AN ENGINE-DRIVER’S STORY.

Evening Star, Issue 10882, 16 March 1899, Page 4

AN ENGINE-DRIVER’S STORY.

According to ‘ Peril and Patriotism,’ the engine-driver’ll career isorowded with exciting incident,' 'He iq flung off the footplate in collision,, er pitched down an embankment by a locomotive with broken tyre that lurches from the track; bis train is stopped by locusts in Africa, fanatics in Siberia, bush fires in Australia, robbers in America, and snow storms in Eogland and Scotland, and his escapes from death are marvellous. "I can tell you of one upnerving mishap,” said, the driver of a northern train over the pipe in the moss J room at the terminus, and our locomotive superintendent, who was in the express at the time, could bear me out, but be doss not talk much. It was a pitch dark night, so dark that, with a presentiment of a coming danger, I rigged up a hanging bead light between the engine guards, in addition to the usual head-lights and buffer lamps. The line was clear, and we made satisfactory progress by home and distant signals, till we entered a wild country far away from any town. The fireman was a stolid man and grumpy, but knew his work. He seldom spoke, but as wo sped along wbat was familiarly known as * the Black Bun,’ a bleak moorland, he turned his face towards me as if in fear, and shouted something that was quite unintelligible. Anyhow, I took his pantomime as a warning. We clapped on the brake; the engine slowed, bumped over an obstruction, left the rails, ploughed over the ballast, and the buffers churned against some masonry. I crept along the engine rim, swung upon the line, and noticed in the glow of the head-lights a dingy rock, frescoed with twigs ; but beyond the country-side was covered by the black mantle of night. It was impossible to discern anything. There was not a sound except the seethe of the engine or a spasmodic shout of inquiry from a passenger. But, feeling carefully (.long the masonry, and listening intently, 1 heard a distant splash—the swish and murmur of water. It was beneath us—far down ! I broke into an icy sweat. The stonework against which the engine’s breast hal settled was the parapet of a lofty bridge, and if the brake had been applied a minute later the train would have plung< d into the ravine, nearly a hundred feet below. ‘lt’d been a narrow tqueak, J m,’ said the locomotive superintendent, who emerged out of the darkness. ‘lt has that, sir,’ I replied, my voice trembling, though < rdinarily I’m nervous man. ‘ Wbat about the load, sir ? ■ 1 Oh, they must understand that you’ve broken the tyro of the driving wheel. It’s only a mile to the next station, and the shunting engine will be down in an hour. I’ve already sent the fireman on for it, and all we’vo got to do,’ he said in a whisper, ‘is to keep the thing secret. An enginedriver, like a Cabinet Minister or a bank manager, is the repository of many secrets; and the passengers were taken on to their journey’s end without any idea of their imminent peril, except the free-and-easy notion that'there was something the matter with the engine.’ ”