Under Orders: The story of a young reporter

Ben sullenly agreed to these terms and was released from his humiliating position. Another lamp was lighted, the books and papers were returned to the safe, it was locked, and the key was handed to Myles. Then, leaving Ben to restore the office to order and to remove as far as possible all traces of their recent struggle, Myles started to keep his appointment with Jacob Allen, and to return to the hotel, where he had left his report for the Phonograph.

Allen was waiting just where he left him, and apparently had not moved from the spot or even changed his position during the reporter’s absence. He held out a bit of folded letter-paper as Myles drew near, saying:

“Here is a little note that I have just written for you, Mr. Manning. It may be of use to you in case you should ever get into any difficulty with the boys. Even if you never have to use it, it will serve to remind you that Jacob Allen will never forget what you did for him last evening, and will count it a piece of good luck if he ever gets a chance to do you a good turn in part payment of what he owes you.”

Myles thanked him for his thoughtfulness, thrust the note into a pocket, bade Allen good-night, and hurried on.

At the hotel he spent a few minutes in his room, got his report and writing materials, and then going to the office told the proprietor that he should probably be out all night and perhaps part of the next day.

“Very well, Mr. Manning,” replied the landlord, “but as these are troubled times, and you don’t leave any baggage to amount to any thing behind you, I shall have to ask for the amount of your bill to date before you go. It is – let me see – yes, five dollars will square us up to breakfast-time to-morrow morning.”

What was to be done? Myles had not two dollars in his possession, nor had he a friend within reach from whom to borrow. He hesitated, grew red in the face, stammered and finally said:

“Your demand is rather unexpected, sir, and finds me without funds to meet it just at this moment. I was going to telegraph to my paper for money as soon as the wires were in order. I am certainly coming back here again. You don’t suppose I would run away for a five-dollar hotel-bill, do you?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” replied the landlord. “I don’t suppose any thing of the kind, and I don’t doubt but that you mean to come back. Still, folks have cleared out forgetting to pay smaller bills than that, and when a man once leaves town there’s no telling what may happen to prevent his return. Your being broke, as you say you are, is unfortunate; but it won’t make any difference if you can leave something as security until your return – your watch, for instance.”

Without another word Myles pulled his gold watch, a birthday gift from his father the year he entered college, from his pocket, handed it to the landlord, received a receipt for it, and hurried into the street, hot with indignation and mortification.

He found the hand-car standing on the track in front of the railway station, and beside it the operator awaiting his coming with the greatest impatience, for it was an hour since they had separated.

“Where have you been and what have you been doing all this time?” he asked. “I had nearly given you up, and was going home, when a fellow brought this car along with word from Mr. Watkins that it was for your use. Then I knew things were moving all right. But what has kept you so long?”

“Some unexpected business,” answered Myles, evasively, as they jumped on the car, and, hanging a lantern in the forward end, began to turn the cranks that set it in motion. Myles’ thoughts were still too unpleasant and too full of his recent mortification for him to care to talk, and he found relief in the active exertion necessary to propel the car. It furnished an ample excuse for silence, but his companion wondered at the tremendous energy with which he toiled.

They rolled quickly out of the railroad yard, and in a few minutes were beyond the limits of the town. Faster and faster they flew over the ringing lines of steel. Now they roared like a train of cars through a stretch of dark forest, then they skirted the base of a tall mountain, and again skimmed the edge of some deep valley lying black and mysterious far beneath them. They sped round sharp curves, rattled noisily over bridges that spanned swift rushing streams, rumbled over the hollow arches of culverts, and every now and then plunged through the breathless blackness of echoing tunnels. As they were on a down grade their speed increased with each turn of the cranks, until they seemed fairly to fly, and the wind of the their own progress nearly took away their breath as it whistled keenly past them.

Occasionally they caught the gleam of a charcoal-burner’s fire, sometimes close beside the track and again far up on a mountain-side or glowing like an angry eye from the depths of a ragged ravine; but these vanished almost as soon as seen. Once they were stopped by a red light swung furiously across the track but a short distance ahead of them. Somebody was waving the danger signal, and their iron-shod brake was applied so vigorously that a train of sparks flew hissing from it. As they came to a stand-still two rough-looking fellows stepped within the circle of light thrown by their lantern and demanded to know who they were and what was their business. They were members of a guard posted by the strikers to see that no one left or entered Mountain Junction during the night.

“Hello, Ned! is that you?” said the operator, recognizing one of them. “We are all right. You know me, don’t you? I’m only going to Station No. 1 to send a dispatch for this Phonograph reporter. We’ve got a permit from – ” Here the operator lowered his voice so that Myles did not catch the name he mentioned. It was evidently satisfactory, for the man stepped aside, saying:

“Go on, then. If he says so it must be all right.”

So on they went, speeding through the darkness and waking the sleepy echoes of the night until the ten miles had been left behind, and the light of Station No. 1 shone out clear and bright, only a hundred yards away.

Here another swinging red lantern warned them to stop. As they pulled up in front of the little station and sprang from their car breathless, and wringing wet with perspiration, they were surrounded by a curious crowd of railroad men who seemed to be making this their head-quarters. The operator answered all their questions satisfactorily, and, at the mention of the magical name which Myles still failed to catch, they readily fell back, making way for the new-comers to enter the station. Here an operator of but limited experience was slowly sending and receiving short dispatches concerning the progress of the great strike. The change in the sound of the electric notes as the skilled operator who accompanied Myles sat down to the instrument was wonderful. The sluggish wire seemed to spring into wide-awake activity, and the sharp clicking of the key as the nimble fingers rattled off thirty-five words to the minute was like the continuous buzz of some great insect. At the end of an hour the column-long message had been sent and received without a break.

As the operator leaned back in his chair after this feat he remarked:

“That fellow at the other end is a lightning taker. I don’t know him, and he must be a new hand; but he’s a daisy, and I guess I’ll send him a 73 any how.”1

“I wish you would also send this to the Phonograph for me,” said Myles, handing the operator a slip of paper on which was written:

“Am out of money. Please send fifty dollars. Will explain upon return.

Myles Manning.”

After this had been flashed over the wires the operator said:

“My dear fellow, why didn’t you tell me you were broke? I would gladly have loaned you whatever you needed for a day or two. I can now if you will take it.”

“Oh, no, indeed, thank you!” answered Myles. “They will get money to me somehow, and I shouldn’t be in a fix any way if it wasn’t for the stupidity of that hotel proprietor.” Then he told the story of his recent mortification, with which the operator sympathized warmly. He again tried to persuade the young reporter to accept a loan, but Myles steadily refused, and finally the matter was dropped.

After finishing their business they spent some time at Station No. 1 listening to bits of news regarding the strike. Myles now learned for the first time how very general it was, and how it was paralyzing the business of the whole country. He was told that the militia of many States had been ordered out, and that even detachments of troops from the regular army were hurrying to points where riots were expected. The men gathered about the station spoke very bitterly of this sending of soldiers to aid in “cheating them of their rights,” as they expressed it, and declared that they would make things lively for any troops that came in their way.

While they were thus talking word was received over the wire that the 50th New York Regiment was ordered to Mountain Junction and would start the next morning.

This dispatch was greeted with an angry yell by those who crowded up to the operator’s window to hear it read, and Myles heard more than one muttered declaration that the 50th would have a sweet time getting there, and a red-hot time when they arrived. He wanted very much to send a few hundred words more to the Phonograph describing the scenes about the station and the strikers’ reception of the news regarding the 50th, but he was sternly forbidden to do so.

“No, not Jake Allen himself shouldn’t send another word to any paper, now that they are going to put the soldiers on to us,” shouted one man.

“What has Allen got to do with it, that they mention his name in that way?” asked Myles of his friend.

“Why,” answered the operator, “didn’t you know that he was the grand mogul and recognized leader of all the strikers in these parts?”

“No, I had no idea of such a thing.”

“Well, he is; and if it hadn’t been for him we wouldn’t have got here to-night. He seems to know all about you, and he gave us permission to come out. It was only by using his name that we got through.”

At length Myles and the operator boarded their car to go back to town, to which they promised, in return for the favors shown them, to carry the news of the expected coming of the New York regiment. The return journey was a hard one. Both of them were sleepy and tired out. They were no longer borne up by the excitement that attended their outward trip, and their hands were blistered by the crank-handles. The car grew heavier and heavier as they forced it slowly up the long grades, while the miles seemed to stretch to infinity.

When they were half-way back they would have stopped for a while and taken an hour or two of sleep where they were, but, all at once, they caught sight of a dull glow overhanging the distant town that they knew must be caused by some great fire. They also thought they heard shots every now and then. Their anxiety to find out what was going on lent them new strength, and again their car hummed merrily over the rails.

As they approached the town they met several small parties of men, who shouted to them to stop, and once a pistol-bullet whizzed by unpleasantly close to them, but they dashed forward without paying any attention to these orders.

At last they rolled into the railroad yard and stepped wearily from their car, only to be arrested by two soldiers, who said they must appear before Lieutenant Easter and give an account of themselves.

CHAPTER XII.

MYLES FALLS INTO A TRAP

THE straightforward account that Myles and his companion were able to give of themselves and their movements quickly convinced the dapper little lieutenant that they were all right, but he warned them never to do so again. He had to say this, or something like it, in order to impress them with the importance of his position. This was the first time he had ever worn the wonderfully gorgeous uniform of his battalion in actual service; he might never again have a chance to exhibit it as a real commander of real soldiers on real duty, and he believed in making the most of opportunities as they were presented.

At the conclusion of this farce the suspected individuals were set at liberty and allowed to communicate the unwelcome intelligence that one of the crack New York City regiments was on its way to Mountain Junction. It was unwelcome news to the lieutenant, because he knew that he would thus be speedily relieved of his command by some superior officer, and that his brief day of glory would be over.

“It is perfectly absurd to send more troops to this place,” he sputtered, “especially a lot of city boys. What good can they do, I should like to know? Why, a single night’s work such as we have just had would break them all up, while I, for instance, am fresh as a daisy and good for another just like it. I tell you, gentlemen, you want men of experience in affairs of this kind, not a lot of toy soldiers like those New York chaps. We don’t need any help here, even if they were the fellows to help us. I and my command are perfectly well able to attend to all the strikers in this part of the country. Why, we have cleared the town of them already, arrested their ringleader, and to-morrow, or rather to-day, I propose to run a train over the Western Division, and see that it goes through, too! Of course you will make no mention of this,” he added, with a laughable expression of anxiety; “for we do not wish our plans to be known generally.”

“Of course not,” answered Myles. “We understand that you do not wish to have your proposed ride on the cars interrupted by any meddlesome strikers. But whom did you say you arrested? I should like to have his name for publication.”

Now this word “publication” meant a great deal to Lieutenant Easter. To get his name into the New York papers as one of the heroes of this great strike would be the crowning glory of his military career. Of course this reporter could not describe the arrest of one of the ringleaders of the strike and its attendant circumstances without mentioning the important part borne in the affair by himself, the commanding officer. So, without noticing Myles’ remark about the proposed opening of the Western Division, he proceeded to give him a full account from his own point of view of what had taken place during the few hours just past.

According to this account, about one o’clock that night Mr. Watkins, filled with the responsibility of his position as acting division superintendent, had been making a round of the railroad buildings to see that every thing was all right. Near one of the car-shops he noticed a man evidently trying to conceal himself in its shadow. Mr. Watkins challenged him, asked him what he was doing there, and ordered him off the premises. The man, answering in the well-known voice of Jacob Allen, a recognized leader of the strike, said he was only going, by the shortest way, to his home, and that he did not propose to go back and take a roundabout route to please Mr. Watkins or anybody else. Thereupon Mr. Watkins, very properly, called one of the military guards of the building and ordered him to arrest Allen.

The guard attempted to obey this order, but the striker, exhibiting a desperate ferocity, snatched his gun from him, and, pointing it at them, ordered both Mr. Watkins and the guard to leave or he would shoot. He even went so far as to cock the gun, and of course they were obliged to do as he told them.

Mr. Watkins immediately reported this outrage to him (Lieutenant Easter), and, taking a squad of a dozen of his best men, he went to Allen’s house, and arrested him just as he was getting into bed. While they were doing this a fire broke out in the very car-shop near which he had been discovered, and there was not the slightest doubt but that this Jacob Allen had set it. At any rate he would be tried for it, in connection with his other offences against the law, and he now occupied a cell in the town jail, where he was chained and handcuffed beyond a possibility of escape. In the meantime all the other strikers had taken to the woods, and he (Lieutenant Easter) could congratulate the town on being well rid of them.

Thanking the lieutenant for the information he had given them, Myles and the telegraph operator took their departure, the former to seek his bed in the hotel and get a few hours sleep, the latter to hunt up some particular friends for whom he had important news.

When Ben Watkins returned to his room, after his wicked attempt to burn the railroad building and his struggle with Myles, he was filled with such a fury of rage, shame, and hatred that his sole thought was of revenge.

For some time he paced restlessly up and down the room, trying to conceive some plan for the young reporter’s utter humiliation and overthrow. He felt almost sure that in consequence of the telegram he had sent to the Phonograph the night before, Myles would be dismissed from the paper; but that was not enough. Could he not inflict some more serious injury upon the fellow who had just told him that he, Ben Watkins, was whipped and in his power?

“Whipped, am I!” cried Ben, bitterly, “I’ll show him yet who is whipped. I may be in his power or he may be in mine; but that question is not settled yet, as he will find out before long.”

Then the old evil smile crept over his face. A new idea entered his mind, and he paused in his hurried walk to consider it.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, half aloud. “I believe it will work; and if it does it will land him in State prison, certain as fate! All I have to do is to make no mistake in my part of the programme and it will work itself out without any further effort. Why, the fool has actually gone and stuck his own head right into the trap. Things couldn’t suit me better if I had planned them beforehand.”

Then Ben saw that his door was locked, plugged the key-hole, pinned the curtains to the window-frame so that it was certain no one could peep in, and, producing the express package that he had taken from the safe, sat down to examine it. One thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills! A careful count assured him that the sum was correct. Then he began to examine the bills separately and with the utmost care, studying their every detail on both sides. He even used a magnifying-glass to aid in his search.

At last his efforts seemed to be rewarded, and he laid one of the bills aside, though he did not cease his labor until every note in the package had been thoroughly examined. Leaving the bill thus selected, together with the express envelope in which they came, lying on the table, he thrust the rest into the pocket from which he had taken them and buttoned his coat tightly. Next he wrote a letter. It was short, but it evidently needed to be written and worded with great care, for several sheets of note-paper were torn into minute fragments before one was prepared to his satisfaction. Folding the selected bill inside of this letter, he placed them in an envelope which he sealed, directed, and stamped. This he also placed in his pocket.

Now, turning out his light and taking the empty express envelope, he softly unlocked and opened the door of his room, took out the key, and for a minute peered cautiously up and down the dimly lighted hall, listening intently at the same time. Then he removed his shoes and walked rapidly, but with noiseless tread, to the door of the room occupied by Myles Manning. It was locked, of course, but, as is often the case in small hotels, the key of one room would unlock the door of every other, and Ben’s key unlocked this door as readily as his own.

Although certain that the room was empty, for he knew Myles to be out of town, Ben exercised the utmost caution as he entered it and softly closed the door behind him. He did not remain there more than a minute, but when he came out he trembled so violently that it was difficult for him to insert the key into the lock. When he had accomplished this he sped back to his own room, possessed of the miserable fear that always follows a guilty conscience. Ben was bad, and had been for years; but he was now practising a new style of wickedness, and the terror that it inspired was unlike any he had ever before known.

Having transacted all these items of business to his satisfaction he resumed his shoes, put on his hat, and, quietly leaving the hotel without being noticed, walked down town to the post-office, where he mailed his letter.

Then, for fear that he had been seen, and wishing to have a good excuse for being on the street at that hour of the night, he made the pretence of examining into the safety of the car-shops, that resulted in meeting with Jacob Allen, as Myles afterward learned from Lieutenant Easter.

The fire that followed so closely upon Allen’s arrest was set to carry out a threat made by the strikers that they would destroy some piece of railroad property for every one of their number who should be thrown into prison.

When Myles Manning, completely worn out with the hard work and excitement of the night, threw himself, without undressing, upon his bed, he fully intended to be up again and ready to go out with the train that Lieutenant Easter proposed to put through that day. He had been told that it would start at ten o’clock, or possibly earlier than that hour. When, therefore, after what seemed to him but a few minutes of heavy, dreamless sleep, he awoke to find the sun shining brightly and already high in the sky, he feared he had neglected another opportunity of obeying the orders under which he was working, and lost his chance of accompanying the first train sent out since the beginning of the great strike.

Instinctively feeling for his watch, that he might see what time it really was, he was for a moment puzzled to account for its disappearance. Then the memory of the use to which it had been put the previous evening came back to him, and again he flushed with hot indignation as he recalled the mortifying position in which he was placed.

“Oh, what a fool I was – what a fool I was!” he cried out in his distress. “To gamble away money that I needed so badly, and which, at the same time, was not my own. That I am in this fix is all my own fault, though, and I am well paid for my folly. It is a bitter experience that I shall remember so long as I live, and it has at least cured me of gambling; for never again will I risk one cent upon a game of chance. No, not one cent,” he repeated earnestly, as if registering a vow.

He hated to go down stairs with the chance of meeting the proprietor of the hotel.

“Though why should I?” he thought. “He holds security worth twenty times the amount of his wretched bill. Oh, for a few dollars with which to pay him and demand the return of my watch, with an apology for his suspicions! I almost wish I had accepted that operator’s offer of a loan. He’s a good fellow, and I wouldn’t so very much mind being under an obligation to him.”

Thus thinking, the young reporter went down to the hotel office, where a glance at the clock showed him that it was already past ten. As he was hurrying out of the front door the clerk at the desk said:

“Here is a letter for you, Mr. Manning.”

Stepping back and getting it Myles thrust it into his pocket, feeling that he had no time to read letters just then, and set out on a run for the railway station.

There, to his great relief, he found the train that he feared had gone without him. It stood on the main track, and consisted of two cars, but no locomotive. The men of Lieutenant Easter’s command, who were to go with it as a guard, stood in small groups near it, and everybody was evidently waiting for something. Myles soon learned that the difficulty was with the locomotive. One had been got ready for the trip, but, with the first revolution of its great wheels, their connecting rod had fallen to the ground, and a serious injury to the machinery resulted. A small steel pin was missing, and could not be found. Upon examination of the other engines in the round-house it was discovered that the same important little pin was missing from every one of them. Each engineer upon leaving had drawn this pin and taken it with him. Now, therefore, the train could not move until a new one of these pins could be made and fitted to its place. Under the circumstances this was a slow and difficult undertaking, and it would be at least an hour yet before a start could be made. This being the case Myles thought he might as well return to the hotel for the breakfast of which he stood so greatly in need.