Jasper County Democrat, Volume 9, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 January 1907 — The Manager Of the B. & A. [ARTICLE]

The Manager Of the B. & A.

By VAUGHAN KESTER.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. I—Dan Oakley, Manager of the Buckhorn •nd Antioch railroad (known as the • Huckleberry"), receives two letters, one telling him that his convict father, Roger Oakley, has been pardoned, and the other that Genera) Cornish, the owner of the B. & A,, is about to visit Antioch, ll—Oakley visit- Dr. Emory ■nd meets Constance Emory. Other visitors ■re Griff Ryder, owner of the Antioch Herald, ■nd Turner Joice, the local artist. lll—Oakley tells General Cornish that in orderto keep the car shops running a cut in wages is necessary. IV- -Oakley tells Holt, his assistant treasurer, of the proposed cuts. V—Roger Oakley appears in Antioch. He is a worthy old man. who killed an enemy in self defence ■nd was unjustly convicted of murder. ViRoger Oaklev goes to work in the car shops. Griff Ryder tries to Induce Dan to keep a friend at work. Oakley refuses. Vll—Oakley ■nd Ryder are rivals for Constance Emory s favor. Vlll—Through Kenyon, candidate for congress, whose cousin is warden of the prison in which Roger Oakley was confined, Ryder learns the old man’s history. IX—Oakley cuts wages in the car shops He Is attackers by the Herald. X—Oakley’s office boy learns from the son of one of the men that the men are planning a strike and that Ryder is spreading the tale that Roger Oakley is a criminal. Xl—The men in the car shops refuse to work with Roger Oaklev. Branyon, their leader, is discharged. Oakley tells Dr. Emory that he will stay in Antioch and face the situation. XII I—Oakley has a final interview with Constance. XIV and XV—The tar •hop men goon strike. XVI and XVII— Roger Oaklev visits Rydertotry to Induce him to cease his attacks on Dan. In a struggle the editor is killed a cidently. The body is found ■nd the slayer's Identity dis-overed. The old man Hees. XVIII —The sheriff arrests for the murder a man who is afterwards released. XIX-Roger Oakley is forced by forest tires to take refuge at Buckhorn. He meets Dan there. XX—Dan has gone to Chicago, intending to resign. His resignation is declined by the B. and A's vice-president General Cornish being absent. Dan secures a big contract for the car shops. On learning that Antioch is in great danger from forest tires he decides to return. XXl—Oakley decides to run a relief train carrying fire engines to Antioch. his father, the only man availab’e at Buckhorn, acting as his fireman. XXII- Antioch awaiting the relief train. XXlll—Oakley reaches Antioch with the train, but his father is killed.

CHAPTER XXIV. Constance emory and her mother, waiting quietly in their home, heard the cheers when the noise from Dan's shrieking engine reached the crowd of desperate men on the square. Then presently they heard the rattle and clash of the lire engines as they were dragged through the street and were aware that the relief train had arrived, but it was not until the doctor came in some time long after midnight that they knew who had been the savior of the town. “It's nil over, dear. The fire Is under control,” he said cheerfully, addressing his wife. “I guess we can go to bed now and feel pretty sure we won't be burned out before morning.” Constance put down the book she had been trying to read and rose tirediy and stiffly from her chair beside the table. “Then the train did come, after all?” she said. “Yes, but not a moment too soon. I tell you we can't be grateful enough. I’ve been with Oakley and his father. That's what kept me,” he explained. "Oakley!” Constance cried in amazement. “You don’t mean”— “Yes. Didn’t you know that it was Oakley and his father who brought the relief train? The old man is dead. He was killed on the way. It’s a miracle that either of them got through alive. Hadn’t you heard?” Constance put out her hands blindly, for a sudden mist had come before her eyes. “Father, you don’t mean that Mr. Oakley has returned to Antioch—that he is here now?” “Yes, It seems no one else would come. Oakley was In Chicago when he first heard of the tire and started immediately for Buckhorn, where he found the relief train. Oddly enough, he found his father there too.” “Then there was something to the old man after all,” said Mrs. Emory, whose sympathies were as generous as they were easily aroused. "A good deal, I should say. He must have known that he was coming back to arrest and almost certain conviction.” Constance’s glance searched her father’s face. She wanted to hear more of Oakley. Her heart was hungering for news of this man who had risked his life to save them. All her lingering tenderness, the unwilling growth of many days, was sweeping away the barriers of her pride. “Mr. Oakley was not hurt?” she questioned breathlessly, pale to the lips. “He Is pretty badly shaken up, and no wonder, but he will be all right in the morning.” “Where is he now?” she asked. Her father turned to her. “Oakley— You look tired out, Constance. Do go to bed. I’ll tell you all about It in the morning.” “Where is he now, papa?” she questioned, going to his side and clasping her hands about his arm. “Down at the shop. They carried bls father there from the train.” “Why didn’t you have them bring him here?” said Mrs. Emory quickly. “After this I won’t listen to a word against either of them. I would like to show the town just how we feel in the inatter.” “I suggested it, but Oakley wouldn't hear to it. But don't worry about the town. It’s gone wild. You should have seen the crowd on the platform when it saw Oakley in the engine cab. It went stark mad.” Again Constance’s eyes swam with tears. The strike, the murder of Ryder, the fire, had each seemed in turn n part of the tragedy of her life at Antioch, but Oakley’s return was wholly

glorious. Iler father added, “I shall see Oakley in the morning and learn if we can be of any service to him.” A little later, when Constance went to her own room, she drew forward a chair and seated herself by the window. Across the town, on the edge of the “flats,” she saw dimly the long, dark outline of the railroad shop, with its single tall chimney. She thought of Oakley as alone there keeping watch at the side of the grim old murderer who had so splendidly redeemed himself by this last sacrifice. Great clouds of black smoke were still rolling over the town, and the woods were still blazing fiercely in the distance. Beyond her window she heard the call of frightened birds as they fluttered to and fro in the dull red light, and farther off, in the north end, the muffled throbbing of the fire engines. If she had had any doubts as to her feeling for Oakley these doubts were now a thing of the past. She knew that she loved him. She had been petty and vain. She had put the small tilings of life against the great, and this was her punishment. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that she should see him in the morning. Then she could tell him all. But what could she tell him ? The time had gone by when she could tell him anything. It was almost morning when she undressed and threw herself down on her bed. She was disconsolate and miserable. and tlie future seemed quite barren of hope or happiness. Love had come to her, and she had not known its presence. Yes, she would tell Oakley that she had iteeu little and narrow and utterly unworthy. He had cared for her, and perhaps he would urfderstand. She fell asleep thinking this and did not waken until her mother called her for breakfast. “I am waiting for your father. lie has gone down to see Mr. Oakley,” Mrs. Emory said when she entered .the dining room. Constance glanced at the table. “Is he going to bring Mr. Oakley back with him?” she asked nervously. “He expected to. I declare, Constance, you look worn out. Didn’t you sleep well?.” “No, not very. 1 wonder if they are coming?” “You might go look,” said her mother. And Constance hurried into the parlor. She was just in time to see her father enter the gate. He was alone. Constance flew to the front door and threw it open. “He wouldn’t come?” she cried breathlessly. “He’s gone.” “Gone?” “Yes, a train was made up early this morning, and lie has returned to Buckhorn— Why, what's the matter, Constance?” For Constance, with a little gasp of dismay, had slipped down into a chair, with her hands before her face. “What is it, dear?” lie questioned anxiously. But she gave him no answer. She was crying softly, unrestrainedly. It was all over. Oakley was gone, and with him went her only hope of happiness. Yet more keen than her sense of pain and personal loss was her regret that he would never understand that she respected and admired him as he deserved.

"I am sorry, Constance, but I didn’t know that you especially wanted to see him,” said the doctor awkwardly, but with a dawning comprehension of what It all meant. She made no answer. “What Is it, dear?” he repeated. “Ob, nothing. I wanted to tell him about something, that Is all. It doesn't matter now.” She glanced up into his face with a sudden doubt. “You didn’t see him; you are quite sure he went away without your seeing him; you are uot deceiving me?” “Why, of course, Constance, but he'll come back.”

“No, he won’t, papa,” shaking her head sadly. "He’s gone, and he will never come back. I know him better than you do.” And then she fled promptly upstairs to her own room. This was tho nearest Convince came to betraying her love for Oakley. She was not much given to confidences, and the ideals that had sustained her in her pride now seemed so childish and unworthy that she had no wish to dwell upon them, but whenever Dan’s name was mentioned in her presence she looked frightened and guilty and avoided meeting her father's glance. It seemed, indeed, that Oakley had taken final leave of Antioch. A new manager appeared and took formal charge of the destinies of the road. Under his direction work was resumed In the shops, for the strike had died a natural death. None of the hands was disposed to question the 10 per cent cut, and before the winter was over the scale of wages that had been in force before the strike was Inaugurated was voluntarily restored. The town had no criticisms to make of Johnson, the new manager, a quiet, competent official; the most any one said was that he was not Oakley. That was enough. For Dan had come into his own. Early In October there was a flutter of excitement when Turner Joyce and

hit wife left for the east to be Oakley’s guests. When they returned some weeks later they had a good deal to say about him that Antioch was frankly curious to hear. He bad taken his fattier to Burton, where his mother was buried. Afterward he had joined General Cornish In New York. While abroad the financier bad effected a combination of interests which grouped a number of roads under one management, and Dan had been made general superintendent of the consolidated lines, with his headquarters In New Y’ork city. The Joyces were but vaguely informed as to where these lines were, but they did full justice to their magnitude, as well as to the importance of Oakley’s new connection. The dull monotony of those fall days in Antioch was never forgotten by Constance Emory. She was listless and restless by turns. She had hoped that she nrgut hear from Oakley. She even thought the Joyces might bring her some message, but none had come. Dan had taken her at her word. She bad made no friends, and, with Ryder dead and Oakley gone, she saw no one and finally settled down into an apathy that alarmed the doctor. He. after some deliberation, suddenly announced his intention of going east to attend a medical convention. “Shall you see Mr. Oakley?” Constance asked, with quick interest. “Probably, If he's in New York when I get there.” Constance gave him a scared look and dropped her eyes. But when the time drew near for his departure she followed him about as if there were something on her mind which she wished to tell him. The day he started she found courage to ask: “Won’t you take me with you, papa?” “Not this time, dear,” he answered. She was quiet for a moment and then said: “Papa, you are not going to tell him?” “Tell who, Constance.' What?” “Mr. Oakley.” “What about Oakley, dear?” She looked at him from under her long lashes, while the color slowly mounted to her cheeks. “You are not going to tell him what you think you know?" The doctor smiled. "I wish you would grant me the possession of ordinary sense, Constance. I am not quite a fool.” “You are a precious,” she said, kissing him. “Thank you. What message shall I give Oakley from you?” “None.” “None?” “He won't want to hear from me”— shyly. “Why not?” “Because he just won’t, papa. Besides, I expect he has forgotten that such a person ever lived.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. What was the trouble, Constance? Y’ou’d better tell me, or I may say some thing I shouldn’t.” “Oh, you must not say anything”— in alarm—“you must promise.” “Constance, what did Oakley say to you that last day he was here at the house?” Constance's glance wandered meditatively from her father’s face to the window and back again, while her color came and went. There was a far away, wistful look In her eyes and a sad little smile on her lips. At last she sakl softly: “Oh, he said a number of things. I can’t remember now ail he did say.” “Did Oakley tell you he cared for you?” Constance hesitated a moment, then, reluctantly: “Well, yes, be did. And I let him go, thinking I didn’t care for him,” miserably and with a pathetic droop of her lids, from which the smile had tied. “I didn’t know, and I have been so unhappy!” “Oh!” Constance left the room abruptly. [concluded next week]