VOL. XIX.

He was short and he was bow-legged, and his clothes didn't fit him. His hair was like a field of stubble and his eyes were of an unobtrusive blue. His complexion was like the earth in a country where iron might be found, and his teeth grew far apart. This was Billy Ragsdale, flagman on the Southern Railroad.

How green he was conductors knew to their sorrow. and the only reason Conductor Field kept him was that nobody else would.

Billy was a silent and a modest man. He made fearful mistakes with so much earnestness and painstaking care that wrath against him was generally turned into amusement. He soon made himself a smile-provoker over the whole Division, which caused him to become more modest and to make worse breaks than ever. But they were fewer, and wise men predicted that he would be a good railroad man some day. He was one of the sort that learns slowly, but learns exceedingly well.

Billy's home was at Silver Creek, and whenever he did make a remark outside his work, it was always something about Silver Creek, until some facetious railroader nicknamed him "Silver Bill." Then he grew more silent and lonesome and homesick. You see he was only twenty-two, and the people at home had liked him pretty well.

One day Field caught him waving at a girl who lived in a house near the railroad at Silver Creek, and the sight

No. 1.

amused him so well that he laughed till the caboose shook. When he recovered his equanimity, he asked Billy who the girl was, and Billy answered mildly that it was his girl, and wanted to know if he was laughing at her.

"Oh, no; she's as pretty a girl as I ever saw; but you! The idea of you having a girl at all, kills me. There must not be another boy at Silver Creek!"

To this Billy made no reply, but said respectfully that he'd better go out on top.

Field watched him climb up to the cupola, and thought how ugly he was. Also he thought of the pretty girl that Billy called his, and plotted mischief.

A few days later they were passing the same place again, when the conductor suddenly found something to keep Billy employed, where he could not look out. Then he went to the door, leaned negligently against it, and waited.

Before long the housecame in sight, and there, sure enough, was the girl, sitting by an open window. Field put on his best smile and gallantly raised his hat. The girl hesitated a minute; she knew this was not Billy-he was far too handsome-then, laughing, as if to put her scruples to flight, she waved an answering greeting.

Field turned to Billy to see the effect of this little piece of devilment; but he was as a man who had not seen. Nobody would have guessed that the match had been set to a fire of jealousy that

would nearly consume poor Billy. To make matters worse, Field told the joke to all the other men, and Billy was covertly guyed wherever he went. But what cut him to the heart was the fact that pretty Ida, who had almost promised to be his wife last time he was at home, now seemed perfectly willing to flirt with his good-looking conductor. Every time they passed in daylight, she and Field would exchange friendly signals, and sometimes he would bring bouquets from the other end of the road and throw them off to her.

One day Billy determined not to be entirely outdone, so he went out on top when they neared Ida's home, while Field took up his accustomed place at the door. Both waved simultaneously. Ida, out in the yard among her flowers, looked up at Billy and shook her head mischievously-looked down at Field and smiled beautifully. That was enough. If his conductor wanted Ida and Ida wanted him, he, Billy, would withdraw all claims; but the heart that beat somewhere beneath the clothes that didn't fit, was very sore. For had he not deserted Martha, his boyhood's sweetheart, merely because Ida's blue eyes had smiled on him (perhaps for momentary lack of someone else on whom to smile), and now she had treated him as he had treated Martha, only worse-for he had loved Martha silently. "Oh, the changeability of women;" thought Billy, and he wondered if Martha would have been so false had he been true to her. But just then catching sight of his unprepossessing face in Mr. Field's mirror, he felt that Ida could not be blamedand his heart grew sorer still.

But his dismal failure in matters of the heart did not mean failure in his work. He had never read a novel, and did not know that one disappointment in love should wreck one's whole life. He had never learned these things, and to him work was duty and love was another matter. It was also characteristic of Billy that he did not let the bitter jealousy he felt for his conductor enter into their business relations. He maintained a respectful demeanor through all, and performed his duty unswerving

ly. He improved steadily; everything he learned he remembered faithfully and performed correctly, until he nearly outlived his reputation for greenness.

It was now a trial for him to pass Silver Creek, although he usually managed not to look in the direction of his fickle lady-love.

One beautiful summer morning when all nature seemed composed and happy, the train-made up of twenty loaded coal cars, was speeding southward. They had passed the place of Billy's torment, and were hastening to make the next station, as No. 16, the southbound passenger, was following none too far behind. Rounding a slight curve where no hint of danger seemed to lurk, suddenly a jangling jar was transmitted through the length of the train. The cars jerked and danced like merry savages, a black cloud of coal dust filled the air; then, car piled upon car, the whole mass toppled over sideways and settled down beside the engine, which lay snorting and panting like some huge disabled animal.

Billy found himself buried beneath several cars, but in such a way that he could crawl out-if it were not for the pain in his arm. For some minutes he lay there stupefied by the suddenness of the shock; then he became aware of distressing groans near at hand. Just below him lay Field-only his head and body visible. His legs were buried under a mass of great lumps of coal, and he said that one of them was broken.

Billy dragged himself out, despite his broken arm, and grimly set to work with his one uninjured hand and both feetto remove the chunks of coal that were pinning his conductor down; those he could not lift he kicked aside, and at last Field was free, except that, as he saidone leg was broken, and he lay there helpless.

Then Billy remembered the passenger train. He glanced at his watch. She must have left Silver Creek, and, being behind time, would be speeding along at a terrible rate towards them-and destruction.

Billy looked along the mass of debris for the engineer, fireman, or front man.

None were visible. Only a few smothered groans proclaimed that somewhere in the heap of ruin-human life remained. Motion was torture to Billy. He was only conscious of the pain in his arm. Cognizance of all his other wounds and bruises was swallowed up in this. Still, there was only one thing to be done; he must stop No. 16.

Making sure of his red bandana handkerchief, and holding his broken arm as comfortably as possible with the other hand, he started off up the track. First he ran, but the pain was so terrible that he was compelled to drop into a walk.

The first half mile seemed to have taken hours to cover, but it had only taken a few minutes. He kept on and on in wild haste. Presently the rails commenced to sing, and he knew No. 16 was coming. There was quite a stretch of level track just here, and she soon came in sight. Billy took out his red bandana and waved it. As he waved, somehow the action made him think of Ida; then confusedly of Martha. The engine, slowing gradually, came up beside him. The air went whistling through the train. Billy thought he was dying, and that this monster was death. He swayed and fell.

They carried him into one of the coaches, and brought him to, so that he was able to tell them what had happened.

Sixteen backed up to Silver Creek, and from there a wrecking car was dispatched.

And Billy, having done his part, was carried home. Some hours later, Field was brought there, too, as he was too much injured to be sent home, and some one said he was a friend of Billy's and had better be taken there. The rest of the crew, more or less broken up, were cared for at other homes in Silver Creek until well enough to go on to Atlanta. But they did not keep the fireman long; he was badly scalded and he moaned his life out in a day and a night.

And yet, grievous as the accident was, it had stood a good chance of being infinitely worse.

A spike had been laid cunningly on the track just where it curved, for the

Billy was surprised to find his old sweetheart, Martha Ladson, often in attendance upon him, and oftener moving about the house and yard as if quite at home. He puzzled over her presence for a few days, and then asked his mother why she was there.

"Law, Billy," she answered, "didn't you know she'd been stayin' with me ever since I had the rheumatism so bad I couldn't do for myself, all the time? Marthy's aunt is Fanny Sherman that married Cousin Ike two year ago Christmas, and Fanny would have Marthy come and stay with me when I tuck down sick. And she has been a sight of help."

Billy didn't say anything, but was glad. Martha's face and form had lost none of the old charm that had once held him captive. Rather her form had gained more grace; her gray eyes had taken a deeper shade. There was a certain tenderness about her that Billy had never noticed before; or that, perhaps, he had forgotten. It is good to see old faces that once were dear, and not find them changed save to be fairer, sweeter grown. It was a happiness to Billy just to watch her at her household duties, and in those days of lessening pain he commenced to dream old dreams -old, and yet new.

One day came Ida with her mother to see the sufferers. She spoke kindly to Billy, but seemed to have something else on her mind. Presently she asked. Mrs. Ragsdale, with assumed lightness, if she did not have another patient.

"Why, yes; Mr. Field, poor man!" said Mrs. Ragsdale. "He was Billy's. conductor, you know; and he had one leg broken and an ankle sprained. He's improvin' now, but I think it's only because he's in such a hurry to get back home. I never saw a man so worrited. about his fam'ly. I got a letter from his wife yesterday, a-thankin' me for all I'd done for 'her Alfred,' as she called.