CHAPTER. III

Standing back of the yards, hidden by the depth of the fog, and waiting for the crash that he hoped would put an end to the father of Elsie, stood the drunken-eyed hostler, Sam Dobinski. He had gone on duty that morning as usual at four o’clock, and, like all the rest of the men, he had heard of the speed the Pittsburgh-Detroit express was making. He was still infuriated by the fact that Elsie had called him a coward the day before, and his enraged brain, excited by liquor, conceived the fiendish idea of taking revenge on the father of the girl.

That his plan involved the lives of others did not trouble him in the least. He waited until all were busy about the roundhouse, then he prepared the freight engine it was his business to take out each morning. He got up steam, and at the proper moment started the engine out of the roundhouse. Since he was performing a regular duty, nobody noticed that he ran the engine out onto a track that led directly down to the main. When he heard the express whistle as it entered the Walbridge block, he gave his engine a small head of steam, jumped off, and, running ahead of it, lifted by hand the derail, which he knew had already been set from the signal tower.

On a clear morning his operations would have been detected quickly enough to prevent damage, but under cover of the heavy fog his plans worked to perfection as far as his part was concerned. He had not thought it possible for anybody on the down freight to mount his free engine and get it under way in time to prevent a collision.

But at the risk of his life Patrick O’Hara had attempted what the freight engineer swore could only have been accomplished by “a confounded brave man or a fool.”

Patrick stood at his throttle doing his best to hasten the pick-up on his engine, but as he glanced back over his shoulder he saw that the express was closing in on him in spite of everything he could do. The two engines closed up the gap between them until there was scarcely a yard left, then the drivers of Patrick’s engine took hold solidly and his locomotive shot off down the track and began to draw away from the slowing express.

At the moment when the two engines were closest together Macumber had closed his eyes as he stood at the throttle. He waited there, rigid, for what seemed to him an age, until he heard the terrific blast of the whistle on the engine ahead, and opened his eyes to realize that by a miracle a wreck had been averted.

Slowly he released his brakes and crept after the free engine, until a couple of hundred yards farther down the track they both came to a halt.

In the confusion of the moment nobody noticed Sam Dobinski, thoroughly sobered by what he then realized he had attempted, and what would happen to him if he were caught, make his escape by slipping away under cover of the fog.

Macumber climbed down from his cab, and there was wrath in his heart. Convinced that some dirty hostler was responsible for the affair, he advanced toward the engine, expressing himself freely and resolved to take vengeance without waiting for due process of law.

His grizzly jaw dropped when he saw O’Hara climbing down out of the cab to greet him. He knew by all that was holy that Patrick had no business to be there.

“What the devil be y’ doin’ there, O’Hara?” he called.

“I’m after doin’ y’ a good turn by keepin’ this free engine out o’ your reach, is all.”

When passengers began climbing out of the coaches to learn the trouble, and the situation was explained, O’Hara found himself a hero, a situation to which the bashful but burly Irishman was not accustomed. Without waiting for formal permission to depart, he dodged around the end of the engine and started back up the track, calling to Macumber to have some yard man take care of the free engine.

“And, Macumber,” he added, “use your influence with Elsie to do me a favor some time.”

Macumber climbed back up into the cab and muttered to himself: “A funny man, that Patrick O’Hara, riskin’ his neck one minute and the next admittin’ he’s afraid of a woman.”

Two days later when Macumber had his time off, he was sitting at home in the evening on the front porch. Like all grizzly Irishmen, he had on loud socks and no shoes, and his feet were perched up on the porch rail, waving bold defiance at every son of England that passed along the street. From his virulent pipe the fumes of strong tobacco rose contentedly on the evening air.

The huge Patrick came bashfully up the street, looking like a big overgrown kid that was just about to take in his first dancing party, he was that dressed up, sporting a red tie and the proper equipment to go with it. Under his arm there was tucked a small box of candy.

“Good evenin’ to you, Mr. Macumber,” he said, while still advancing up the front walk.

Macumber, who was a right deliberate sort of a man, carefully removed his pipe from his mouth and thoughtfully spit over the rail of the porch before he replied:

“An’ t’ you, also, Mr. O’Hara. Have they caught the runt Polack yet?”

“They have not, Mr. Macumber. It’s a great mystery to me why he did it, and it’s a nice pleasant evenin’, isn’t it?”

Pat was trying vainly to conceal the candy box under his hat, but with small success. Macumber realized they were both talking to kill time. He carefully wiggled his toes in his socks, and regarded those flaming garments meditatively before he finally broke into speech.

“Patrick O’Hara, y’ are a big, strong man, and a devil of a brave one to do what y’ did t’other day, but ye are one hell of a coward when it comes to the wimmen. I have did y’ the favor y’ asked th’ other day, and have used me influence with Elsie, but you are the only man living that could get me to propose t’ me own daughter for him. Get your big, handsome self into the parlor and take her. She is expectin’ y’ with considerable impatience.”