Then began the technical inquisition: Why did the wires move up and down all the time? What were the wires for? Why did the poles whizz by? What did “telegraph” mean? What made that funny noise all the time, click-a-lick-click-click, click-a-lick click-click-click? And so on and so on. He was amazed at what the brakeman knew. It was wonderful how much he knew. Then came a toot for the next station; the brakeman swung open the door, let out a yell that startled the child, reminding him of the Baptist minister in South Reading, and began to twist the hand-brake with all his strength. The child saw all this through the open door. How wonderful that one man could be so strong as to stop a car that had been going so fast? Wasn’t it splendid to see a man in action? He adopted “Luke” immediately. At the station Luke helped him down the steps, and he began verifying certain statements. For Luke had only told him; he wanted to see. So he examined the link and coupling pins, the flange on the wheels, the iron rails which he found badly frayed from wear, the open joints, the fish plates, the spikes, the ties, and was crawling under the car to examine the trucks when a strange man yanked him out and asked him if he was crazy. The bell rang; the brakeman hoisted him aboard before he had had time to go forward and ask the engineer his name, and the fireman his name, and how much wood it took, and what made the choo-choo. True the brakeman had told him all about it, but that wasn’t seeing; and besides he wished to know the engineer and the fireman personally, for they must be great men—it must be a wonderful man who could keep the engine on the track and steer it around all those curves as the brakeman said he did. And the brakeman said the fireman expected to be an engineer some day, but that he himself didn’t expect to brake no cars all his life—it was just hell in winter; and he went on to tell of his ambition, said he’d be damned if he’d work for anybody much longer; he’d save up some money and was going to have other men work for him, and he’d make more money out of them. He’d drive ’em, he said; he’d learn ’em what a day’s work meant when they worked for him, he would; and so on, excitedly. The child took no interest in this and wandered back to his mother, who, having observed him in safe hands, had not troubled. He started to tell her all about his new friend, what a great man he was, that he wore three woolen undershirts in winter, and knew the name of every station, and all about links and pins, and engines and telegraph and everything, until Mama wearily turned toward him and gasped: “Louis! Louis!! Mon dieu, you are a pest!” Louis thought it strange that his Mamma was not interested in what interested him, yet failed to reflect that the brakeman’s get-rich romance had bored him. So on went the train swaying, rattling, banging, clanking, sinking suddenly, rising suddenly, screeching infernally around the curves, amidst smoke and dust and an overpowering roar. Soon there were two bedraggled ones sweatily sleeping side by side, and from the roar unfolded for one of them a dream of much mixed up brakemen, wheels, engineers, telegraphs, wood, links, pins, firemen, trucks—but no conductor; the conductor had not interested him, for he had a big belly, a heavy gold watch chain across it, gray chin whiskers, wore spectacles and did nothing but walk up and down, punch tickets and stick bits of cards in people’s hats. Faintly the brake-wheel creaked; and a distant voice seemed to call the name of a station—“Newburyport!!”
The town, in, by, and of itself, made no first impression on him, other than one of quiet commonplace. It was not very different from the village of South Reading, only it was larger and had more streets and houses.
The family had taken quarters in an old-looking building called a “hotel”—a word new to the child. The hotel fronted on a square in which were trees, and on the other side of the square but not opposite the hotel was the town hall, and in front of
