The Young Train DispatcherStevenson, Burton Egbert
General
The Young Train Dispatcher
Stevenson, Burton Egbert
Railroad stories
And then the passengers get a fleeting and soon-forgotten glimpse of
how the road is struggling to set things right again. For as they hurry
past the place, they see a gang of men--a hundred, perhaps--toiling like
the veriest galley-slaves to repair the damage; they see a huge derrick
grappling with wrecked cars and engines and swinging them out of the way;
they see locomotives puffing and hauling, and in command of it all, two
or three haggard and dirt-begrimed men whom no one would recognize as
the well-dressed and well-groomed gentlemen who fill the positions of
superintendent, trainmaster, and superintendent of maintenance of way.
All this the passengers pause a moment to contemplate, as one looks at
a play at the theatre; then they hasten on and forget all about it. As
for the labourers, they do not even raise their heads. It is no play for
them, but deadly earnest. They have been toiling in just that fashion
for hours and hours; they will keep doggedly at it until the road is open.
To-night a dozen passengers in the luxuriantly appointed Pullmans of the
east-bound flyer were fuming and fretting because their train was ten
minutes late. They complained to the conductor; they expressed their
opinion of the road at length and in terms the most uncomplimentary. They
vowed one and all that never again would they travel by this route. Not
that the delay really made any difference to any of them; but average
human nature seems to be so constituted that it is most deeply annoyed by
trifles. And the conductor reassured them, talked confidently of making
up the lost time, did his best to keep them cheerful and contented, joked
and laughed and seemed to be thinking about anything rather than the
storm which swirled and howled outside. Only for an instant, as he passed
from one coach to another, and found himself alone, did the careless
smile leave his lips. His face lined with anxiety as he glanced out
through the door of the vestibule at the driving snow, and he shook his
head. Then he resumed his jaunty air and passed on into the next coach.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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