when you know women, and as much about ‘em as I do, you’ll know that nothing else counts—nothing but the love, I mean. It’s their nature, and they’re all alike. That’s the way it is with all of ‘em”—Regan waved his hand expansively.
“It’ll be all right. You’ll see. She won’t hold out on that line.”
Some men profit much by little experience, others profit little by much experience. Spitzer, possibly, had had little, very little, but the dejected droop24 of his shoulders, as he started back for the roundhouse, intimated that in the matter of knowledge as applied to the eternal feminine he was perhaps, in so far as it lay between himself and the master mechanic, the better qualified86 of the two to speak. And that, certainly, when concretely applied, which is to say applied to Merla Swenson.
Regan couldn’t have kept the story back to save his life, and it didn’t take long for the division to get it. They all got it—train crews and engine crews on way freights, stray freights, locals, extras and regulars, the staff, the shop hands, the track-walkers and the section gangs down to the last car-tink. At first the division looked incredulous, then it grinned, and then it howled, and its howl was the one word “Spitzer!” with seventeen exclamation87 points after it to make the tempo88 and rhythm hang out in a manner befitting and commensurate with the occasion.
It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. Dutchy Damrosch did the business of his life—he did more business than he had ever dreamed of doing in his wildest flights of imagination, for Dutchy had the lunch counter rights at Big Cloud. What’s that got to do with Spitzer and his marital89 ambition? Well, a whole lot! Merla Swenson was second girl in Dutchy’s establishment, and Merla was the “fee-ancy” of Spitzer—which was a rotten bad pun of Spider Kelly’s, the conductor, and due more to the brogue-like twist of his tongue than to any malice90 aforethought.
To see any girl that was in love with Spitzer was worth the price of coffee and sinkers any old time. The lunch counter took on the air of a dime91 museum, and the visitors questioned Merla anxiously, a little suspicious that after all there might be a nigger in the woodpile somewhere in the shape of a “frame-up” with the hoax92 on themselves.
Merla settled all doubts on that score. Unruffled, calmly, stoically, dispassionately she answered the same question fifty times a day, and each time in the same way.
“Yah, I ban love Spitzer,” was her infallible reply, in a tone that made the bare possibility that she could have done anything else seem the very acme93 of absurdity94. Merla’s inflexion struck deep at the root of things inevitable95.
After that there was nothing to be said. A few, very few, and as the days went by their numbers thinned with amazing rapidity, had the temerity to snicker audibly. They only did it once, as with arms akimbo and hands on hips96 Merla advanced to the edge of the counter with a look in her steadfast97, blue eyes, that was far from inviting98, and inquired: “Him ban goot mans, I tank?”
It was put in the form of a question, it is true, but the “put” was of such cold uncompromise that the result was always the same. The offender99 hastily buried his nose in his coffee-cup, dug for a dime to square his account—with Dutchy—and made for the platform.
This was all very well, but unless Regan died and some one with a little less—or a little more, depending on how you look at it—imagination took his place, Spitzer’s chances of getting into a cab were as good as ever, which is to say that they were about as good as the goodness of a plugged nickel. And the trouble was that, as far as Spitzer could see, the master mechanic wasn’t sprouting100 out with any visible signs of premature101 decay. Furthermore, as he had suspicioned and now discovered, Regan wasn’t the last word on women; not, perhaps, that Merla put firing before love, only she was uncommonly102 strong on firing. Spitzer was unhappy.
All things come to those who wait, they say. So they do, perhaps; but the way of their coming is sometimes not to be understood or fathomed103. The story of a man who fell from the eighteenth story window of an office building, and, incidentally, broke his neck has no place here except in a general way. A friend who took a passing interest in the event was curious enough to investigate the cause, and he traced it back step by step, logically, surely, inevitably104, beyond the possibility of refutation, to the fact that the second hook from the top on the back of the man’s wife’s dress—not the man’s dress, the dress of the man’s wife—was missing on the morning of the day of his untimely decease. The man—not the man’s friend—was an inventor. But no matter. It just shows. Regan being still alive, the chances are better than a thousand to one that Spitzer would have known a cold and forlorn old age, as Robert Louis puts it, and Merla would never have had a second edition of herself if it hadn’t been for a few measly, unripe105 crab-apples. What? Yes, that’s it—crab-apples. That’s the way Spitzer got where he is to-day—just crab-apples. Funny how things happen sometimes when you come to think of it, isn’t it? Spitzer and the man who broke his neck aren’t the only ones who’ve had their ups and downs that way, not by several. There isn’t any moral to this except that here and there you’ll find a man who isn’t as, modest about his own ability as he ought to be!
Spitzer’s nocturnal habits, that were a matter of so much unconcern and of which the railroad crowd at Big Cloud were so densely106 in ignorance, have a part in this. The truth is that between the lunch-counter and the station is the baggage and freight-shed, and behind the freight-shed it is very dark; and also, not less pertinent107, is the fact that Merla was possessed108 of no other quarters than those shared by her sister-inarms in Dutchy’s employ—which were neither propitious109 nor commodious110. Hence—but the connection is obvious.
On Merla’s night off at eight o’clock, Spitzer sneaked111 down through the fields and across the platform, weather permitting, and on those nights Merla donned her bonnet112 “for a walk”—at the same hour. When the station-clock struck ten and, coincidentally, Number One’s mellow113 chime sounded down the gorge114, Merla retraced115 her steps to the upstairs rear of the lunch-counter, and Spitzer retraced his across the platform to the fields in the direction of the town and his boarding-house; only, of late, Spitzer had taken to lingering on the platform way up at the far end where it was also very dark and equally as deserted116.
Here he would gaze wistfully at the big mogul with valves popping and the steam drumming at her gauges117, as she waited on the siding just in front of him—‘Big Cloud being a divisional point where the engines were changed—to back down onto Number One for the first stretch of the mountain run—Burke’s run with 503, and big Jim MacAloon looking after the shovel119 end of it.
There wasn’t anything novel in the sight, but it didn’t seem to strike Spitzer as monotonous120 although, when it was all over and he watched the vanishing tail lights, he always sighed. It was just the same performance each time. Ten minutes or so before Number One, westbound, was due, MacAloon would run 503 out of the roundhouse, over the turntable, up the line, and back onto the siding. Then Burke would appear on the scene, light a torch, and poke74 around with a long-spouted oil can.
Spitzer would usually reach his position up the platform in time to see the engineer’s final jab with the torch between the drivers or into the link-motion before swinging himself through the gangway into the cab, as the Limited with snapping trucks and screeching121 brake-shoes rolled into the station; but one night it fell out a little differently. The station clock had struck ten, Merla had hastened to her domicile, and Spitzer to the far end of the platform as usual, but Number One was late.
Suddenly Spitzer jumped and his heart seemed to shoot into his mouth. There was a wild, piercing scream of agony. It came again. The blood left Spitzer’s cheeks. He saw Burke fly around the end of the pilot, the torch dancing in his hand, and make for the cab. Spitzer involuntarily leaped from the platform to the track and ran in the same direction, then the safety-valve popped with a terrific roar, drowning out all other sounds. He clambered cautiously into the cab. On the floor MacAloon was going through a performance that would have beggared the efforts of a writhing122 python, and the while he groaned123 and yelled.
As Spitzer watched, Burke, who was bending over MacAloon with an anxious face, suddenly reached forward and picked up a little round object that rolled from the pocket of the fireman’s jumper, then another and another. Spitzer instinctively124 craned forward, and in so doing attracted Burke’s notice for the first time. Burke’s look of anxiety gave way to a grin and he held out the objects to Spitzer, just as if it wasn’t Spitzer at all but an ordinary man—humor, like death, is a great leveler, but no matter, let that go. Burke held them out to Spitzer, Spitzer took them, and even Spitzer grinned. It didn’t need any doctor to diagnose MacAloon’s complaint—and the complaint wasn’t poetic125! Cramps126, old-fashioned, unadulterated cramps—just plain cramps and green crab-apples! Some things lay a man out worse perhaps—but there aren’t many.
Burke’s grin didn’t last long, for at that moment came Number One’s long, clear siren note, and back over the tender a streak127 of light shot out in a wide circle from around a butte and then danced along the rails and began to light up the platform, as the Limited thundered, five minutes late, into the straight stretch.
“Holy fishplates!” yelled Burke. “I’ve got to get a man to fire. Spitzer, you run like hell to the roundhouse and——”
Burke stopped. Spitzer stopped him. There are moments in everybody’s life when they rise above themselves, above habit, above environment, above everything, if even for only a brief instant. A chance like this would never come again. If he could fire one trip maybe Regan would change his mind. Spitzer grasped at it frantically128, despairingly.
“Burke, I can fire,” he fairly screamed. “Give me a chance, Burke. I’ll never get one if you don’t.” Burke gasped for a moment like a man with his breath knocked out of him, then something like a dry chuckle129 sounded in his throat. No one knows but Burke what decided him. It might have been either of two things, or a combination of them both—Spitzer’s pleading face, or the desire to take a rise out of Regan—Burke and Regan not having been on the best of terms since the last general elections. Be that as it may, Burke pointed130 at the squirming fireman. “Take his feet,” he grunted131.
Together they lifted and dragged the stricken Mac-Aloon out of the cab and to the ground. 1108, pulling Number One, had come to a stop abreast132 of them by now, and Burke shouted at the engine crew.
“Here!” he bawled133. “Lend a hand!”
And as both men stuck their heads out of the gangway, he and Spitzer boosted the fireman up to them.
“Got cramps,” explained Burke tersely134. “You’ll be able to fix him up in the roundhouse. Five minutes late, h’m? Well, hurry, you’re clear. There’s your ‘go-ahead.’ Pull out and let me get hold.”
Burke turned to Spitzer, as 1108 slipped away from the baggage-car and moved up the track, and pointed to the gangway of his own engine.
“Get in,” he said grimly. “You’ll get a chance to fire, and, take it from me, you’ll never get a chance to do that or anything else again this side of the happy hunting-grounds, my bucko, if you throw me down.”
And while Regan quarreled amiably135 over a game of pedro upstairs in the station with Carleton, 503, with Spitzer, touzled-haired, mild-eyed, heart-beating-like-a-trip-hammer Spitzer, in the cab, backed down on the Imperial Limited and coupled on for the mountain run. There was a quick testing of the “air,” a hurried running up and down the platform, and then Burke, leaning from the window with his arms stretched out inside the cab and fingers on the throttle136, opened a notch137, and the platform began to slide past them.
Spitzer wrinkled his face and stared at the gauge118 needle—two hundred and ten pounds, all the way, all the time—two hundred and ten pounds. It was up to him. With a jerk of the chain, he swung the furnace door wide and a shovelful138 of coal shot, neatly139 scattered140, over the grate.
There is art in all things; there is the quintessence of art in the prosaic141 and laborious142 task of firing an engine. Spitzer was not without art, for in a way he had had years of experience; but banking143 a fire in the roundhouse, and nursing a roaring pit of flame to its highest degree of efficiency in a swaying, lurching cab, are two different and distinct operations that are in no way to be confounded. 503 began to lurch144 and sway. Notch by notch Burke was opening her out, and the bark of her exhaust was coming like the quick crackle of a gatling. Five minutes late in the mountains on a time schedule already marked up to a dizzy height that called for more chances than the passengers paid for is—well, it’s five minutes, just five minutes, that’s all. Some men would have left it for the Pacific Division crowd the next day on a level track and a straight sweep—but not Burke.
Spitzer’s initiation145 was in ample form and he got the full benefit of all the rites146 and ceremonies with every detail of the ritual worked in—and no favors shown. So far all was well, the rough country was all in front of the pilot, and Spitzer was all business. His pulse was beating in tune147 to only one thing—the dancing needle on the gauge. Again he swung the door open, and the red flare148 lighted up the heavens and played on features that Regan would never have known for Spitzer’s—they were set, grim and determined149, covered with little sweat beads150 that glistened151 like diamonds. The singing sweep of the wind was in his ears as he poised152 his shovel. There was a sickening slur153. 503 shot round a tangent—and the shovelful of coal shot like bullets all over the cab, and, including Burke, hit about everything in sight but the objective point aimed at. Simultaneously154, Spitzer promptly155 performed a gyration156 that resembled something like a back hand-spring and landed well up on the tender, to roll back to the floor of the cab again with an accompanying avalanche157 of coal.
He picked himself up and glanced apprehensively158 at the engineer. There was not a scowl159, not even a grin on Burke’s face, just an encouraging flirt160 of the hand—but the flirt was momentous161. Wise and full of guile162 was Burke, for with that little act Spitzer, biblically speaking, girded up his loins and got his second wind.
They were well into the foothills now, and the right of way was an amazing wonder. Diving, twisting, curving, it circled and bored and trestled its way, and buttes, canons, gorges163 and coulees roared past like flights of fancy.
The speed was terrific. To Spitzer it was all a wild, mad medley164 of things he had never known before, of things that had neither beginning nor end. The giddy slew165 as the big mountain racer hit the curves, the crunching166 grind of the flanges167 as for an instant she lifted from her wheel-base, the pitch, the roll, the staggering reel, the gasp for breath, the beat of the trucks, the whir of the racing168 drivers, the rush of the wind, the echoing thunder of the flying coaches behind—it was all there, all separate, all welded into one, a creation, new, vernal, life, the life of the rail, that beat at his eardrums and quickened the pounding throb169 of his heart.
At first, from time to time, Burke leaned over his levers to glance at the pressure gauge, but after a bit he crouched170 a little further forward in his seat and his eyes held on the track ahead where the beam of the electric headlight flooded the glittering ribbons of steel. He was getting what MacAloon or no other man had ever given him before—two hundred and ten pounds all the way. SPITZER was firing Number One, the Imperial Limited, westbound, on the mountain run, three minutes late!
The sweat was rolling in streams from the little fellow now, and he clung in the gangway for a moment’s breathing spell, leaning out, staring ahead at a few shining lights in the distance. Came the hoarse171 scream of the whistle, the clattering172 crash as they shattered the yard switches, a blurred173 vision of dark outlines dotted with tiny scintillating174 points, and station, yard, lights, switches and all were behind him.
Spitzer drew his sleeve across his forehead, and turned again to his work as they thundered over a long steel trestle—Thief Creek175. Spitzer knew the road well enough at second hand, if not from personal experience. Just ahead was The Pass—Sucker Pass—straight enough for its quarter-mile stretch, but where the rock walls rose up on either side so close as to almost scratch the paint off the rolling stock. Eased for a moment in scant176 deference177 to switches and trestle just passed, Spitzer felt the forward leap of the racer as Burke threw her wide open again. He bent178 for his shovel—and then, quick as the winking179 of an eye, sudden as doom180, came a tearing, rending181 crash, a scream from Burke, and the right-hand side of the cab seemed literally182 torn in two.
A flying piece of woodwork that struck him across the eyes, a terrific jolt as the engine lifted and fell back, sent Spitzer headlong to the floor of the cab. Dazed, half mad with the pain, the blood streaming from his forehead, he staggered to his feet. Burke lay coiled in an inert183 heap just in front of him by the furnace door. A whizzing piece of steel rose up, crunched184, slithered, gashed185 a track of ruin for itself, and was gone. It had missed Burke only by a hair’s-breadth—next time there might not be even that limit of safety. With a cry, Spitzer leaped forward and dragged the unconscious engineer across the cab. Again the jolt, the slur, the stagger, the desperate wrench186. It seemed like years, like eternity187 to Spitzer. He was living a lifetime in the passing of a second—it had been no more than that, no more than two or three at most.
There are some things worse, much worse, in railroading than a broken crank-pin and a rod amuck188, but not when it comes in The Pass, where derailment at their racing speed spelt death, quick and sudden. There was just one chance for the trailing string of coaches, just one for every last soul aboard—Spitzer. But between Spitzer and the throttle and the air-latch was a thing of steel that rose and fell, now swinging a splintering, murderous arc through the shattered side of the cab, now grinding into the ties land roadbed, threatening with every revolution to pitch 503 and the train behind her headlong from the rails to crumple189 like flimsy egg-shells against the narrow rocky walls that lined The Pass. Just one chance for the train crew and passengers—just one in a thousand for Spitzer. And little five-foot-five Spitzer, diffident, retiring, self-effaced, unobtrusive Spitzer, with a dry, choking sob190 in his throat, flung himself forward to stop the train. His hands clutched desperately191 at the levers, there was a hiss192, the vicious eventualities, and that’s the way it was with about nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand colonists193. The company, of course, did take some risk—they took a chance on the one-thousandth man. The company had sporting blood.
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1
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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8
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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22
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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32
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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33
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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35
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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37
numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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39
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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40
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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41
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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45
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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48
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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49
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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50
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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51
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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52
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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54
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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55
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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56
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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57
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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58
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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60
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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62
sputter
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| n.喷溅声；v.喷溅 | |
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63
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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65
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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66
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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67
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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68
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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69
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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70
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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71
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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72
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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75
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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76
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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77
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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80
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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81
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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82
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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83
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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84
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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85
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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86
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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87
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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88
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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89
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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90
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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91
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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92
hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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93
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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94
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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95
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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96
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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98
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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99
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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100
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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101
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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102
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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103
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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104
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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105
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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106
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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107
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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108
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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109
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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110
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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111
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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112
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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113
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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114
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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115
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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116
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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117
gauges
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| n.规格( gauge的名词复数 )；厚度；宽度；标准尺寸v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的第三人称单数 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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118
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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119
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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120
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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121
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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122
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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123
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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124
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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125
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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126
cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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127
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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128
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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129
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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130
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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131
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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132
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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133
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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134
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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135
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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136
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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137
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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138
shovelful
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| n．一铁铲 | |
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139
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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140
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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141
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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142
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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143
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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144
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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145
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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146
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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147
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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148
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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149
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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150
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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151
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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153
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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154
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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155
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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156
gyration
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| n.旋转 | |
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157
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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158
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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159
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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160
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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161
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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162
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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163
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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164
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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165
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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166
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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167
flanges
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| n.（机械等的）凸缘，（火车的）轮缘( flange的名词复数 ) | |
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168
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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169
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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170
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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172
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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173
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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174
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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175
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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176
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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177
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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178
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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179
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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180
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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181
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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182
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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183
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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184
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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185
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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187
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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188
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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189
crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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190
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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191
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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192
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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193
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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