Snow on the Headlight Part 17

"But you can't get there. I'll have to stop and put you off."

The unhappy woman opened her eyes and mouth and stared at the conductor.

"Put--me--off?"

"Yes."

"It's rainin' ain't it?" She s.h.i.+vered again, and tried to look out into the black night.

"Don't you know better than to get onto a train without a ticket or money to pay your fare?"

"Yes; but they'll hang Terrence, they'll hang 'im, they'll hang 'im,"

and she moaned and rocked herself.

Patsy went on through the train and when he came back the woman was still rocking and staring blankly at the floor, as he had found her before. She had to look at him for some time before she could remember him.

"Can't you go no faster?"

Patsy sighed.

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock."

"Will we git there by half after nine?--th' trial's at ten."

"Yes."

Patsy sat down and looked at the wreck.

"Now, a man who could put such a woman off, in such a storm, at such an hour, and with a grief like that," said Patsy to himself, "would pasture a goat on his grandmother's grave."

When Patsy woke at two o'clock that afternoon, he picked up a noon edition of an all-day paper, and the very first word he read was "Not guilty." That was the heading of the police news.

"There was a pathetic scene in Judge Meyer's court this morning at the preliminary hearing of the case of Terrence Ca.s.sidy, charged with the murder of the old farmer at Spring Bank on Monday last. All efforts to draw a confession from Ca.s.sidy had failed, and the detectives had come to the conclusion that he was either very innocent or very guilty--there was no purgatory for Terrence; it was heaven or the hot place, according to the detectives. For once the detectives were right. Terrence was very innocent. It appears that the tramp who was killed on the Wabash last night made a confession to the trainmen, after being hit by the engine, to the effect that he had murdered the old farmer, and afterwards, at the point of an empty pistol, forced a young Irishman, whom he met upon the railroad track, to exchange clothes with him. That accounts for the blood stains upon Ca.s.sidy's coat, but, of course, n.o.body credited his story.

"The tramp's confession, however, was wired to the general manager of the Wabash by the conductor of the out-going train, together with a description of the tramp's clothes, which description tallies with that given of those garments worn by Ca.s.sidy.

"This good news did not reach the court, however, until after the prisoner had been arraigned. When asked the usual question, 'Guilty, or not guilty?' the boy stood up and was about to address some remarks to the court, when suddenly there rushed into the room about the sorriest looking woman who ever stood before a judge. She was poorly clad, wet as a rat, haggard and pale. Her voice was hoa.r.s.e and unearthly. n.o.body seemed to see her enter. Suddenly, as if she had risen from the floor, she stood at the railing, raised a trembling hand and shouted, as well as she could shout, 'Not guilty!'

"Before the bewildered judge could lift his gavel, the prosecuting attorney rose, dramatically, and asked to be allowed to read a telegram that had just been received, which purported to be the signed confession of a dying man.

"As might be expected, there were not many dry eyes in that court when, a moment later, the boy was sobbing on his mother's wet shoulder, and she, rocking to and fro, was saying softly 'Poor Terrence, my poor Terrence.'"

As Patsy was walking back from Hooley's Theatre, where he had gone to get tickets (this was his night off), he met the acting chief clerk in one of the departments to which, under the rules then in vogue, he owed allegiance.

"I want to see you at the office," said the amateur official, and Patsy was very much surprised at the brevity of the speech. He went up to his room and tried to read, but the ever recurring thought that he was "wanted at the office" disturbed him and he determined to go at once and have it out.

The conductor removed his hat in the august presence and asked, timidly, what was wanted.

"You ought to know," said the great judge.

"But I don't," said Patsy, taking courage as he arrayed himself, with a clear conscience, on the defensive.

"Are you in the habit of carrying people on the Denver Limited who have no transportation?"

"No, sir."

"Then, how does it happen that you carried a woman from Galesburg to Chicago last night who had neither ticket nor money, so far as we know?

It will do you no good to deny it, for I have the report of a special agent before me, and--"

"I have no desire to deny it, sir. All I deny is that this is your business."

"What?" yelled the official.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I should not have spoken in that way; but what I wish to say and wish you to understand is that I owe you no explanation."

"I stand for the company, sir."

"So do I, and have stood as many years as you have months. I have handled as many dollars for them as you have ever seen dimes, and, what's more to the point, I stand ready to quit the moment the management loses confidence in me, and with the a.s.surance of a better job. Can all the great men say as much?"

The force and vehemence of the excited and indignant little Irishman caused the "management" to pause in its young career.

"Will you tell me why you carried this woman who had no ticket?"

"No. I have rendered unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. For further particulars, see my report," and with that Patsy walked out.

"Let's see, let's see," said the "management"; "'Two pa.s.sengers, Galesburg to Chicago, one ticket, one cash fare.' What an a.s.s I've made of myself; but, just wait till I catch that Hawkshaw."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH

"_Always together in suns.h.i.+ne and rain, Facing the weather atop o' the train, Watching the meadows move under the stars; Always together atop o' the cars._"

Patsy was just singing it soft and low to himself, and not even thinking of the song, for he was not riding "atop o' the cars" now. With his arm run through the bail of his nickel-plated, white light, he was taking the numbers and initials of the cars in the Denver Limited. He was a handsome fellow, and the eight or ten years that had pa.s.sed lightly over his head since he came singing himself into the office of the general manager to ask for a pa.s.s over a competing line, had rounded out his figure, and given him a becoming mustache, but they had left just a shade of sadness upon his sunny face. The little mother whom he used to visit at Council Bluffs had fallen asleep down by the dark Missouri, and he would not see her again until he reached the end of his last run.

And that's what put the shadow upon his sunny face. The white light, held close to his bright, new uniform, flashed over his spotless linen, and set his b.u.t.tons ablaze.

"Ah there, my beauty! any room for dead-heads to-night?"

Patsy turned to his questioner, closed his train-book and held out his hand: "Always room for the Irish; where are you tagged for?"