BRITISH COMICS
THE
This episode
taken from The Skipper No. 1 -
ADVENTURES ON A RAILWAY IN THE
Chased by a Runaway.
“Hullo!”
said Shorty Baker cheerily, as he looked down from the cab of No. 97, which he
had mounted so proudly a minute before. “I hear you’re on the same line as me
to-night, Kendricks. Shorty was the youngest driver of the
“What’s
the matter?” he demanded, finishing the polishing of the control levers with
loving care. “What’s bitten you?” “Quit that!” was the savage reply. “Nothing’s
bitten me, but something’s liable to bite you real hard if you delay me on the
way to Shannigan to-night.” He lurched away with a roll of his massive
shoulders which made him resemble a gorilla. Shorty leaned down from the cab
and silently whistled. “Now what on earth! Anyone’d think I was doing him a bad
turn by driving the old 97. He must be crazy.” “Aw, you know what’s the matter
with him,” broke in Wiper Dodds, the fireman, who had just come across from the
roundhouse and mounted to the cab from the other side. “He’s jealous. You don’t
want to worry about him!” “Jealous!” The youngest driver on the P. & A.
glared. “What’s he got to be jealous of? Not because I’m drivin’ a freighter to
Shannigan?” “Aw, use your head, sonny,” drawled the fireman, wiping his nose
with a grimy hand. “You know you’re too young to be on the footplate at all.
There’s not many at the roundhouse who resent it, for you’ve earned the right
if anybody has. But some of ‘em’s prejudiced, an’ Kendrick’s one of ‘em.”
“But—” “Then they ought to have known better than to put you ahead of Kendricks
on the line to-night. Both freighters have to get to Shannigan before mornin’
with these trucks of cement, but for some reason they’ve made you No. 1 and
Kendricks No. 2 on the line. He starts half an hour back of you. That’s what’s
ranklin’ him. He’s bad twelve years’ experience an’ you about as many weeks. It
makes him sore to think he’ll be behind you to-night.” “Oh, I see!” Shorty’s
youthful face clouded. It was a matter of pride. Of course Kendricks felt sore
about that. It was a foolish mistake on somebody’s part, but it was not
Shorty’s fault. “I’ll step across to the office and see if they won’t alter it.
I don’t care if I run first or second. It’s not going to be a record-breaking
run, only an ordinary freight trip. I’ll step over and—” “No time, kid.” Wiper
pulled him back with one arm. “You’re flagged. We’re off!”
From
the rear of the long line of trucks came a whistle from the brakeman. The
signal had been given for special freighter No. 1 to start. Shorty thrilled. He
was so new to the game that it always gave him a pleasant glow to have the
right to set one of these steel monsters into action. The air brakes all down
the train hissed into the cylinders as the young driver opened the throttle,
and No. 97 slowly moved out of the siding. She was an old engine, though sturdy
and full of power, used now only for freight work, growing stiff in the joints
through never being pushed at more than forty. But to Shorty she was the most
wonderful thing on the line to-night, and as he slowly advanced the throttle
and the long string of cement trucks clanged and swung out behind him, he would
not have exchanged his place for that of any man in the world. It was the first
time he had ever been sent out alone on a cab. All responsibility rested on
him. Wiper was quite calm as he deftly spread his fires on the bars. It was
just another job to him. “Shouldn’t be surprised if Kendricks didn’t try to
crowd you.” “How can he, when he’s starting half an hour behind us?” “Huh! He’s
driving the 118, and I know she can fly when she’s asked. Better push her up a
bit, sonny.” Shorty frowned. He did not want to be crowded to-night, on his
first solo run. The trip of 125 miles to Shannigan, where a new power station
was being built, was not to be run on any fixed schedule. The line was clear until
four in the morning when the western express would be through. It had been
taken for granted at divisional point that the trip would take about four
hours, and Shorty had already mapped out in his head a schedule which would
fetch him there in exactly that time. But if Kendricks was going to clap on
speed with the idea of hustling his young rival off the lines, he should have a
run for his money. Shorty wasn’t going to have the man swaggering around the
roundhouse, the railroad men’s clubroom, and sneering about Shorty’s slowness,
and saying how the boy had held him up.
“I’ll
push her,” he grunted, in reply to Wiper Dodds’ kindly advice, and they were
soon thundering along at 45 instead of the 35 Shorty had planned to hold. It
was a fine, clear night, but windy. The wind was dead ahead and howled along
the sides of the cab so wildly that Shorty very rarely put out his head. There
was not much to worry about to-night, for with a clear line and signals set for
the O.K. it was merely a matter of keeping a level pace. The only ticklish spot
would be down Elk Grade, that long, winding gradient on the other side of the
range. The speed limit on there was thirty, but otherwise Shorty could do as he
liked. Wiper Dodds was a good fireman but not a very talkative chap. Shorty
knew he was watching him closely, so as to be able to report to the crowd at
the roundhouse how the youngster had behaved on his first “solo.” So Shorty
tried to imitate an old hand as much as possible, and merely grunted when they
reached Twin Streams the fifty-mile mark in sixty minutes and Wiper offered
congratulations. Shorty would not even look round to see if the second
freighter was anywhere within sight. It would be beneath his dignity. But the
fireman kept hanging out and glancing back. He knew Kendricks better than
Shorty did, and was expecting something. Elk Grade was ten miles ahead, and the
Double F Box had just passed them when Wiper swung back into the centre of the
cab. “He’s coming. Can see his headlights above the last bend.” Shorty did not
move a muscle. He had been making the best part of fifty miles an hour. If
Kendricks had been catching up on that he must have been touching seventy at
times, a crazy speed for a heavy freighter.
Another
five miles hummed by, and then Wiper called again. “Better open her out some
more, Shorty. He’s coming up rare fast.” “The Elk Grade’s just ahead,” replied
Shorty. “We can’t take that at sixty.” “Well Kendricks is doing the best part
of eighty, I reckon,” bawled his companion. “Look for yourself!” For the first
time Shorty swung out into the howling wind and looked back. Wiper was right.
Kendricks injured pride was making him take risks he would never have
considered at ordinary times. His headlight was bobbing up and down as though
the loco was dancing on the rails. The thrill of the race entered into Shorty’s
blood. There was a stretch of four miles ahead before he touched the
down-grade. He would just open out and see what the old 97 would do if she was
asked. Clang-clang-clang! Whirr-whirr! Sang the driving wheels as they whirled
faster in response to the throttle. Shorty watched the meter. The needle moved
past sixty to sixty-five—sixty-seven—seventy. Seventy miles an hour, and on the
top of the grade! It was good to know they could do it if they wished, but now
was the time to slow up. With steam shut off and brakes squealing they
gradually dropped down from that break-neck speed to one better suited to the
grade. Thirty was the supposed limit, but some experts had been known to take
it at forty-five. Shorty was going to try that to-night. He would give
Kendricks no chance to say he was a coward. Now they were on the grade, and
Wiper was leaning out and gazing behind him. Shorty had taken it for granted
that the other freighter would have slowed down, too, and it came as a terrific
shock to him when his fireman yelped— “He’s not slowing! He’s almost on us—he’s
going to hit us.” “He can’t be—” Shorty swung out the other side and glared.
The Non-Stop Loco
Wiper
let out a hollow groan. “Then he can’t stop if he wants to! The weight of them
unbraked trucks travelling at nearly eighty will push him clean through us.
Jump Man! It’s the only thing to do.” He made for the rail. “I’m staying on,”
snapped Shorty, and he deliberately took off the brakes and opened the throttle
wide. Before Wiper could take the jump Shorty caught him by the shoulder. “Jump
and you don’t have a chance in the world. Stay with me and we may pull
through.” Wiper stared; the sweat stood out on his face in great beads. The
wind had suddenly redoubled its shrieking alongside. On the steep grade Shorty
had given the old 97 her head. He was going to try and keep ahead of the
runaway 118 and avoid a smash that way. “By gee, you’re right! I’ll stick
here,” screamed the fireman, and turned into the cab. There was terror in
Wiper’s heart but he was not the sort to be outdone in nerve by a youngster of
Shorty’s age. Now the race was like a nightmare. The wheels bounced and leapt
over the rails. The loaded trucks, each of them containing forty tons of
cement, gained impetus every second and pushed the harder. Shorty glanced at
the needle, then quickly turned his eyes away, for it already registered 75
miles an hour, and he knew that was not going to be the limit.
Wiper
swung out for a second and gazed behind. The onrushing headlight of the 118 was
not more than fifty yards behind them, but it did not seem to be gaining.
Shorty’s mad burst of speed had enabled them to hold their lead. And now they
were on the steepest part of the grade, the part that required negotiating at
not more than thirty. The speed of those two roaring freighters was over
eighty. It was a question of whether 97 or 118 would first jump the rails and
pile up. “I hope she smashes first! I hope she smashes first!” cried Wiper. “He
deserves it.” Shorty knew what the fireman meant. If 118 smashed up there would
yet be time for 97 to be slowed. If 97 smashed first it would mean the end of them
both, for the rearmost train would crash into the wreckage. Whoo-oom! Whoo-oom!
Whoo-oom! Shorty had never heard wheels make that hollow, roaring sound before.
The noise secretly terrified him, for he knew it was largely due to the
bouncing up and down of the wheels on the rails. Every second was a second
nearer death. He found that his hands were clammy. Whang! They had hit the
curve, and were both flung clean across the cab. Wiper caught the rail and
stayed them both from going outside, then the on-rushing loco headed down the
straight again and they were as suddenly thrown back to the other side.
Still
they held the track! It was a miracle. Shorty strained his ears for the sound
of a crash behind, but none came. Some special
Shorty’s
brain was working fast. He was not yet an experienced railroad man, but he saw
the danger of this situation. The 118 would race on at top speed until the
fires died down and the steam pressure dropped. How long would that take? He
asked Wiper, and that worthy grabbed a shovel and commenced heaving coal into
their own firebox as though the question had reminded him of his own duty.
“Might be a quarter-hour, might be twenty minutes. Depends upon how the fires
were stacked, and Willis, who was with Kendricks, was a good enough fireman.
Must reckon we’ve got to keep ahead at least another twenty-five miles. Keep
her goin’.” Shorty kept her going. He was seeing more speed that night than he
was likely to see in the next five years of his career with the P. & A. But
something else was worrying him. Twenty-five miles would more than take them to
the Y Loop crossing. What if they met anything more? The Y Loop traffic was not
all cleared for the freighters as it was on the main track. He had been warned
to keep his eyes open in case a “special” was signalled. A very important group
of experts from the East was touring the sections that crossed the
This
could mean only one thing. The points at Y Loop were closed against him. The
railway commission “special,” or some other “special,” was going to cross that
point shortly. The freighters were being ordered to wait.
The Fatal Seconds
Shorty
made up his mind, and he made it quickly. He whirled on his white-lipped
fireman. “You can drive, eh? You know how to ease her gently?” “Yes, but—”
“Then chuck up firing for a few minutes and do as I say. Somebody’s got to get
aboard the runaway and slow or stop her before we get to the Y Loop. I think I
can see a way to do it.” “You’re sure crazy!” “It’s a chance. If we stop like
this we’ll get killed for certain and probably kill others in the special. I’m
willing to take a risk if you help.” Wiper’s eyes flashed. He was game. “I’m
going back over the trucks,” explained Shorty. “I’m good at climbing. You’ve
got to gradually slow us down so that the 118 runs into our rear, but not too
hard. If you wangle it so that she hits softly there won’t be any damage done.
Then, as soon as she’s pushing against us, shoot off steam and whang on our
brakes.” Wiper Dodds looked at him in dumb admiration. It was a daring scheme,
but practical. They would employ their own weight and brakes to try and bring
the runaway to a standstill.
The
trucks were still rolling and swaying along at over seventy. Shorty stood at
the rear of the tender. He leapt outwards and downwards. Crash! Almost at once
it seemed that the forward end of the cement van hit him on the chest. His
hands had broken the impact slightly, but the crashing blow knocked the breath
out of him and scared him. Could he stand fifty-three of these smashing blows?
Halfway down the train he landed on hands and knees, collapsed for a moment or
two, and lay there panting while the wind tried to snatch him from his perch.
Then he tore himself to his feet again. He must go on—he must! He crossed three
more trucks and then flattened himself and gripped with both hands. The
headlight was almost touching their brake van. The contact was going to be
made. Seconds passed. Thud! Clang! Crash! Buffers slammed and jumped all along
the line, and Shorty was almost thrown off, but his heart was singing in
triumph, for that part of his scheme had worked. They had kept the track, and
118 was by its own speed kept hard up at the rear of 97. Then he heard the
brakes bite home, saw sparks sliding out on either side as Wiper gave the
vacuum system its chance. Everyone of 97’s trucks was braked, and the combined
resistance was enough to cause both trains to slow. Shorty waited breathlessly.
Would this do the trick? Perhaps it would not be necessary for him to go
further. Speed had dropped, but he still calculated that they were doing
thirty-five miles an hour under the terrific pushing power of the runaway.
The
speed did not seem to drop below that, and Shorty stood up and anxiously
glanced ahead. What he saw made him turn and take the leap to the next truck.
Less than two miles away was the red warning light that marked the crossing,
where the points would be against them. At the rate they were slowing they would
stop, either just astride the Y Loop or on the other side of it. That would
mean disaster. He had to make his last throw. “Here goes!” he muttered, and
covered three truck lengths in about fifteen seconds, taking the gaps in his
stride, for at the slower speed and with the practice he had already had, this
was getting easier. Now he was scrambling down on to the brake van, and calling
to Ellis, the brakeman. He got no reply. Ellis had jumped at the top of the
grade when the crew of 118 had made their leap for life. Through the brake van,
out on to the platform, and Shorty found the 118 looming over him. He could
hear the steam hissing in her cylinders as she bumped against the braked load
ahead. Once she sent 97 forward in front of her seven feet, and it was then
that Shorty jumped for her front platform. If he slipped down he would at least
have the few seconds necessary to pull himself clear before the buffers met
again. His leap was successful. “Whoa up!” he muttered, and clawed his way
along the side rail until he was in the cab. Once there he was too limp and
exhausted to know what he was doing. It was instinct that caused him to first
shut off the steam and then put the brake lever hard over. Only half the brakes
on 118 were working, because of that disconnected pipe, but they did the trick.
Combined with the efforts of the dead load in front the double freights were
slowly but surely brought to a standstill.
It
was the stopping of the trucks that brought Shorty to his senses and caused him
to jump down on to the track. Ahead of him stretched the long line of
fifty-three trucks that had been his own load. Right forward he could see the
glow from the fire of 97. Almost on top of 97. and cutting straight across her
broadside to the track was rushing a light loco with two
At
the subsequent enquiry Shorty did not say much, but Wiper Dodds said it for
him, and when at last he returned to the depot after a rest cure paid for by
the company on the Pacific Coast, it was to find himself granted something he
had coverted more than all the rewards and medals—a regular seat at the
roundhouse fire, a place of his very own amongst those veteran railroad men who
had in the past helped the Rocky Mountain section of the Pacific and Atlantic
Railroad to make history.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007
