SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3584, 21 November 1922, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

[CorraiGHT.] HOW DRIVER BRAY SAVED THE MAIL. THE STORY OF THE MAD DRIVER,. By Wilfrid L. R.yndelx,. Driver Bray gazed down comfortably from the high footplate of his big express engine, the Aldebaran, and whistled a little, aimless tune. When he arrived, booming in at the head of his superb dining-cars and sleeper's, Dannersley Junction woke up and things happened. Porters became suddenly visible; some of them, hoarsely vocal, went through a kind of minuet the passengers’ legs with broad, flat luggage trolleys, whereof the corners were uncommonly sharp ; others listened politely, with caps tilted and fingers pensively scraping their chins, to the doleful stories told by elderly ladies who had lost a trunk, a pet dog, or a handkerchief, and who were firmly convinced that railways and robbery were synonymous terms; others, again, projected a noisy cascade of tin boxes, leather bags, and bicycles from the guard’s van to the platform. Inspectors appeared, trim and austere, from sundry mysterious doorways marked “Private,” and consulted watches with an anxious air that clearly implied everybody was at least two minutes late. The stationmaster, one hand gras.ping a sheaf of important-looking papers, the other deep in a cross pocket of his braided trousers, promenaded aloof and alert, as befitted his official position ; but his eyes were upon every man, and also on the huge clock face which gleamed down like a solemn, admonitory ghost through the haze. Altogether, what with the shrieking of energetic newsboys, the dancing of the lights, and the general busy uproar and commotion, Driver Bray was justified in feeling that his evening train ex Momton down to Belmere, was a great success. Especially was lie justified on this New Year's Eve, when many' hundreds of happy people trusted their lives and their belongings to him for safe conveyance, and relied on his steady nerve to hurl them through the wind and rain to their destination a 100 or 200 miles away. He removed a smut from one eye, placing a decorative streak on one side of his nose as he did so, and turned to the starting lever, for the volley of slamming doors warned him that time was up. Martin, his fireman, mounted the iron steps, and in response to a green flash in the distance, hooked down the whistle drain with a grimy finger; a short, impatient snarl echoed through the station, and Bray let on steam. The great, green locomotive sent billowv white clouds writhing up araqng the timbers of the roof with husky, heavy exhausts, and out from the murmurous cavern the train moved gently, with hands waving and faces smiling from its long line of brilliant windows. The norters returned to their lairs after attending to stray bags and ascertaining that no more tips remained to be gathered in; the stationmaster vanished to his cosy sanctum; the newsboys resumed their penny horribles, and hut for the occasional shriek of a shunting locomotive or a distant l’usilade of colliding trucks, Dannersley Junction for a while seemed silent, deserted, asleep. For the 35 mile stretch to Belmere, nearly level, 43 minutes were allowed, so there was no need for any hurry on the part of the express. At half steam the gallant Aldebaran could knock off 50 miles within the hour without the slightest sign of being “winded,” even though she was not at the top of the shed list as a “flyer.” Nobody knew better than Bray what she could do, for he drove her at all hours and in all weathers; he coaxed, urged, cajoled her, as a jockey would his horse, so that it was scarcely -an exaggeration to say that she understood his ways as well as he knew hers; any experienced driver will tell how an otherwise reputable and respectable engine will “buck” and rebel in most remarkable fashion with a stranger at her levers. Therefore, as the big Aldebaran fumed out into the wild, rainy night, Bray checked her enthusiasm, aware that she would not resent it; he gripped the reins tightly so to speak—■ in other words, lie took a notch off the expansion gear; whereat she realised that he was the master, and settled into the pleasant nurring of a 40 mile stride in the first few minutes.

A quarter of an hour elapsed and the friendly Dannersley signals whipped by one by one; then a broad flash of yellow light denoted the signal-box, where, like a bird in a cage, Tom Enderbv passed the night. A slight iolt that ran through each pair of wheels in the train, almost like a rhythmic hammerstroke, told Bray that he was at the “crossover” points that connected to the up line; he glanced at the guage—the pressure showed 1851b—opened the regulator a trifle to maintain speed on a couple of miles departure from the level, and gazed ahead meditatively through the round window of the cab. ! When he reached Belmere, the end of his | trip and the finish of his day’s work, j should he go to the club and have 100 ! up with a pal, or should he go straight home and mend the broken armchair that j his wife had reminded him of before | he started off? It would be needed, for I two or three friends wore coming to share j the festivities of the New Year, besides | his boy, who was more than likely on | this very train. | He was pondering this important ques- ! tion. and had almost decided to attend | to the household furniture in preference j to enjoying the board of green cloth, | when lie felt the brakes suddenly go on i and off—a trick by which the rear guard | sometimes can call the driver's attention. Martin, of course, noticed this at the same 1 moment, and the two men immediately

peered back from opposite sides of the footplate along the line, only to draw in their heads and look at one another in amaze. Two yellow headlights, set abreast, were glimmering through the darkness. . . Something was coming along behind—on their line—chasing them. It was inexplicable, unless Tom Enderbv had gone mad or taken a nap in his signal-cabin, that any train could have been permitted to enter the down line alter the Belmere express; besides, no train was due for another hour, either passenger or goods, nor was any special traffic indicated in the working timetable supplied to the men. Puzzled and alarmed, Bray edged on more steam and motioned Martin to replenish the fire in case it should be necessary to do a bit of a sprint. For the driver of a train is handicapped; he has not so much liberty of the road as the captain of a vessel or the driver of a coach; he can only run backwards or forwards when a collision seems threatened —he is unable to steer to right or left. Again Bray leaned from the handrail and looked back. The two gleams were obviously nearer, and in the gloom he could just distinguish a pale plume of steam against the murky sky. As he watched, debating on the probable distance between, the headlights jerked, swerved, and again followed. Then Enderby was not mad or asleep—he had switched the enemy by those crossover points on to the up line, parallel with Bray’s train. Bray wondered, though, that- the runaway—for such it surely must be—had taken those points so easily without being derailed; it must, he thought, be a light engine; no train could have done it at that speed and kept to the track.

He breathed more freely—his own danger was over. Then a thought leaped swiftly into his mind—a thought that sent his nerves tingling. Enderby had made an appalling mistake, one of those lapses which may come to any man in a moment of strain, but which, if they occur to a railway man, may mean destruction and despair. In his crowded seconds of anxiety about Bray’s train, he had sent the runaway on to the up line, which would have been all right in ordinary circumstances; but to-night there was a special mail that ran through Belmere at 9 —a boat train, a fiery meteor it was impossible to stop or check until it came within range of the Dannersley signals. Half an hour before and the line could have been cleared for the runaway by telegraph and telephone; half an hour later and the mail would have safely passed; hut now the two were rushing together furiously, fatefully, and Bray’s heart almost stood still as he pictured the terrible smash that was imminent, for the train would be crowded with people travelling homeward, all unconscious of danger.

He racked his brain for a solution of the difficulty —could nothing be done to save the hundreds of lives travelling on to destruction ? In his mind’s eye he visualised the intervening stretch of line, and found not one spark of hope. But, in such emergencies the brain works at high pressure, and ideas spring to birth and maturity which at other times would be sought in vain; at other times, too, their danger, even to the point of absurdity, could ensure their rejection. If only he could get across to the footplate of that engine in his rear, let her be driven or undriven, and back her at full speed to Dannersley, the mail would be saved. He turned to his mate, his mind made up. “Can you take her on to Belmere alone?” he shouted. “I guess so,” roared the fireman. “What are you going to do?” “Jump across, if I can.” As Bray spoke lie cut off steam and allowed the pursuer to overtake a half mile; then, by carefully watching her and manipulating the gear, he managed to get the Aldebaran nearly level with her. He discovered that it was an enormous goods engine, running light as he bad anticipated. Was there a man on it? Or was it, by some mischance, a runaway in change of no one? Foot by foot it crept up until the locomotives were roaring long neck and neck —and then Bray looked across into the eyes of a wild figure that grinned, yelled, menaced, waved its hands, and gesticulated frantically.

“It’s Burton—drunk or mad,” shouted Martin. Bray watched for a chance to take his perilous leap, but the madman perceived his intention, and picking up a fire shovel, brandished it formidably. Seizing a lump of coal, Bray threw' it with all his might. It struck Burton on the leg and brought him down, but as Bray jumped he was on his feet again, agile as a cat. On the wet iron Bray’s foot slipped, but he grappled with his infuriated opponent instantly, striving to save his throat from those sinewy hands that clawed at him. The two strong men swayed to the rocking engine, their arms twined together, their muscles standing out with the strain, their eyes searching for a weak point. For some seconds neither gained any advantage, then, with a terrible wrench, Burton flung Bray to his knees in a corner, but the effort proved to be his undoing, for Bray plunged for the other’s legs and overset him. lie fell heavily, and as he fell Bray’s fist shot out—a mighty fist it was—and that one blow crumpled the mailman in a senseless heap on the shining coal. Half blinded with a trickle of warm blood that matted his eyebrows and dripped to his coat, Bray sprang to the regulator and snapped it shut. In another two seconds he had the brakes hard on, and the engine, not having the momentum of a heavy load to push it on, slowed down. Martin and the Belmere express passed rapidly out of sight on their journey, and Bray glanced at his watch. It was 9.20. The boat train passed Belmere at 9 ; he guessed that about another minute was all that intervened before she would run him down. Reversing the gear lie let on steam and muttered to himself. Showers of sparks flew from the rails, and the driving wheels spun

fiercely backwards, failing in their rebellion to grip the track. Then came the crucial moment of pause, and with scarcely any appreciable interval the huge engine began to run back towards Dannersley. Was it in time? Bray wondered—and as he wondered he glimpsed the double green headlight of the advancing special glinting across the dark fields in the direction of Belmere. He threw on full steam and the country began to fly feverishly past. The chilly rain, beating upon him, mingled with the thick stream that disfigured his face, but he was not conscious of it • his mind was set on that flitting green glimmer. Surely those fools on the engine of the mail would see his lights in time and set their brakes hard down ? Or would they merely think that he was some special on the other line? It would perplex them, no doubt, coming so quickly after the Belmere express had crossed” them, but they would not, in that case, forsee any danger to themselves. He listened, but he heard no sound except the clatter of the engine as she hurled herself backward through the night. . . . He was getting perilously near Dannersley, and he dared not stop. Hark ! . . . A long, angry whistle pierced the din, like a lane of shrill sound—it was the mail protesting at the sight of the first Dannersley signal set against her—the distant signal which only meant a caution, not* a dead stop. Enderby had evidently done the only thing possible, and how he must have stared as Bray and his engine careered past his box. Nearer and nearer came the mail, but she was slowing, and Bray opened his whistle to an answering, deafening yell. Just as he reached the first net-work of sidings that spread like a cobweb outside Dannersley, he saw that the danger was over—the mail had become well under control. It was only just in time, for had he been forced to rush back through the junction he would have crashed into a short local train which was standing on the line he would have taken. Round the whole yard the story had flown like wildfire that Burton was mad—he had been “queer” for days—and had run amok with a big engine. Awestruck groups of men were standing here and there discussing the probable fate of the special mail, and the telegraph and telephone had conveyed to Belmere messages and urgent inquiries that were practically continuous. Therefore when those at hand saw the locomotive run reversed into Dannersley ya-rd just outside the junction and ship, a shout of “He’s back !” went up, and a little crowd rushed to the engine. “It’s Bray,” said one. “No—it’s Burton,” contradicted another. “Bray, I tell you. But he went out just now on the Belmere express —how the blazes did he get on this blessed engine?” This was the point which puzzled them all, and poor Bray was hardly in fit condition to answer any questions; he had to be lifted down, for his whole body was shivering and trembling with the nervous strain and the chill. The blow from an edge of iron as Burton had flung him on the footplate had cut his head deeply, and he was a ghastly sight. But when they realised what he had done, putting two and two together from his stammered explanations and the messages which came from Enderby’s cabin, and knew that but for his heroic, prompt action the mail that fumed and fretted a few hundred yards away would have been piled up in a horrible doom, perhaps burning, they raised a cheer that rang out and made the passengers of the waiting local start as they looked up from their last editions. That hearty cheer was the last sound Driver Bray heard before he fainted, but its echoes sent a pleasant thrill through bis blood when he came to himself in a cosv bed of Dannersley Hospital, and remembered his desertion of the Aldebaran. Tom Enderby was reduced to a porterial capacity, for, however much excuse he had in the haste of the moment, such mistakes can never be overlooked; but Driver Bray has quite forgiven him. And, one would imagine, “it takes a bit of doing,” as the phrase goes, to forgive a man who has switched you on the same line as a non-stop mail. Burton’s driving days are over, of course, but he potters round the sheds sometimes for the sake of old memories, and has an occasional chat, in his weak, broken-down way, with the man who knocked him senseless on the footplate of his runaway engine.