Public-domain ebook
No stop-overs
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In: Short Stories·Humour·Adventure
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #75913.
The opening · free to read
By John A. Thompson
With the lure of the gold camps taking every able-bodied man from his job, you can’t keep a good man on in Alaska railroading--but Sam Tebbetts and Plapp were exceptional.
Because of the boom out at the gold diggings on the Kougarok, the little railroad that wound its way through brush and over tundra from Nome to the up-country mining camps had an unusually heavy spring traffic to handle. The sudden brisk business was profitable. But it meant more trains. More trains meant more locomotive engineers--engine drivers, they call them nowadays--and men who could drive an old Forney type, or a 4-4-0 American, were scarce in Alaska.
In this emergency, firemen were given regular runs. Every call boy and roundhouse sweeper husky enough to lift a slice bar was set to work firing. Still the road was short-handed.
The new engineers had a disconcerting habit of deserting. The minute they pulled into the terminal yards up on the Kougarok, they would steal a pick and shovel from the maintenance department and duck out for the gold-bearing creeks two miles out of town. One absconding brakeman had the brass to stake out his mining claim with signal flags swiped from the road before he left.
Worried over operating conditions, haggard from loss of sleep, the general superintendent bent over the morning reports in his office down at Nome. Suddenly he looked up as the door opened a few inches. One of the oddest specimens of humanity he had ever cast eyes on sidled through the narrow aperture, and coughed to attract attention.
For ten silent seconds the super stared at the man in amazement. The stranger was less than pint size. Yet he wore overalls that had obviously been made for a man of generous architecture. His trouser legs were rolled into bulky cuffs almost knee-high, and a broad leather belt around his waist gave him more or less indefinite control over the slack in his stern-sheets.
For all the tiny man’s incongruous get-up, however, there was a firm set to his square, pugnacious chin and determination in the large gray eyes that peered out from under his bushy thatch of straw-colored hair.
“Ahem!” The stranger coughed again.
“Well,” snapped the super, “what do you want? Do you work on this road?”
The stranger shuffled toward the super’s desk.
“Not yet,” he said cheerily, answering the last question first. “Hope to soon, sir. Name is Tebbetts, Sam Tebbetts. Glad to meet you. Press the flesh.”
Sam thrust out his hand. Before the super realized what he was doing he had stood up and shaken hands with the man. Almost instantly he sat down again with uncomfortable abruptness, angry at himself and the smiling stranger.
“Sam Tebbetts ain’t no bohunk, mister.” Sam bristled like a fighting cock and there was an unexpected quality in his voice that made the super sit upright. “He’s an engineer.”
It was the first time in three weeks that the super had had a really good laugh for himself. He leaned back in his chair and rocked with merriment.
“A what? An engineer? You? Ho-ho-ho!”
Sam flushed crimson as he dug down deep into a back pocket and pulled forth a packet of thumb-marked credentials which he flung angrily on the desk in front of the super.
“Sam Tebbetts ain’t no liar, either,” he declared.
The super picked up the papers and began studying them with growing interest. Evidently the man was right. He was an engineer; a good one too.
“What did you come up to Nome for?” asked the super, suspicious still of the comic strip character that had walked into his office.
“To go gold minin’,” answered Sam promptly.
“I thought so.” The super sighed. “If it’s just free transportation to the Kougarok that you are looking for, I’ll write you out a pass. It’s easier in the end. I’m through hiring drifters that take a run or two and then jump the train at the other end of the line. Seven engineers have deserted me this week.”
“Sam Tebbetts ain’t that kind.”
The super grunted. He was still doubtful of this shock-headed lad, but he needed men badly. “The crowd up here is pretty rough. Apt to rag hell out of you.”
“Guess I can take care of myself.” Sam stuck out his jaw and clenched his fists, following which demonstration of belligerency he shadow-boxed around the super’s desk for a few seconds. He wound up the demonstration with a vicious uppercut to the empty air.
“When do I start?”
“Mr. Tebbetts,” said the super calmly, “I’ll start you right now--but only if you’ll agree to stick with the road all season. Your wages will be paid when we close down for the winter. In the meantime I’ll see that your food and board bills are taken care of.”
“Suits me,” said Sam. “Press the flesh.”
This time the super declined the proffered hand. With a wave of his hand he indicated that he considered the matter closed.
“Ahem!” Sam coughed again.
“Well! It’s all right ahead. Go ahead down to the roundhouse. You’re hired, Mr. Tebbetts.”
“Yes, sir. But I’d like a job for my pal too. He’s a fireman. Fired for me eight years, sir. Good man. Dutch. Steady worker. Name’s Plapp. Suydam Plapp.”
“Well, where is he?” The super looked about the office in astonishment.
“He’s here,” said Sam. “Plapp! Hey, Plapp! Come on in. Meet the super. He’s regular. We got a job, Plapp.”
Again the office door opened quietly and this time the doorway was filled by a great mass of brawn and muscle, grinning from ear to ear.
“Is that Plapp?” asked the super.
“Yes, sir. And, mister, if all firemen was as good as him, the people that makes mechanical stokers would go out of business in a week.”
“Hmm. He looks like Zbysko. Remember, he goes to work under the same conditions that you do, Tebbetts.”
“Suits us.” Tebbetts pushed his big companion toward the door. “Let’s go down to the roundhouse, Plapp, and meet the gang.”
When they had closed the door after them, the super pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “Phew,” he muttered, “if the road don’t go plumb to pot with that team o’ galoots workin’ on it, I’m crazy. Lucky for them they hit me when I was short-handed.”
The super had barely settled down to resumption of his morning’s work when the roundhouse foreman and a man from the dispatcher’s office rushed into this sanctum within ten seconds of each other, each with the same breathless request.
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