Munroe Kirk
Under Orders: The story of a young reporter

Myles had been busily collecting news of the strike all that day and writing a report of it, in the hope that he might find some chance to get it through. He visited the telegraph office several times to inquire if the wires were not yet repaired, but each time his friend, the operator, who remained faithfully at his post, shook his head in the negative. The operator was anxious to befriend one to whom he had taken a liking, and who, as he knew, had suffered a great wrong, regarding which his duty obliged him to remain silent; but during the day he could discover no way of helping him. At last, late in the evening, when Myles had given up all hopes of getting a dispatch through and was about to retire, the operator called for him at the hotel.

He said he had just learned, as a secret, from a friend among the strikers, that the wires were cut between the town and the first station on the railroad to the east. The strikers were in possession of that office, and from it were sending dispatches to other points along the line. He had told this friend, who possessed great influence over his fellows, that there was a reporter in town who was most anxious to communicate with his paper, and asked permission for him to do so from this little station. At first it was refused. Then the striker asked the reporter’s name. On being told that it was Manning, and that he was from the Phonograph, he said that made all the difference in the world. They would willingly allow a Phonograph reporter the use of the wire whenever he wanted it; for that paper had always given the strikers a fair showing in its columns. He only made the conditions that no other reporter should be allowed the use of the wire, and that nothing should be forwarded over it except the message to the Phonograph.

This the operator had promised, also agreeing to go with the reporter and send the message through himself.

Myles was of course most eager to avail himself of this privilege, and, heartily thanking the operator, was about to order a carriage in which they might drive to the little station. His friend, however, said that the wagon-roads of that mountainous region were so rough and roundabout that to drive there would take several hours, while if they only had a hand-car they might reach the place in less than an hour, as the railroad was down grade nearly all the way. But all the hand-cars were locked up in one of the shops, and nobody but the division superintendent or the person acting in his place could authorize one to be taken out.

Myles would rather have asked a favor from almost anybody else just then; but, as one “under orders,” it was clearly his duty to use every effort to carry them out, and he at once began his search for Ben Watkins. They went to his room and looked through the hotel in vain. Then the operator suggested that Mr. Watkins might be in his office, and said that if Myles would go there and see he would look in one or two other likely places, and they would meet at the railway station. So they separated, and Myles hurried in the direction of the superintendent’s office.

Just before reaching it he met a man whom the light from an open window showed him to be his acquaintance of the evening before, conductor Jacob Allen. He apologized, with the plea of having been very busy, for not calling to see how little Bob was doing, and asked Allen if he had seen any thing of the assistant superintendent that evening.

“Yes, I saw him go into that building and up stairs to his office a while ago, though he had no idea I was watching him,” was the answer. “You know these are curious times, Mr. Manning, and some have to watch while others have to be watched. By the way, would you mind stepping in here where there is a light? I’d like to give you a bit of writing that may come handy to you some time.”

Myles said he was in a great hurry just at that moment, but if Allen could wait until he had spoken with Mr. Watkins he would be right back.

The conductor expressed his willingness to wait, and Myles, hurrying to the railway building, sprang lightly up the stair-way leading to the superintendent’s office. He opened the outer door, and, seeing a light in the inner room, stepped toward it. Ben was in the act of emptying the can of kerosene upon the pile of inflammable material, and Myles hesitated a moment in amazement at the sight.

Then a match was struck, and the full meaning of what was about to be done flashed, with its sputtering glare, across the mind of the young reporter. He gave a cry of “Ben Watkins! what are you doing?” and rushed towards him determined to prevent the crime which seemed about to be committed. At the sound of his voice Watkins turned upon Myles in a frenzy of fear and hate.

CHAPTER XI.
A FIGHT AND A MISTAKE

MYLES MANNING hated to fight. He considered it a low and ungentlemanly thing to do. Rather than maintain his rights by brute force he would submit to a very considerable degree of wrong; and he did not believe that either fighting or submission was necessary in the majority of cases. It seemed to him that any man or boy having control of his own temper could, by keeping cool and talking the matter over quietly, control that of his enemy. Still there are cases in which it becomes absolutely necessary to exert one’s strength, and one of them is when a person is attacked by a madman. This was Myles’ position as Ben Watkins sprang at him when detected in the act of setting fire to the railroad building – an act that he thought would be laid to the strikers.

He had been in such a state of guilty terror for the preceding half hour that his nerves were wholly unstrung. Thus, when his guilt was discovered, and that by a person whom he had deeply wronged, and therefore hated, he lost all control of himself, and, springing at Myles like a madman, attacked him with all the fury of one.

For a moment the young reporter was staggered by the suddenness and force of this unexpected attack, and only partially warded a stunning blow aimed full at his face. Then he rallied, and, with the skill for which he had been famous among the athletes in the X – gymnasium, coolly defended himself. Ben was the stronger of the two, but Myles was much the more skilful and well trained in all manly exercises. He was thus perfectly well able to protect himself from the other’s furious blows. At length, seeming to realize this, Ben changed his tactics, and, breaking through the reporter’s guard by a fierce rush, clinched with and tried to throw him. Now Myles was indeed in danger, and every muscle of his athletic young frame was strained to the utmost. As the two swayed and tugged in their desperate struggle they staggered from side to side of the office, overturning chairs and tables in their course. The one lighted lamp went to the floor with a crash, and they struggled in utter darkness.

Myles felt that he was becoming exhausted. The fierce hot breath of his adversary seemed to poison him and take away his own. He began to fear that his very life was in danger from the madman with whom he wrestled. He must not yield. He could not. He had too much at stake. He braced himself for one last tremendous effort. For a moment he did not breathe. His teeth were set. The veins of his forehead swelled almost to bursting. His muscles became rigid as whip-cords. His opponent gave way slightly, and the next instant they both fell heavily to the floor, but Myles was on top. He knelt on the form of his prostrate rival and held his arms down with a fierce grasp, beneath which the other lay utterly powerless and helpless. For a full minute no word passed between them. Each was regaining his breath with panting gasps.

At length Myles said:

“Ben Watkins, we have been rivals for a long time; but this is our first fight, and, I hope, our last. Although I would willingly have avoided it I am glad it has come off. I hope you realize that you are whipped. I hope you also realize that the chance which sent me here has saved you from committing a State prison offence. I cannot imagine your object in attempting to set fire to this building, for that is what you most certainly were doing as I entered that door. It looks as though you had some good reason for wishing to destroy the contents of that safe, and thought you could do it in such a way that the blame would be laid upon the strikers. I don’t know what those books and papers are, but they must be of value to the company. It is evident that you are not fit to be trusted with them. Now, if you choose to put them all back where they belong, lock the safe, and give me the key to keep until your uncle or some other officer of the road arrives, I will then return it to you, and no one need ever know that it has been out of your possession. As I have no wish to see an old classmate disgraced I will also agree to say nothing of this night’s work so long as you behave yourself. I want you to remember, though, that I can do so at any time, and that you are thus to a certain extent in my power. Still we are alone, there are no witnesses of what has happened, and I give you my word that I will never open my lips upon the subject unless you force me to. There is one thing more,” he added, suddenly remembering the errand on which he had come: “I want you to order out a hand-car for my immediate use, and let it be at the station inside of fifteen minutes.”

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.