Chapter 6

"Those notes, Mr. Lighthead, will make my idea quite plain--and I hope to revise final draft--if God will--my dutiful respect to the Board, and kind regards to the chief clerk. It was kind of you to come--most thoughtful."

This young gentleman came into my room to learn the state of the case, and was much impressed.

"Really this kind of thing--Perkins gasping in bed and talking in his old-fashioned way--knocks one out of time, don't you know? If he had gone on much longer I should have bolted.

"Like him in the office? I should think so. You should have seen the young fellows to-day when they heard he was so ill. Of course we laugh a bit at him--Schedule Perkins he's called--because he's so dry and formal; but that's nothing.

"With all his little cranks, he knows his business better than any man in the department; and then he's a gentleman, d'y see? could not say a rude word or do a mean thing to save his life--not made that way, in fact.

"Let me just give you one instance--show you his sort. Every one knew that he ought to have been chief clerk, and that Rodway's appointment was sheer influence. The staff was mad, and some one said Rodway need not expect to have a particularly good time.

"Perkins overheard him, and chipped in at once. 'Mr. Rodway'--you know his dry manner, wagging his eyeglass all the time--'is our superior officer, and we are bound to render him every assistance in our power, or,' and then he was splendid, 'resign our commissions.' Rodway, they say, has retired, but the worst of it is that as Perkins has been once passed over he'll not succeed.

"Perhaps it won't matter, poor chap. I say," said Lighthead, hurriedly, turning his back and examining a pipe on the mantelpiece, "do you think he is going to--I mean, has he a chance?"

"Just a chance, I believe. Have you been long with him?"

"That's not it--it's what he's done for a--for fellows. Strangers don't know Perkins. You might talk to him for a year, and never hear anything but shop. Then one day you get into a hole, and you would find out another Perkins.

"Stand by you?" and he wheeled round. "Rather, and no palaver either; with money and with time and with--other things, that do a fellow more good than the whole concern, and no airs. There's more than one man in our office has cause to--bless Schedule Perkins.

"Let me tell you how he got--one chap out of the biggest scrape he'll ever fall into. Do you mind me smoking?" And then he made himself busy with matches and a pipe that was ever going out for the rest of the story.

"Well, you see, this man, clerk in our office, had not been long up from the country, and he was young. Wasn't quite bad, but he couldn't hold his own with older fellows.

"He got among a set that had suppers in their rooms, and gambled a bit, and he lost and borrowed, and--in fact, was stone broke.

"It's not very pleasant for a fellow to sit in his room a week before Christmas, and know that he may be cashiered before the holidays, and all through his own fault.

"If it were only himself, why, he might take his licking and go to the Colonies, but it was hard--on his mother--it's always going, out, this pipe!--when he was her only son, and she rather--believed in him.

"Didn't sleep much that night--told me himself afterwards--and he concluded that the best way out was to buy opium in the city next day, and take it--pretty stiff dose, you know--next night.

"Cowardly rather, of course, but it might be easier for the mater down in Devon--his mother, I mean--did I say he was Devon?--same county as myself--affair would be hushed up, and she would have--his memory clean.

"As it happened, though, he didn't buy any opium next day--didn't get the chance; for Perkins came round to his desk, and asked this young chap to have a bit of dinner with him--aye, and made him come.

"He had the jolliest little dinner ready you ever saw, and he insisted, on the fellow smoking, though Perkins hates the very smell of 'baccy, and--well, he got the whole trouble out of him, except the opium.

"D'y think he lectured and scolded? Not a bit--that's not Perkins--he left the fool to do his own lecturing, and he did it stiff. I'll tell you what he said: 'Your health must have been much tried by this anxiety, so you must go down and spend Christmas with your mother, and I would venture to suggest that you take her a suitable gift.

"'With regard to your debt, you will allow me,' and Perkins spoke as if he had been explaining a schedule, 'to take it over, on two conditions--that you repay me by installments every quarter, and dine with me every Saturday evening for six months.'

"See what he was after? Wanted to keep--the fellow straight, and cheer him up; and you've no idea how Perkins came out those Saturdays--capital stories as ever you heard--and he declared that it was a pleasure to him.

"'I am rather lonely,' he used to say, 'and it is most kind of a young man to sit with me.' Kind!"

"What was the upshot with your friend? Did he turn over a new leaf?"

"He'll never be the man that Perkins expects; but he's doing his level best, and--is rising in the office. Perkins swears by him, and that's made a man of the fellow.

"He's paid up the cash now, but--he can never pay up the kindness--confound those wax matches, they never strike--he told his mother last summer the whole story.

"She wrote to Perkins--of course I don't know what was in the letter--but Perkins had the fellow into his room. 'You ought to have regarded our transaction as confidential. I am grieved you mentioned my name;' and then as I--I mean, as the fellow--was going out, 'I'll keep that letter beside my commission,' said Perkins.

"If Perkins dies"--young men don't do that kind of thing, or else one would have thought--"it'll be--a beastly shame," which was a terrible collapse, and Mr. Geoffrey Lighthead of the Schedule Department left the house without further remark or even shaking hands.

That was Wednesday, and on Friday morning he appeared, flourishing a large blue envelope, sealed with an imposing device, marked "On Her Majesty's Service," and addressed to

"Frederick Augustus Perkins, Esq., First Class Clerk in the Schedule Department, Somerset House, London,"

an envelope any man might be proud to receive, and try to live up to for a week.

"Rodway has retired," he shouted, "and we can't be sure in the office, but the betting is four to one--I'm ten myself--that the Board has appointed Perkins Chief Clerk;" and Lighthead did some steps of a triumphal character.

"The Secretary appeared this morning after the Board had met. 'There's a letter their Honors wish taken at once to Mr. Perkins. Can any of you deliver it at his residence?' Then the other men looked at me, because--well, Perkins has been friendly with me; and that hansom came very creditably indeed.

"Very low, eh? Doctors afraid not last over the night--that's hard lines--but I say, they did not reckon on this letter. Could not you read it to him? You see this was his one ambition. He could never be Secretary, not able enough, but he was made for Chief Clerk. Now he's got it, or I would not have been sent out skimming with this letter. Read it to him, and the dear old chap will be on his legs in a week."

It seemed good advice; and this was what I read, while Perkins lay very still and did his best to breathe:--

"DEAR MR. PERKINS:

"I have the pleasure to inform you that the Board have appointed you Chief Clerk in the Schedule Department in succession to Gustavus Rodway, Esq., who retires, and their Honors desire me further to express their appreciation of your long and valuable service, and to express their earnest hope that you may be speedily restored to health.

"I am, "Your obedient servant,

"ARTHUR WRAXALL,

"_Secretary_."

For a little time it was too much for Mr. Perkins, and then he whispered:

"The one thing on earth I wished, and--more than I deserved--not usual, personal references in Board letters--perhaps hardly regular--but most gratifying--and--strengthening.

"I feel better already--some words I would like to hear again--thank you, where I can reach it--nurse will be so good as to read it."

Mr. Perkins revived from that hour, having his tonic administered at intervals, and astonished the doctors. On Christmas Eve he had made such progress that Lighthead was allowed to see him for five minutes.

"Heard about your calling three times a day--far too kind with all your work--and the messages from the staff--touched me to heart.--Never thought had so many friends--wished been more friendly myself.

"My promotion, too--hope may be fit for duty--can't speak much, but think I'll be spared--Almighty very good to me--Chief Clerk of Schedule Department--would you mind saying Lord's Prayer together--it sums up everything."

So we knelt one on each side of Perkins's bed, and I led with "Our Father"--the other two being once or twice quite audible. The choir of a neighboring church were singing a Christmas carol in the street, and the Christ came into our hearts as a little child.

THE FASTEST RAILROAD RUN EVER MADE.

DISTANCE, 510 MILES.--AVERAGE RUNNING TIME, 65.07 MILES AN HOUR.--HIGHEST SPEED ATTAINED, 92.3 MILES AN HOUR.

BY HARRY PERRY ROBINSON,

Editor of "The Railway Age" and one of the official time-keepers on the train.

When, on August 22d last, a train was run over what is known as the West Coast line (of the London and Northwestern and the Caledonian Railways) from London to Aberdeen, a distance of 540 miles, at an average speed, while running, of 63.93 miles an hour, the English press hailed with a jubilation which was almost clamorous the fact that the world's record for long distance speed rested once more with Great Britain. From the tone which the English newspapers adopted, it appeared that they believed that the record then made was one which could not be beaten in this country, but that the former records of the New York Central represented the maximum speed obtainable on an American railway with American engines.

Undoubtedly the West Coast run was a remarkable one. But English judges were mistaken as to the permanence of the record. It was left unchallenged for just twenty days--or until September 11th, when the cable carried to England the unpleasant news that the New York Central had covered the 436.32 miles from New York to East Buffalo at an average speed, when running, of 64.26 miles an hour--or about one-third of a mile an hour faster than the English run.

There was still left to the Englishmen, however, a loophole for escape from confession of defeat. It will be noticed that the distance from New York to Buffalo is rather more than 100 miles shorter than that from London to Aberdeen. It was yet possible for the Englishmen to say: "We are talking only of long distance speeds. We do not consider anything under 500 miles a long distance." The record, in fact, for a distance of over 500 miles was still with England.

There are not many railways in the United States on which a sustained high speed for a distance of over 500 miles would be possible. In England the run is made, as already stated, over the connecting lines of two companies. In this country, while not a few roads have over 500 miles of first-class track in excellent condition, there is usually at some point in that distance an obstacle (either steep grades to cross a mountain range, or bad curves, or a river to be ferried) sufficient to prevent the making of a record. On the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern, from Chicago to Buffalo, there exists no such impediment, and between the outskirts of the two cities the distance is 510.1 miles. It was in an informal conversation between certain officers of the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Railway that the idea of attempting to beat the record on this piece of track was first suggested.

In making comparison of different runs there are other matters to be taken into consideration besides the mere distance covered and the speed attained. It is not possible to exactly equalize all conditions--as, for instance, those of wind and weather, or of the physical character of the track in the matter of grades and curves. Entire equality in all particulars could only be attained in the same way that it is attained in horse-racing, viz., by having trains run side by side on parallel tracks.

Certain conditions there are, however, which are more important and which can be equalized. One of these is the weight of the train hauled. The English load was a light one--67 tons (English) or 147,400 pounds. This was little more than one-quarter of the load hauled by the New York Central engine on its magnificent run, when the weight of the cars making the train was 565,000 pounds. With the types of locomotive used on the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern it was not possible to haul at record-breaking speed any such load as this. It was enough if the load should be about double that of the English train. This was attained by putting together two heavy Wagner parlor cars of 92,500 pounds each and Dr. Webb's private car "Elsmere," which alone weighs 119,500 pounds--or more than three-fourths of the weight of the entire English train. The total weight of the three Lake Shore and Michigan Southern cars was 304,500 pounds.

The last important condition to be taken into consideration is the number of stops made. It should be explained that when speed is reckoned "when running" or "exclusive of stops" (the phrases mean the same thing), the time consumed in stops is deducted--the time, that is, when the wheels are actually at rest. No deduction however, is made for the loss of time in slowing up to a stop or in getting under way again. On the run of the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern, for instance, an irregular or unexpected stop was made when the train was running at a speed of about 71 miles an hour. The train was actually at rest for 2 minutes and 5 seconds. That allowance, therefore, was made for the stop. It is unnecessary to say that the secondary loss of time in bringing the train to a standstill and in regaining speed was much greater; but for these (aggregating probably five or six minutes) there was no allowance. It is evident, therefore, that the number of times that a train has to slow down and get under way again is an important factor in the average speed of a long run. In the English run two stops were made. The schedule for the Lake Shore run provided for four stops. A fifth stop, as has already been stated, was made, which was not on the programme.

These, then, were the conditions under which the now famous run of October 24, 1895, was accomplished: A train weighing twice as much as the English train was to be hauled for a distance of over 500 miles, making four stops _en route_, at a speed, when running, greater than 63.93 miles an hour. Incidentally it was hoped also that the New York Central's speed of 64.26 miles an hour would be beaten.

No public announcement was made of the undertaking in advance, for the sufficient reason that the gentlemen in charge were well aware of the difficulty of the task in which they were engaged and the many chances of failure. They had no desire to have such a failure made unnecessarily public. No one was informed of what was in hand except the officials and employees of the Lake Shore road, whose coöperation was necessary, one daily newspaper (the Chicago "Tribune"), the Associated Press, and two gentlemen who were invited to attend as official time-keepers, Messrs. H.P. Robinson and Willard A. Smith--the former being the editor of "The Railway Age," and the latter the ex-chief of the Transportation Department at the Chicago World's Fair. General Superintendent Canniff of the Lake Shore was in charge of the train in person.

It was at two o'clock of the morning of October 24th that the train, which had been waiting since early in the evening on a side track in the Lake Shore station at Chicago, slipped unostentatiously away behind a switch engine which was to haul it as far as One Hundredth Street, where the start was to be made. Here there was a wait of nearly an hour until the time fixed for starting--half-past three. There was plenty to be done at the last moment to occupy the time of waiting, however. There were last messages to be sent back to Chicago; last orders to be sent on ahead; telegrams containing weather bulletins, which promised fair weather all the way to Buffalo, to be read; and, finally, the preparations to be made for time-taking.

One of the time-keepers, taking two stop-watches in his hand, started the split-second-hands of both with one movement of his muscles, exactly together. To one or other of these timepieces all the watches on the train were set.

In one of the parlor cars, as nearly as might be in the middle of the length of the train, two tables were set, one on either side of the aisle. The time-keepers had agreed to relieve each other at each stop at the end of a division, one being always on duty, and the other close at hand to verify any record on which a question might arise. The time-keeper on duty sat at one of the tables, watch in hand. Opposite to him was a representative of the railway company, with no power to originate a record, but to check each stop in case an error should occur. Across the aisle sat the official recorder, a representative of the Wagner Palace Car Company, and opposite to him a representative of the daily press.

For two minutes before the time for starting, silence settled down upon the car. The shades were pulled down over every window. Inside, the car was brilliantly lighted with Pintsch gas; and the eyes of every man were on the face of the watch which each held in his hand, and his finger was ready to press the stop which splits the second-hand. The two minutes passed slowly, and the silence was almost painful as the watches showed that the moment was close at hand. Suddenly the smallest perceptible jerk told that the wheels had moved, and on the instant the split-hand of every watch in the car had recorded the fact. "Three--twenty-nine--twenty-seven!" announced the time-keeper.

"Three--twenty-nine--twenty-seven!" echoed the representative of the railway company.

"Three--twenty-nine--twenty-seven!" called the recorder as he entered the figures on the sheet before him.

"Three--twenty-nine--twenty-seven!" said the member of the press.

The start had been made thirty-three seconds ahead of time, and each member of the party settled himself down to the work ahead.

Over each division of the road the superintendent of that division rode as "caller-off" of the stations as they were passed. It was necessary, during the first hours of darkness especially, that some one should do this who was familiar with every foot of the track--some one who would not have to rely on eyesight alone, but to whose accustomed senses every sway of the car as a curve was passed, and every sound of the wheels on bridge or culvert, would be familiar.

The first station, Whiting, is only three and one-half miles from the starting-point. The night outside was intensely black, and it was doubtful whether even the practised eye and ear of Superintendent Newell would be able to catch the little station as it went by. With one eye on our watches, therefore, we all had also one anxious eye on him where he sat with his head hidden under the shade that was drawn behind him, a blanket held over the crevices to shut out every ray of light, and his face pressed close against the glass. The minutes passed slowly--one, two, three, four, five! Whiting must be very near, and--but just as we began to fear that he had missed the station, the word came:

"Ready for Whiting!" and the response,

"Ready for Whiting!"

A few short seconds of silence, and then:

"Now!"

Instantly the muscles of the waiting fingers throbbed on the split-stop; but no quicker than the roar told that the car was already passing the station.

"Three--thirty-four--forty-five!" called the time-keeper.

"Three--thirty-four--forty-five!"

"Three--thirty-four--forty-five!"

"Three--thirty-four--forty-five!"

It was an immense relief to find that the system "worked."

When the warning "Ready for Pine "--the next station, six miles further on--came from behind the envelope of window-shade and blanket, we were at our ease, and the record, "Three--forty-one--three," was called and echoed and tossed across the car with confidence.

By the time that Miller's--fifteen miles from the start--was passed, the train was moving at a speed of over a mile a minute, and at every mile the velocity increased. At La Porte, forty-five miles from the start, the speed was 66 miles an hour; and fourteen miles further on, at Terre Coupee, it reached to 70. It was fast running--while it lasted; but it did not last long. The next station showed that the speed was down to 67 miles an hour, and at the next it was barely over sixty. A speed of a mile a minute, however, is high enough when passing through the heart of a city like South Bend, Indiana. South Bend is understood to have a city ordinance forbidding trains to run within the city limits at a speed exceeding 15 miles an hour. But if any good citizen of South Bend was shocked that morning at being waked from his sleep by the roar of the flying train, it is to be hoped that he forgot his resentment before evening. Then he knew that he had been waked in a good cause, and that if the city ordinance had been broken it was broken in good company--the world's record suffered with it.

To those inside the cars nothing but their watches told them of the rate of speed. Of the party on board every man was familiar with railway affairs; but there was not one who was not surprised at the smoothness of the track and the complete absence of uncomfortable motion. Only by lifting a window shade and straining the eyes into the blackness of the night, to see the red sparks streaming by or the dim outlines of house and tree loom up and disappear, was it possible to appreciate the velocity at which the train was moving.

Fifteen miles from South Bend the first stop was made, at Elkhart, and one-sixth of the run was over--87.4 miles in 85.4 minutes, or a speed of 61.38 miles an hour.

That was good work; but it was not breaking records. It had not been expected, however, that the best speed would be made on this first stretch; and if there was any disappointment among those on the train, it did not yet amount to discouragement. It had been dark (and breaking records in the dark is not as easy as in daylight), there had been curves and grades to surmount, and, above all, it was now discovered that a heavy frost lay on the rails.

At Elkhart there was a change of engines, two minutes and eleven seconds being consumed in the process, and at three minutes before five o'clock (4 hours, 57 minutes, 4 seconds) the wheels were moving again.