Munroe Kirk
Under Orders: The story of a young reporter

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.

Going to his room, to wash his face and hands before sitting down to table, he suddenly remembered his letter. It was post-marked Mountain Junction, and the post-mark bore the date of that very day.

“That is curious,” thought Myles.

His surprise was greatly increased when, as he opened the letter, a fifty-dollar bill fell from it, and he turned eagerly to its contents:

My Dear Mr. Manning:

Having accidentally learned of your temporary embarrassment, and knowing your unwillingness to accept pecuniary assistance from strangers, I take this method of forcing a slight loan upon you. Do not hesitate to make use of the enclosed $50 for when you are again in funds I will call upon you for repayment. Say nothing of this little affair, but use the money as your own, and believe me to be

A Friend in Need.

“Well, if that telegraph fellow isn’t a trump!” thought Myles, as he finished reading this friendly note. “He has sent me the exact sum that I asked the office for in that dispatch, and sent it in such a delicate, generous way that I don’t see how I can very well refuse to take it. He is, indeed, ‘a friend in need,’ and one whom I won’t forget in a hurry. Yes, I will use the money, now that it has actually come to me, for I shall certainly soon be able to pay it back.”

With a lighter heart than he had known since arriving in this town of incident and adventure, and with the bill in his hand, Myles ran down stairs and called for the proprietor, to whom he said:

“I’ll thank you, sir, for my watch, together with a receipted bill for my board to date, and here is the money to pay it. If there was any other hotel in town I would not spend another minute in yours, you may depend upon it. Now make the change quickly, if you please, for I am in a hurry.”

The landlord did not deign to reply to this little speech; but, taking the proffered bill and satisfying himself that it was genuine, he handed out the change, the watch, and a receipt without a word.

Myles ate his breakfast, or, rather, his lunch, for it was now nearly noon, with a hearty appetite, and then started off briskly and happily toward the railway station, prepared to encounter any adventure that the day might bring forth.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE STRIKERS CAPTURE A TRAIN

AT THE railway station Myles found the train nearly ready to start and its military passengers on board. A foreman of the locomotive works was to act as engineer, and Ben Watkins was to be fireman. Lieutenant Easter found a seat in the locomotive cab, where Myles would have liked to join him but for the presence of Ben, with whom he wished to hold no communication. The two cars of the train were well filled, for the town was so quiet and so absolutely deserted by the strikers that the lieutenant did not think it necessary to leave more than half a dozen of his men in charge of a corporal to guard the jail and the railroad buildings. So he took nearly the whole of his command with him, and an interesting lot they were to Myles, who now, for the first time, saw them all together.

Most of them were green, awkward-appearing young men, who had joined the company solely that they might wear its uniform. As has been said, this uniform was a remarkably gorgeous one, and it represented the taste of its wearers; for they had voted to adopt it at one of the very first meetings of their organization. It was of scarlet, black, and gold, and above the stiff beaver caps nodded scarlet and black plumes of cocks’ feathers. These were the particular joy and pride of Lieutenant Easter’s men, and were regarded by them as the most truly military and warlike portion of their equipment. If these fiercely nodding plumes did not inspire terror in the hearts of the strikers, what would?

The whole business of the strike was looked upon as a picnic by these gorgeous militiamen. They had no idea that it might mean fight. Oh, no, that was too absurd. No body of strikers with a grain of sense among them would be so foolhardy as to await their coming. Their mere appearance on the scene would be the signal for flight. Did they not have law and muskets on their side?

Thus they talked and boasted as the train rolled slowly out of town without meeting the slightest form of opposition. Nobody in the car in which Myles had found a seat spoke to him or paid the least attention to him, except to wonder who he was and what right he had there. He might be a striker, for all they knew. At any rate he did not wear a uniform, was evidently only an ordinary, every-day civilian, and was consequently unworthy of their notice.

Every thing went on smoothly and comfortably for an hour or so. The track was in perfect order, no strikers were to be seen, and the citizen soldiery were boisterously happy. As many of their muskets as could be were crowded into and snugly stowed in the package-racks above their heads, while the rest were shoved under the seats so as to be well out of the way. Their owners loosened their belts for greater comfort, played cards, smoked, ate, drank, and were merry. This state of affairs continued until they had gone about twelve miles. Then the train began to climb a long grade. Its speed was of course slackened by this, but not enough to attract the notice of the card-players.

All at once the great driving-wheels of the locomotive began to spin furiously, but without taking any hold of the rails. The engineer knew in a moment what the trouble was – the track had been soaped! – and shut off steam. The train slid a few rods farther, and then stopped. As it did so a wild yell was heard in the bushes that at this point grew thickly close to the track. Then a crowd of men leaped from them and charged upon the motionless train. Half a dozen of them sprang to the locomotive, taking complete possession of it, and dragging its three occupants to the ground before they had time to offer the least resistance.

In less than a minute after it stopped the train was in undisputed possession of the strikers, and its passengers were their prisoners.

Myles was greatly startled and not a little alarmed by these summary proceedings. He sprang to his feet with the rest when the train stopped, and had nearly reached the rear door of the car when the strikers rushed in and commanded everybody to sit down. He obeyed the order at once, slipping into a little corner seat behind the open door. Here, as he was not in uniform, he escaped attention for a few minutes. Then a burly fellow, who seemed a sort of leader among the strikers, pulled back the door so as to reveal him fully, and asked gruffly:

“Who are you, and what are you doing here? What’s your position on the road?”

“I haven’t any,” answered Myles, who did not know whether to say he was a reporter or not.

“Well, who are you, then? Come, spit it out quick! We haven’t any time for fooling.”

“I am a friend of Jacob Allen’s,” replied Myles, with a happy thought.

“Oh, you are, are you? Well, how do I know that? It’s easy enough to say you are a friend of Jake Allen’s, but how can you prove it?”

“By this,” said Myles, producing a folded bit of note-paper that Allen had given him the night before. The man read aloud:

The bearer, Mr. Manning, is my friend; and I wish all my friends to treat him as a friend of – Jacob Allen.

“That’s all right,” said the man, returning the note to Myles, “though some of those that Jake Allen thought were his friends have gone back on him lately. Still, I guess we’ll have to pass you this time. I must say, though, that for a friend of Allen’s you are in mighty poor company just now.” Then he walked away, and Myles left the car to see what was going on outside.

Now it happened that a soldier occupying the next seat in front of the reporter overheard the reading of this note, and was struck by its curious wording. He afterward told Lieutenant Easter of it, and the Lieutenant told Ben Watkins, adding his own suspicions that this friend of Jacob Allen-must be the very one who had conveyed to the strikers the news of this attempt to run a train through. “Otherwise,” he said, “they could not possibly have known of it in time to plan the stopping and capture of the train as they did.”

In thus laying suspicion upon Myles the Lieutenant entirely forgot that the reporter had a companion, the telegraph operator, the night before, when he himself gave away this information.

After leaving the car Myles was witness of some very funny scenes. First the strikers inside the cars secured all the guns they could find and passed them to their comrades outside. Then, two at a time, so guarded that there was no chance of escape, and solemnly assured that they were about to be hanged, the disgusted soldiers were made to leave the cars. As they appeared on the platforms in all the splendor of their gorgeous uniforms they were greeted with howls of derision. The nodding cocks’ plumes received their full share of attention, and at the cry of “Scalp ’em! scalp ’em! give us their scalps!” the gaudy feathers were shorn from the beaver caps or plucked out by the roots and distributed to all who wanted them. Then the prisoners were marched back into the bushes, struggling, protesting, pleading, making all sorts of promises, or, in some cases, laughing, and treating it all as a joke. As each couple reached a point beyond sight of their companions, to whom their fate was thus a mystery, they were stripped of their cherished uniforms with the exception of their shorn beavers, and made to put on pairs of greasy or coal-blackened overalls in place of them. Then the dejected-looking couple was allowed to step to one side and witness the similar treatment of the next two who were brought out.

Myles, who had no occasion to feel particularly sorry for the humiliation of these boastful soldiers, could not help joining in the merriment caused by their comical appearance. Even pompous little Lieutenant Easter had been deprived of his sword and shorn of his plumes, though he was permitted to retain his uniform. Beside him stood Ben Watkins, scowling savagely, and muttering threats that he dared not utter aloud.

A little later Myles overheard a conversation between two of the strikers, from which he learned that all the men captured with the train were to be put on board again and taken to within a short distance of the town to which they belonged, some thirty miles westward.

Now this would not suit him at all. His orders were to remain at Mountain Junction until recalled, and he proposed to obey them just as long as possible. So, fearing that Jacob Allen’s note might not again avail him, and, watching for a chance when the attention of the strikers was fully occupied with the mock review of Lieutenant Easter’s company, he quietly slipped back among the bushes, and in another moment was lost to sight.

From a well concealed hiding-place he saw all the captured men, including Ben Watkins, for whom the strikers had no love, put on board the cars strongly guarded. The track was then well sanded to overcome the effect of the soap, and finally he saw the train move slowly away and disappear over the crest of the long up grade. Still he kept his hiding-place, until the crowd of strikers who remained had gathered up and shouldered the captured muskets, stuck the scarlet and black cocks’ plumes in their hat-bands, and also departed. As they marched on the railroad toward Mountain Junction, in the very direction he wished to go, he waited until they were out of sight and hearing. After these prolonged waitings it wanted less than an hour of sunset when he returned to regain the track. Then, assuring himself that no human being was in sight in either direction, he set out bravely and at a rapid pace to walk back over the twelve miles to the town in which he had been ordered to stay.

Walking on a railroad track is by no means easy work, and before he had accomplished more than half the distance to the town the young reporter wished that a train, or, at least, a hand-car, would come along and give him a lift. The sun had set, it was rapidly growing dark, and Myles was as rapidly growing very hungry. His way lay through a particularly rough and lonesome stretch of country. It was mountainous and heavily wooded. He had not seen a house, unless one or two distant huts of charcoal-burners could be called such, since he started. Now the solitude and the silence, only broken by the melancholy cries of a whippoorwill or the weird hootings of an occasional owl, became drearily oppressive, and Myles longed for human companionship. If only he had his jolly comrade of the night before, the telegraph operator. But he had not, and he tried to cheer his lonely way by whistling as he trudged wearily along. He kept a sharp lookout for lights on either side of the way, determined to go to the first one he saw in the hope of finding food. He also decided that if he found any sort of shelter for the night he would remain there until morning, for the thought of crossing, in the dark, the several trestle-bridges over mountain torrents that lay between him and the town was by no means pleasant.

At last he saw a faint gleam, apparently that of a candle, at some little distance on his left. Whether it was far away or near at hand Myles could not tell. It at least betokened the presence of human beings, and he determined to try and reach it. He did not find any road or path leading to it, but worked his way slowly, with many a stumble amid rocks, trees, stumps, and bushes, toward the light. He often lost sight of it, but always found it again, until, all of a sudden, he was close upon it.

It came from a cabin, apparently that of a charcoal-burner, only somewhat larger than most of those he had seen. In order to announce his presence he gave a shout, which was answered by the savage barking of a dog that came bounding toward him. As Myles felt for a stick or a rock with which to defend himself, the door of the cabin was opened and a harsh voice shouted:

“Tige! you Tige! Be quiet, sir. Who’s there?”

“I am,” answered Myles.

“Well, who’s I?”

“A stranger in search of something to eat and a place to sleep in.”

“Step up here and let’s take a look at you. Tige, be quiet!”

The dog obeyed his master so far as keeping quiet was concerned, but he followed the new-comer and sniffed at his heels in a manner both suggestive and extremely unpleasant.

The figure that confronted Myles in the door-way was that of a tall, broad-shouldered, rough-looking man, clad in a flannel shirt and a pair of coarse trousers tucked into cowhide boots.

“Well, you be a stranger, sure enough,” said he, holding a candle so that its light shone in the other’s face; “leastways I never see you in these parts before. An’ you’ve struck a mighty poor place. This ain’t no hotel, and I reckon you’d better travel a bit further on.”

“Where to?” asked Myles.

“To the Junction, I expect. There ain’t no place short of that, as I know of, where you could be took in.”

“But that is a long way off,” objected Myles, “and I don’t believe I could cross the bridges in the dark.”

“No more do I believe you could,” replied the man.

“Besides, I am willing to pay, and pay well, for whatever food and shelter you will give me,” added Myles.

“Will you pay a dollar?”

“With pleasure.”

“In advance?”

“Yes, if you insist upon it.”

“Let’s see your money, stranger, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Now Myles had no money with him except the change from the fifty dollars that he had tucked into the envelope in which the bill had come to him that morning. So he was obliged to produce this in order to get out the required dollar.

Upon receiving his pay in advance and discovering his would-be guest to be a person of means the man’s manner softened. Saying, “Step in, stranger, and I’ll see what I can do for you,” he led the way into the cabin. Myles followed him, glad to accept even so poor a shelter, and little dreaming that before morning he would be ten times more anxious to escape from it than he was now to be admitted.