Chapter I: A Narrow Escape

From the _Morning Post-Horn_:

"As passenger train Number Four was rounding a curve at full
speed, ten miles out of this city, on the morning of October 4,
and at a point where a deep cut shut out the view ahead, the
engineer saw some one, man or boy, he could not well make out
which, running down the track toward the train, frantically
swinging both arms and waving his cap in the air as if to attract
attention. The engine-man instantly shut off steam, whistled for
brakes, and quickly brought the train to a standstill.

"The engine-man put his head out of the cab window. The conductor
jumped off, followed by fifty frightened passengers, all talking
and gesticulating at once; while the person who had just given the
warning signal slackened his breakneck pace, somewhat, upon seeing
that he had succeeded in stopping the train.

"'What's the matter?' shouted the impatient engine-man when this
person had come within hearing.

"'What do you stop us for?' called out the little conductor
sharply, in his turn, at the same time anxiously consulting the
face of the watch he held in his hand.

"To both questions the young man seemed too much out of breath to
reply, offhand; but turning and pointing in the direction whence
he came, he shook his head warningly, threw himself down on the
roadbed, as limp as a rag, and began fanning himself with his cap.
After getting his breath a little, he made out to say, 'Bridge
afire--quarter mile back. Tried put it out--couldn't. Heard train
coming--afraid be too late. Couldn't run another step.'

"'Get aboard,' said the conductor to him. 'Jake,' to the grinning
engine-man, 'we'll run down and take a look at it. Get out your
flag!' to a brakeman. 'Like as not Thirteen'll be along before we
can make Brenton switch. All aboard!' The delayed train then moved
on.

"As it neared the burning bridge it was clear to every one
that the young man's warning had prevented a disastrous wreck,
probably much loss of life, because the bridge could not be seen
until the train was close upon it. All hands immediately set to
work with pails extinguishing the flames, which was finally done
after a hard fight. To risk a heavy train upon the half-burned
stringers was, however, out of the question. Leaving a man to see
that the fire did not break out again, the train was run back to
the next station, there to await further orders. We were unable
to learn the name of the young man to whose presence of mind
the passengers on Number Four owed their escape from a serious,
perhaps fatal disaster. But we are informed that a collection
was taken up for him on the train, which he, however, refused to
accept, stoutly insisting that he had only done what it was his
duty to do under the circumstances."

Thus far, the _Morning Post-Horn_. We now take up the narrative where the enterprising journal left off.

While the delayed train was being held for orders, the young man whose ready wit had averted a calamity stood on the platform with his hands in his trousers pockets, apparently an unconcerned spectator of what was going on around him. The little pug-nosed conductor stepped up to him.

"I say, young feller, what may I call your name?"

"Seabury."

"Zebra, Zebra," repeated the conductor, in a puzzled tone, "then I s'pose your ancestors came over in the Ark?"

"I didn't say Zebra; I said Seabury plain enough," snapped back the young man, getting red in the face at seeing the broad grins on the faces around him.

"Don't fire up so. Got any first name?"

"Walter."

"Walter Seabury," the conductor repeated slowly, while scratching it down. "Got to report this job, you know. Say, where you goin'?"

"I'm walkin' to Boston."

"Shanks' mare, hey. No, you ain't. Get aboard and save your muscle. You own this train to-day, and everything in it. Lively now." The conductor then waved his hand, and the train started on. At the bridge a transfer was effected to a second train, and this one again was soon reeling off the miles toward Boston, as if to make up for lost time.

Being left to himself, young Seabury, whom we may as well hereafter call by his Christian name of Walter, could think of nothing else than his wonderful luck. Instead of having a long, weary tramp before him, here he was, riding in a railroad train, and without its costing him a cent. This was a saving of both time and money.

Pretty soon the friendly conductor came down the aisle to where Walter sat, looking out of the car window. After giving him a sharp look, the conductor made up his mind that here was no vagabond tramp. "It's none of my business, but all the same I'd like to know what you're walkin' to Boston for, young feller?" he asked.

"Going to look for work."

"What's your job?"

"I'm a rigger." And his hands, tarry and cracked, bore out his story perfectly.

"Ever in Boston?"

"Never."

"Know anybody there?"

"Nobody."

"Got any of this--you know?" slapping his pocket.

At this question Walter flushed up. He drew himself up stiffly, smiled a pitying smile, and said nothing. His manner conveyed the idea that he really didn't know exactly how much he was worth.

"That's first-rate," the conductor went on. "Now, look here. You'll get lost in Boston. I'll tell you what. When we get in, I'll show you how to go to get down among the riggers' lofts. You're a rigger, you say?" Walter nodded. "They're all in a bunch, down at the North End, riggers, sailmakers, pump- and block-makers, and all the rest. Full of work, too, I guess, all on account of this Californy business. Everybody's goin' crazy over it. You will be, too, in a week."

By this time, the train was rumbling over the long waste of salt-marsh stretching out between the mainland and the dome-capped city, and in five minutes more it drew up with a jerk in the station, with the locomotive puffing out steam like a tired racehorse after a hard push at the finish.

The conductor was as good as his word. He told Walter to go straight up Tremont Street until he came to Hanover, then straight down Hanover to the water, and then to follow his nose. "Oh, you can't miss it," was the cheerful, parting assurance. "Smell it a mile." But going straight up this street, and straight down that, was a direction not so easy to follow, as Walter soon found. The crowds bewildered him, and in trying to get out of everybody's way, he got in everybody's way, and was jostled, shoved about, and stared at, as he slowly made his way through the throng, until his roving eyes caught sight of the tall masts and fluttering pennants, where the long street suddenly came to an end. Walter put down his bundle, took off his cap, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Whichever way he looked, the wharves were crowded with ships, the ships with workmen, and the street with loaded trucks and wagons. Casting an eye upward he could see riggers at work among the maze of ropes and spars, like so many spiders weaving their webs. Here, at least, he could feel at home.