Part 8
Joe had certainly been drinking that night last week when he had got fresh with Sally.
"Thirty-three still losing south of Anderson."
He jotted the words down and sent his O.K.'s while his head, it seemed to him, recoiled physically from each rapid stroke of the little brass bar.
Sonny, sent by his mother, had come to tell him that night, panting up the stairs, his eyes wide and excited. Tolliver had looked from the window towards his home, his face flushed, his fists clenched, his heart almost choking him. Then he had seen Joe, loafing along the road in the moonlight, and he had relaxed, scarcely aware of the abominable choice he had faced.
"NT. NT. NT."
His own call. Tolliver shrank from the sharp blows. He forced himself to a minute attention. It was division headquarters.
"Holding twenty-one here until thirty-three and the special have cleared."
Twenty-one was a freight. It was a relief to have that off the road for the emergency. He lay back when the striking at his head had ceased.
It was unfortunate that Joe and he alone should be employed at the tower. Relieving each other at regular intervals, they had never been at the house together. Either Tolliver had been there alone with his wife and his son--or Joe had been. The two men had seen each other too little, only momentarily in this busy room. They didn't really know each other.
"LR. LR. LR."
Tolliver shook his head savagely. It had been a mistake letting Joe board with them at all. Any man would fall in love with Sally. Yet Tolliver had thought after that definite quarrel Joe would have known his place; the danger would have ended.
It was probably this drinking at the country inn where Joe lived now that had made the man brood. The inn was too small and removed to attract the revenue officers, and the liquid manufactured and sold there was designed to make a man daring, irrational, deadly.
Tolliver shrank from the assaults of the sounder.
Where was Joe now? At the inn, drinking; or----
He jotted down the outpourings of the voluble key. More and more it became clear that the special and thirty-three would meet near his tower, but it would almost certainly be after midnight when Joe would have relieved him. He watched the clock, often pressing his fingers against his temples in an attempt to make bearable the hammering at his brain, unequal and persistent.
While the hands crawled towards midnight the wind increased, shrieking around the tower as if the pounding angered it.
Above the shaking of the windows Tolliver caught another sound, gentle and disturbing, as if countless fingers tapped softly, simultaneously against the panes.
He arose and raised one of the sashes. The wind tore triumphantly in, bearing a quantity of snowflakes that fluttered to the floor, expiring. Under his breath Tolliver swore. He leaned out, peering through the storm. The red and green signal lamps were blurred. He shrugged his shoulders. Anyway, Joe would relieve him before the final orders came, before either train was in the section.
Tolliver clenched his hands. If Joe didn't come!
He shrank from the force of his imagination.
He was glad Sally had the revolver.
He glanced at his watch, half believing that the clock had stopped.
There at last it was, both hands pointing straight up--midnight! And Tolliver heard only the storm and the unbearable strokes of the telegraph sounder. It was fairly definite now. Both trains were roaring through the storm, destined almost certainly to slip by each other at this siding within the next hour.
Where was Joe? And Sally and the boy alone at the house!
Quarter past twelve.
What vast interest could have made Joe forget his relief at the probable loss of his job?
Tolliver glanced from the rear window towards his home, smothered in the night and the storm. If he might only run there quickly to make sure that Sally was all right!
The sounder jarred furiously. Tolliver half raised his hand, as if to destroy it.
It was the division superintendent himself at the key.
"NT. NT. NT. Is it storming bad with you?"
"Pretty thick."
"Then keep the fuses burning. For God's sake, don't let the first in over-run his switch. And clear the line like lightning. Those fellows are driving faster than hell."
Tolliver's mouth opened, but no sound came. His face assumed the expression of one who undergoes the application of some destructive barbarity.
"I get afraid when you leave me alone this way at night."
He visualized his wife, beautiful, dark, and desirable, urging him not to go to the tower.
A gust of wind sprang through the trap door. The yellow slips fluttered. He ran to the trap. He heard the lower door bang shut. Someone was on the stairs, climbing with difficulty, breathing hard. A hat, crusted with snow, appeared. There came slowly into the light Joe's face, ugly and inflamed; the eyes restless with a grave indecision.
Tolliver's first elation died in new uncertainty.
"Where you been?" he demanded fiercely.
Joe struggled higher until he sat on the flooring, his legs dangling through the trap. He laughed in an ugly and unnatural note; and Tolliver saw that there was more than drink, more than sleeplessness, recorded in his scarlet face. Hatred was there. It escaped, too, from the streaked eyes that looked at Tolliver as if through a veil. He spoke thickly.
"Don't you wish you knew?"
Tolliver stooped, grasping the man's shoulders. In each fist he clenched bunches of wet cloth. In a sort of desperation he commenced to shake the bundled figure.
"You tell me where you been----"
"NT. NT. NT."
Joe leered.
"Joe! You got to tell me where you been."
The pounding took Tolliver's strength. He crouched lower in an effort to avoid it, but each blow struck as hard as before, forcing into his brain word after word that he passionately resented. Places, hours, minutes--the details of this vital passage of two trains in the unfriendly night.
"Switch whichever arrives first, and hold until the other is through."
It was difficult to understand clearly, because Joe's laughter persisted, crashing against Tolliver's brain as brutally as the sounder.
"You got to tell me if you been bothering Sally."
The hatred and the cunning of the mottled face grew.
"Why don't you ask Sally?"
Slowly Tolliver let the damp cloth slip from his fingers. He straightened, facing more definitely that abominable choice. He glanced at his cap and overcoat. The lazy clock hands reminded him that he had remained in the tower nearly half an hour beyond his time. Joe was right. It was clear he could satisfy himself only by going home and asking Sally.
"Get up," he directed. "I guess you got sense enough to know you're on duty."
Joe struggled to his feet and lurched to the table. Tolliver wondered at the indecision in the other's eyes, which was more apparent. Joe fumbled aimlessly with the yellow slips. Tolliver's fingers, outstretched toward his coat, hesitated, as if groping for an object that must necessarily elude them.
"Special!" Joe mumbled. "And--Hell! Ain't thirty-three through yet?"
He swayed, snatching at the edge of the table.
Tolliver lowered his hands. The division superintendent had pounded out something about fuses. What had it been exactly? "Keep fuses burning."
With angry gestures he took his coat and cap down, and put them on while he repeated all the instructions that had been forced into his brain with the effect of a physical violence. At the table Joe continued to fumble aimlessly.
"Ain't you listening?" Tolliver blurted out.
"Huh?"
"Why don't you light a fuse?"
It was quite obvious that Joe had heard nothing.
"Fuse!" Joe repeated.
He stooped to a box beneath the table. He appeared to lose his balance. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his head drooping.
"What about fuse?" he murmured.
His eyes closed.
Tolliver pressed the backs of his hands against his face. If only his suspense might force refreshing tears as Sonny cried away his infant agonies!
Numerous people asleep in that long Pullman train, and the special thundering down! Sally and Sonny a half mile away in the lonely house! And that drink-inspired creature on the floor--what was he capable of in relation to those unknown, helpless travelers? But what was he capable of; what had he, perhaps, been capable of towards those two known ones that Tolliver loved better than all the world?
Tolliver shuddered. As long as Joe was here Sally and Sonny would not be troubled. But where had Joe been just now? How had Sally and Sonny fared while Tolliver had waited for that stumbling step on the stairs? He had to know that, yet how could he? For he couldn't leave Joe to care for all those lives on the special and thirty-three.
He removed his coat and cap, and replaced them on the hook. He took a fuse from the box and lighted it. He raised the window and threw the fuse to the track beneath. It sputtered and burst into a flame, ruddy, gorgeous, immense. It etched from the night distant fences and trees. It bent the sparkling rails until they seemed to touch at the terminals of crimson vistas. If in the storm the locomotive drivers should miss the switch lamps, set against them, they couldn't neglect this bland banner of danger, flung across the night.
When Tolliver closed the window he noticed that the ruddy glow filled the room, rendering sickly and powerless the yellow lamp wicks. And Tolliver clutched the table edge, for in this singular and penetrating illumination he saw that Joe imitated the details of sleep; that beneath half-closed lids, lurked a fanatical wakefulness, and final resolution where, on entering the tower, he had exposed only indecision.
While Tolliver stared Joe abandoned his masquerade. Wide-eyed, he got lightly to his feet and started for the trap.
Instinctively, Tolliver's hand started for the drawer where customarily the revolver was kept. Then he remembered, and was sorry he had sent the revolver to Sally. For it was clear that the poison in Joe's brain was sending him to the house while Tolliver was chained to the tower. He would have shot, he would have killed, to have kept the man here. He would do what he could with his hands.
"Where you going?" he asked hoarsely.
Joe laughed happily.
"To keep Sally company while you look after the special and thirty-three."
Tolliver advanced cautiously, watching for a chance. When he spoke his voice had the appealing quality of a child's.
"It's my time off. If I do your work you got to stay at least."
Joe laughed again.
"No. It only needs you to keep all those people from getting killed."
Tolliver sprang then, but Joe avoided the heavier, clumsier man. He grasped a chair, swinging it over his head.
"I'll teach you," he grunted, "to kick me out like dirt. I'll teach you and Sally."
With violent strength he brought the chair down. Tolliver got his hands up, but the light chair crashed them aside and splintered on his head. He fell to his knees, reaching out blindly. He swayed lower until he lay stretched on the floor, dimly aware of Joe's descending steps, of the slamming of the lower door, at last of a vicious pounding at his bruised brain.
"NT. NT. NT."
He struggled to his knees, his hands at his head.
"No, by God! I won't listen to you."
"Thirty-three cleared LR at 12:47."
One tower north! Thirty-three was coming down on him, but he was only glad that the pounding had ceased. It commenced again.
"NT. NT. NT. Special cleared JV at 12:48."
Each rushing towards each other with only a minute's difference in schedule! That was close--too close. But what was it he had in his mind?
Suddenly he screamed. He lurched to his feet and leant against the wall. He knew now. Joe, with those infused and criminal eyes, had gone to Sally and Sonny--to get even. There could be nothing in the world as important as that. He must get after Joe. He must stop him in time.
"NT. NT. NT."
There was something in his brain about stopping a train in time.
"It only needs you to keep all those people from getting killed."
Somebody had told him that. What did it mean? What had altered here in the tower all at once?
There was no longer any red.
"NT. NT. NT."
"I won't answer."
Where had he put his cap and coat. He needed them. He could go without. He could kill a beast without. His foot trembled on the first step.
"NT. NT. NT. Why don't you answer? What's wrong. No O. K. Are you burning fuses? Wake up. Send an O. K."
The sounder crashed frantically. It conquered him.
He lurched to the table, touched the key, and stuttered out:
"O. K. NT."
He laughed a little. They were in his block, rushing at each other, and Joe was alone at the house with Sally and the child. O. K.!
He lighted another fuse, flung it from the window, and started with automatic movements for the trap.
Let them crash. Let them splinter, and burn, and die. What was the lot of them compared with Sally and Sonny?
The red glare from the fuse sprang into the room. Tolliver paused, bathed in blood.
He closed his eyes to shut out the heavy waves of it. He saw women like Sally and children like Sonny asleep in a train. It gave him an impression that Sally and Sonny were, indeed, on the train. To keep them safe it would be necessary to retard the special until thirty-three should be on the siding and he could throw that lever that would close the switch and make the line safe. He wavered, taking short steps between the table and the trap. Where were Sally and Sonny? He had to get that clear in his mind.
A bitter cold sprang up the trap. He heard the sobbing of a child.
"Sonny!"
It was becoming clear enough now.
The child crawled up the steps on his hands and knees. Tolliver took him in his arms, straining at him passionately.
"What is it, Sonny? Where's mama?"
"Papa, come quick. Come quick."
He kept gasping it out until Tolliver stopped him.
"Joe! Did Joe come?"
The child nodded. He caught his breath.
"Joe broke down the door," he said.
"But mama had the gun," Tolliver said hoarsely.
The boy shook his head.
"Mama wouldn't let Sonny play with it. She locked it up in the cupboard. Joe grabbed mama, and she screamed, and said to run and make you come."
In the tower, partially smothered by the storm, vibrated a shrill cry. For a moment Tolliver thought his wife's martyrdom had been projected to him by some subtle means. Then he knew it was the anxious voice of thirty-three--the pleading of all those unconscious men and women and little ones. He flung up his arms, releasing the child, and ran to the table where he lighted another fuse, and threw it to the track. He peered from the window, aware of the sobbing refrain of his son.
"Come quick! Come quick! Come quick!"
From far to the south drifted a fainter sibilation, like an echo of thirty-three's whistle. To the north a glow increased. The snowflakes there glistened like descending jewels. It was cutting it too close. It was vicious to crush all that responsibility on the shoulders of one ignorant man, such a man as himself, or Joe. What good would it do him to kill Joe now? What was there left for him to do?
He jotted down thirty-three's orders.
The glow to the north intensified, swung slightly to the left as thirty-three took the siding. But she had to hurry. The special was whistling closer--too close. Thirty-three's locomotive grumbled abreast of him. Something tugged at his coat.
"Papa! Won't you come quick to mama?"
The dark, heavy cars slipped by. The red glow of the fuse was overcome by the white light from the south. The last black Pullman of thirty-three cleared the points. With a gasping breath Tolliver threw the switch lever.
"It's too late now, Sonny," he said to the importunate child.
The tower shook. A hot, white eye flashed by, and a blurred streak of cars. Snow pelted in the window, stinging Tolliver's face. Tolliver closed the window and picked up thirty-three's orders. If he had kept the revolver here he could have prevented Joe's leaving the tower. Why had Sally locked it in the cupboard? At least it was there now. Tolliver found himself thinking of the revolver as an exhausted man forecasts sleep.
Someone ran swiftly up the stairs. It was the engineer of thirty-three, surprised and impatient.
"Where are my orders, Tolliver? I don't want to lie over here all night."
He paused. His tone became curious.
"What ails you, Tolliver?"
Tolliver handed him the orders, trembling.
"I guess maybe my wife at the house is dead, or--You'll go see."
The engineer shook his head.
"You brace up, Tolliver. I'm sorry if anything's happened to your wife, but we couldn't hold thirty-three, even for a murder."
Tolliver's trembling grew. He mumbled incoherently:
"But I didn't murder all those people----"
"Report to division headquarters," the engineer advised. "They'll send you help to-morrow."
He hurried down the stairs. After a moment the long train pulled out, filled with warm, comfortable people. The child, his sobbing at an end, watched it curiously. Tolliver tried to stop his shaking.
There was someone else on the stairs now, climbing with an extreme slowness. A bare arm reached through the trap, wavering for a moment uncertainly. Ugly bruises showed on the white flesh. Tolliver managed to reach the trap. He grasped the arm and drew into the light the dark hair and the chalky face of his wife. Her wide eyes stared at him strangely.
"Don't touch me," she whispered. "What am I going to do?"
"Joe?"
"Why do you tremble so?" she asked in her colorless voice, without resonance. "Why didn't you come?"
"Joe?" he repeated hysterically.
She drew away from him.
"You won't want to touch me again."
He pointed to the repellant bruises. She shook her head.
"He didn't hurt me much," she whispered, "because I--I killed him."
She drew her other hand from the folds of her wrapper. The revolver dangled from her fingers. It slipped and fell to the floor. The child stared at it with round eyes, as if he longed to pick it up.
She covered her face and shrank against the wall.
"I've killed a man----"
Through her fingers she looked at her husband fearfully. After a time she whispered:
"Why don't you say something?"
His trembling had ceased. His lips were twisted in a grin. He, too, wondered why he didn't say something. Because there were no words for what was in his heart.
In a corner he arranged his overcoat as a sort of a bed for the boy.
"Won't you speak to me?" she sobbed. "I didn't mean to, but I had to. You got to understand. I had to."
He went to the table and commenced to tap vigorously on the key. She ran across and grasped at his arm.
"What you telling them?" she demanded wildly.
"Why, Sally!" he said. "What's the matter with you?--To send another man now Joe is gone."
Truths emerged from his measureless relief, lending themselves to words. He trembled again for a moment.
"If I hadn't stayed! If I'd let them smash! When all along it only needed Joe to keep all those people from getting killed."
He sat down, caught her in his arms, drew her to his knee, and held her close.
"You ain't going to scold?" she asked wonderingly.
He shook his head. He couldn't say any more just then; but when his tears touched her face she seemed to understand and to be content.
So, while the boy slept, they waited together for someone to take Joe's place.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] Copyright, 1920, by The Metropolitan Magazine Company. Copyright, 1921, by Charles Wadsworth Camp.
THE PARTING GENIUS[7]
#By# HELEN COALE CREW
From _The Midland_
"_The parting genius is with sighing sent._"
#Milton's# _Hymn on the Nativity._
It was high noon, blue and hot. The little town upon the southern slope of the hills that shut in the great plain glared white in the intense sunlight. The beds of the brooks in the valleys that cut their way through the hill-clefts were dry and dusty; and the sole shade visible lay upon the orchard floors, where the thick branches above cast blue-black shadows upon the golden tangle of grasses at their feet. A soft murmur of hidden creature-things rose like an invisible haze from earth, and nothing moved in all the horizon save the black kites high in the blue air and the white butterflies over the drowsy meadows. The poppies that flecked the yellow wheat fields drooped heavily, spilling the wine of summer from their cups. Nature stood at drowsy-footed pause, reluctant to take up again the vital whirr of living.
At the edge of the orchard, near the dusty highway, under a huge misshapen olive tree sat a boy, still as a carven Buddha save that his eyes stood wide, full of dreams. His was a sensitive face, thoughtful beyond his childish years, full of weariness when from time to time he closed his eyes, full of dark brooding when the lids lifted again. Presently he rose to his feet, and his two hands clenched tightly into fists.
"I hate it!" he muttered vehemently.
At his side the grasses stirred and a portion of the blue shadow of the tree detached itself and became the shadow of a man.
"Hate?" questioned a golden, care-free voice at his side. "Thou'rt overyoung to hate. What is it thou dost hate?"
A young man had thrown himself down in the grass at the boy's side. Shaggy locks hung about his brown cheeks; his broad, supple chest and shoulders were bare; his eyes were full of sleepy laughter; and his indolent face was now beautiful, now grotesque, at the color of his thoughts. From a leathern thong about his neck hung a reed pipe, deftly fashioned, and a bowl of wood carved about with grape-bunches dangled from the twisted vine which girdled his waist. In one hand he held a honey-comb, into which he bit with sharp white teeth, and on one arm he carried branches torn from fig and almond trees, clustered with green figs and with nuts. The two looked long at each other, the boy gravely, the man smiling.
"Thou wilt know me another time," said the man with a throaty laugh. "And I shall know thee. I have been watching thee a long time--I know not why. But what is it thou dost hate? For me, I hate nothing. Hate is wearisome."
The boy's gaze fixed itself upon the bright, insouciant face of the man with a fascination he endeavored to throw off but could not. Presently he spoke, and his voice was low and clear and deliberate.
"Hate is evil," he said.
"I know not what evil may be," said the man, a puzzled frown furrowing the smooth brow for a swift moment. "Hunger, now, or lust, or sleep--"
"Hate is the thing that comes up in my throat and chokes me when I think of tyranny," interrupted the boy, his eyes darkening.