Little Folks (December 1884) Part 9

We have to travel in two important trains now, and within twenty-four hours will make two trips, the one by night, the other by day. Hitherto, we have been standing with our drivers in full daylight, looking at the pleasant country, and thinking of many historical events as we pa.s.s. Now we have to mount our engine at night, and go all the way to Dover without stopping.

We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning, but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.

What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with the West-end pa.s.sengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages.

Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train!

How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as the train flies past the various stations.

But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a platform just outside are numerous arms and signals--one arm is lowered; then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is thirteen minutes past eight p.m.--no doubt the "official" time for starting--and with a shriek we pa.s.s from the brilliant station to the darkness of the river.

The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the piers of the railway, and s.h.i.+mmering under the lights of London Bridge as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the gla.s.ses in the weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger at our pa.s.sing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front--we are nearly in darkness now--and we look about us.

We feel warm about the feet and knees--the wind whistles around our waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his gla.s.s, and near a hand-lamp, which s.h.i.+nes on a water-gauge gla.s.s to tell the driver when the boiler needs replenis.h.i.+ng. We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up, and we see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford way, and red lights on the Brighton Railway rus.h.i.+ng at us in the air, and white and green lights of engines rus.h.i.+ng at us on the rails. We overtake and pa.s.s a train whose pa.s.sengers look nice and warm, and one little boy is flattening his nose against the window, to see us pa.s.s, and no doubt thinks _his_ train a very slow one, and _his_ engine-driver a "m.u.f.f,"

for being beaten in the "race."

So we leave the ancient "Beormund's Eye" where many hundred years ago was an abbey, and where now are tanneries and many trades with accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go in a direct line over the Surrey Ca.n.a.l--the river and the s.h.i.+ps we cannot see. We get a glimpse of the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst, where the late Emperor of the French and his son lie buried.

Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "d.i.c.kery-d.i.c.kery-dock" tune which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line!

Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like a halo.

From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam, but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think we _must_ go over it. Rush, roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, b.u.mp, thump, whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms, crash, bang! Tunbridge is pa.s.sed, and we are running on level ground, in a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe again now. It _did_ seem rather alarming just then.

So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the tunnel through the

"... Cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully on the confined deep"--

known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of that description in "King Lear."

We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the resting-place of Queen Elizabeth's "Pocket Pistol," twenty-four feet long, on which is the legend--

"Load me well and keep me clean And I'll carry a ball to Calais Green."

The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors are opened, mail-bags and m.u.f.fled travellers are hurried on board. The lights are extinguished, the engine retreats into the darkness, then we jump off and go to bed.

Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for the Tidal train at Folkestone. This train starts from Charing Cross and from Paris daily, each way, at hours when the Channel pa.s.sage can be accomplished at or near high water. We shall soon have a still faster service, and eight hours between London and Paris will be the usual time.

The run up to London need not be dwelt upon. The pace is not excessive, but punctuality is well observed, and the train runs in safety. We remember one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.

It was at Staplehurst in 1865. The Whitsuntide series of accidents which disfigured that holiday season was closed by the terrible catastrophe that happened to the Tidal train on its way from Folkestone to London.

This train is an erratic one. It travels at different hours each week, and changes daily. On the 9th June in that year (1865), the railway near Staplehurst was under repair. The men were working, and had taken up two rails when the Tidal train was seen approaching.

The foreman had mistaken the time. There was no chance of avoiding an accident. The express came das.h.i.+ng into the gap, and eight carriages were flung over a bridge into a little stream beneath. The engine and the tender jumped the vacant s.p.a.ce of rail, and ran into the hedge, but the carriages toppled over, leaving only two of them on the line at the back, and the engine and luggage vans in front. So the eight other carriages hung down and crushed into each other. Ten persons were killed and many injured.

In the train was the late Charles d.i.c.kens, who was travelling to London.

He had with him the MS. (or proofs) of a tale he was then engaged upon, and in the preface to the work he mentioned the occurrence. He was most useful to the injured pa.s.sengers, and with other gentlemen exerted himself greatly to alleviate their sufferings. We need not dwell upon the painful scene of the accident, which created quite a sensation, as it occurred to the Continental express, by which so many holiday-makers travel.

We have not mentioned many accidents in the few papers we have put before you, for there is a sameness in them unfortunately; but we remember one terrible accident which occurred in consequence of a little boy playing on an engine, which ran away and caused a bad collision by das.h.i.+ng into a train which it overtook in its wild race.

Perhaps you little readers of LITTLE FOLKS are not aware that boys begin at a very early age to learn the mysteries of the locomotive engine.

These lads are "cleaners" first, and have to rub up the bright parts of the engines, and clear out the fire-boxes. Accidents have happened to the lads, even boys have been killed by going to sleep in the fire-boxes, and when the fire was lighted next morning they have been suffocated. The engine-driver expects his fire lighted and steam got up for him when he comes down to the engine-shed, or "stable." You may, perhaps, have noticed the round houses near the railway--say at York Road, Battersea--those are the engine-"stables." Every engine is placed in its "stall," so that its chimney is just under an opening, or flue.

It is also over a "pit," so that the fire can be raked out, or the working examined from underneath before the engine goes into the station next day to take the train away to the seaside, or to carry you to school, or home for the holidays. The engine-driver or the fireman examines the rods, cranks, and all the different joints, nuts, and screws; oiling or "packing," "easing off," or "tightening up" the various parts, so that the machinery may run easily and without heating.

One tiny bit of grit may wreck a train.

But our allotted s.p.a.ce is now filled, and will not permit us to tell you more concerning engine-boys. So we must say "good-bye" to you all.

"FATHER'S COMING!"

Oh, Father is coming!

Through all the long day We thought of him often, When he was away; We knew he was working While we were at play.

He'll be tired, I think; I have set him a chair In his own cosy corner-- He likes to sit there-- And we'll bring him his slippers, His old favourite pair.

I think it's the nicest To watch at the gate; And Dolly sits by us While thus we all wait.

He'll be here very soon-- It's so seldom he's late.

See, Baby knows too Who is coming to-night; She is crowing, and clapping Her hands with delight!

There's his footstep at last!

Oh, hurrah! he's in sight.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'FATHER'S COMING.' (_See p. 348._)]

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._

CHAPTER XVI.--"THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY."

"Tell me everything, Aunt Amy," Bertie said, as soon as he could find a voice. "When did it happen? Was it an accident? Oh! why didn't you send for me sooner?"

"It was very sudden, darling," Mrs. Clair replied. "I telegraphed for you at once, for your uncle wished it, and asked for you as long as he was conscious. But the doctor said from the first that there was no hope, and even wondered how he had lived so long. I fancy your uncle knew from the first that the attack would be fatal whenever it came. Do you know why he asked for you so often, Bertie?"

"No, aunt, except that he always loved me, and was very, very good to me."

"Yes, dear, and he trusted you too; almost his last words were, 'Tell Bertie he must take care of you and Agnes: he must be the "head of the family" now!' Uncle Harry's death will make a great difference to us, dear."

"I'm so glad he said that, Aunt Amy; and _I will_ take care of you all,"

his glance including even Eddie, who sat silent in a corner. "It was good of him to trust me!" and then the remembrance of his other uncle's want of confidence and harshness rushed back on Bertie, and he sobbed bitterly. Aunt Amy made him sit beside her, and comforted him tenderly till his sobs ceased, and then listened with patient, loving sympathy to all his troubles, which Eddie now confided in her.

"Do you think I did very wrong, Aunt Amy? do you think Uncle Gregory should have been so unkind?" he asked, looking at her wistfully.