The Manager of the B. & A.: A NovelKester, Vaughan
General
The Manager of the B. & A.: A Novel
Kester, Vaughan
American fiction; Railroad stories
Dan had already discovered that his father was deeply religious. It
was a faith the like of which had not descended to his own day and
generation.
“Well, I had it rather hard for a while,” going back to his story.
“Yes,” with keen sympathy. “You were nothing but a little boy.”
“Finally, I was lucky enough to get a place as a newsboy on a train. I
sold papers until I was sixteen, and then began braking. I wanted to
be an engineer, but I guess my ability lay in another direction. At any
rate, they took me off the road and gave me an office position instead.
I got to be a division superintendent, and then I met General Cornish.
He is one of the directors of the line I was with at the time. Three
months ago he made me an offer to take hold here, and so here I am.”
“And you've never been back home, Dannie?”
“Never once. I've wanted to go, but I couldn't.” He hoped his father
would understand.
“Well, there ain't much to take you there but her grave. I wish she
might have lived, you'd have been a great happiness to her, and she got
very little happiness for her portion any ways you look at it. We were
only just married when the war came, and I was gone four years. Then
there was about eleven years When we were getting on nicely. We had
money put by, and owned our own home. Can you remember it, Dannie?
The old brick place on the corner across from the post-office. A new
Methodist church stands there now. It was sold to get money for my
lawyer when the big trouble came. Afterwards, when everything was spent,
she must have found it very hard to make a living for herself and you.”
“She did,” said Dan, gently. “But she managed somehow to keep a roof
over our heads.”
“When the law sets out to punish it don't stop with the guilty only.
When I went to her grave and saw there were flowers growing on it, and
that it was being cared for, it told me what you were. She was a very
brave woman, Dannie.”
“Yes,” pityingly, “she was.”
“Few women have had the sorrow she had, and few women could have borne
up under it as she did. You know that was an awful thing about Sharp.”
He put up his hand and wiped the great drops of perspiration from his
forehead.
Dan turned towards him quickly.
“Why do you speak of it? It's all past now.”
“I'd sort of like to tell you about it.”
There was a long pause, and he continued:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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