_ Through the spring and the early summer Poquette Carry was an animated theater of action. Woodsmen, went up and woodsmen came down, and mingled with the busy railroad crews. All examined the progress of construction with curiosity, and passed on, uttering picturesque comment. Strange old men came paddling down West Branch from unknown wildernesses, and trudged their moccasined way from end to end of the line, as if to convince themselves that Colonel Gideon Ward really had been conquered on his own ground. Newspaper reporters came from the nearest city, and pressed Engineer Parker to make a statement "Gentlemen," he said, with a laugh, "not a word for print from me. I was sent here to build this bit of a railroad quietly and unobtrusively. Circumstances have paraded our affairs before the public in some measure. Now if you quote me, or twist anything I may say into an interview, my employers will have good reason to be disgusted with me, as well as with the situation here. Furthermore, there are personal reasons why I do not wish to talk."
Whether Parker's eager appeal had effect upon the reporters, or whether the timber barons influenced the editors, the whole affair of the sunken engine was lightly passed over as the prank of roistering woodsmen, and Colonel Ward was left wholly undisturbed in his retreat. Even the calamity that had befallen him was not mentioned except by word of mouth among the woodsmen of the region.
With self-restraint that is rare in young men, Parker still refused to talk about the matter even in Sunkhaze. When he first returned, a sense of chagrin at his discomfiture along with reasons that have been mentioned kept him silent, it is true, but now, with complete victory in his hands, he was sincerely affected by the misfortune that had overtaken his enemy.
The "Swamp Swogon," now that it was running on its own rails and was hauling building materials along the crooked railroad, was renicknamed "The Stump Dodger." Parker's chief pride in the road was necessarily based on the fact that it had been constructed without exceeding the appropriation, a fact that excused many curves.
Late in June the last rails were laid and the ballasting, such as it was, was well under way.
The "terminal stations," as the engineer jocosely called them, were neat little structures of logs, and there was a log roundhouse, where the Stump Dodger retired in smutty and smoky seclusion when its day's toil was finished.
So the engineer prepared for the day of opening, and requested the state railroad commissioners to make their final inspection of the road. The three officials gravely travelled from end to end of the line in the secondhand P. K. & R. coach, the only passenger-car of the road, and after some jocular remarks, issued a certificate empowering the Poquette Carry Road to convey passengers and collect fares. Then, after a telegraphic conference with his employers, Parker announced the day for the formal opening of the road.
At first he had not intended to make any event of this. His idea had been that, after the commissioners authorized traffic, he would merely arrange a time-table instead of the irregular service of the construction days, and would start his trains, observing the care that had been promised in seasons of drought.
But his foreman of construction--none other than Big Dan Connick, who had chosen railroad work under Parker instead of the usual summer labor on the drive--came to him at the head of a group of men.
"Mr. Parker," he said, "we represent the men who have been building this road. We represent also our old friends of the West Branch drivin' crew of a hundred men, who are twenty miles up-river and are hankerin' for a celebration. We represent all the guides between Sunkhaze and Chamberlain, and every man of 'em is glad that this carry has been opened up. The whole crowd respectfully insists that seein' as how this is our first woods railroad up here, it's proper to have a celebration. If ye don't have the official opening we shall take it as meanin' we ain't worth noticin'."
There was no denying such earnestness as that nor gainsaying the propriety of the demand. Parker made his principals understand the situation. And the result was that they themselves set the opening date, and promised to be on hand with a party of friends.
The rolling-stock of the Poquette Railroad consisted of the Stump Dodger, four flat cars designed especially for the transportation of canoes and bateaux, three box cars for camp supplies and general freight, and the coach transplanted from the P. K. & R. narrow-gage.
Parker announced that on the opening day no fares would be collected, that the train would make hourly trips, and that all might ride who could get aboard.
Not to be outdone in generosity, the crew through big Dan Connick, declaring that they proposed to make all the preparations for the celebration free of charge--that is, they would accept no wages for their work.
They built benches on the platform cars and fitted up the box cars in similar fashion. They trimmed the Stump Dodger with spruce fronds till the locomotive looked like a moving wood-lot. Every flag in Sunkhaze was borrowed for the decoration of the coach, and then, in a final burst of enthusiasm, the men subscribed a sum sufficient to hire the best brass band in that part of the state.
"It took us some little time to wake up enough to know how much we needed a railroad acrost here," said Dan, "but now that we're awake we propose to let folks know it. Them whose hearin' is sensitive had better take to the tall timber that day."
Parker met his party at Sunkhaze station on the morning of the great occasion. They came in the P. K. & R. president's private car, that was run upon a siding to remain during the week the railroad men entertained their friends at their new Kennemagon Lake camp.
"I expect," said Parker, as the little steamer puffed across sunlit Spinnaker toward Poquette, "that the men have arranged a rather rugged celebration for to-day; but I know them well, gentlemen, and I want to assure you that all they do is meant in the best spirit."
As the steamer approached the wharf, tooting its whistle, there was an explosion ashore that made the little craft appear to hop out of the water. All the anvils of the construction crew had been stuffed with powder, and all were fired simultaneously with a battery current!
With a yell the shore crowd rushed to the side of the steamer. Dan was leading, his broad face glowing with good humor. Groups of cheering men clutched the squirming, protesting railroad owners and their friends, and bore them on sturdy shoulders to the waiting train. The band from its station on a platform car boomed "Hail to the Chief," the engine whistle screaming an obligato.
Then the men swarmed upon the cars, crowding every corner, occupying every foothold--but with the thoughtful deference of the woods not venturing to encroach upon the privacy of the coach after they had deposited their guests there.
On the "half-way horseback," so-called, Parker ordered the train halted, for he wished to show Mr. Jerrard an experiment in culvert construction, in which he took an originator's pride. The band kept on playing and the men roared choruses.
After the young engineer had bellowed his explanation in Jerrard's ear, and Jerrard had howled back some warm compliments, striving to make himself heard above the uproar, the two climbed the embankment and approached the coach. The band was quiet now.
"Speech!" cried some one, as Jerrard mounted the steps. He smiled and shook his head.
"Speech! Speech!" The manager turned to enter his car, still smiling, tolerant but disregarding. At a sudden command from Connick, men reached out on both sides of the train and clutched the branches of sturdy undergrowth that the haste of the construction work had not permitted the crews to clear entirely away.
"Hang on, my hearties!" shouted Dan.
Parker, when he mounted the steps, had given the signal to start, but when the engineer opened his throttle, the wheels of the little engine whirled in a vain attempt at progress. With a grade, a heavy load, and the determined grip of all these brawny hands to contend against, the panting Stump Dodger was beaten. Sparks streamed and the smokestack quivered, but the train did not start.
"Speech! Speech!" the men howled. "We won't let go till we hear a speech."
Entreaties had no effect. First Jerrard, then Whittaker, then Parker, and after them all the guests were compelled to come out on the car platform and satisfy the truly American passion for a speech. And not until the last man had responded did the woodsmen release their hold on the trees.
"Who ever heard of a railroad being formally opened and dedicated without speeches?" cried Connick, as he gave the word to let go. "We know the style, an' we want everything."
The guides served a lunch at the West Branch end of the line that afternoon, and while the railroad party was lounging in happy restfulness awaiting the repast, a big bateau came sweeping down the river, driven by a half dozen oarsmen. Several passengers disembarked at the end of the carry road, and were received respectfully yet uproariously by the woodsmen who had just arrived in a fresh train-load from the Spinnaker end.
Connick came elbowing through the press that surrounded them.
"Mr. Shayne," he cried, "she's come, after all, hasn't she? Are you and your friends goin' to ride back on her across the carry? I tell you she beats a buckboard!"
The man whom he addressed smiled with some constraint, and exchanged glances with his companions.
"I guess we'll stick to our own tote-team as usual, Connick," said another in the party, jerking his thumb at the muddy buckboard that was waiting.
"Oh say, now, ye've got to meet these here railroad fellers. They're your style--all business!" bawled Connick. "We ain't fit to entertain 'em up here, but you rich fellers are. Just come along. They'll be glad to see you. Bring 'em along, boys."
The crowd obediently hustled the new arrivals toward Whittaker and his friends, disregarding the surly protests.
"Here's some of the kings of the spruce country, gentlemen!" big Dan cried, by way of introduction. "Here's Mr. Shayne, the great timber operator on the Seboois waters. Here's Mr. Barber of the Upper Chamberlain, an'--"
Several of the new arrivals began to deprecate this unceremonious manner of introduction, but the railroad men, recognizing their peers in the business world in these sturdy land barons, came forward with a hearty welcome.
Ten minutes later the timber kings were eating lunch, although with some embarrassment. Occasionally they eyed the railroad men, wondering if the memory of the stubborn legislative battle still lingered. But the railroad men constantly grew more affable.
"Gentlemen," said Whittaker, at last, "we are not affected in this case by any interstate commerce regulations. Therefore, on behalf of myself and my associates, I should like to tender you annual passes over our new road. Of course the courtesy is a trifling one, but it will indicate that we shall appreciate your cooperation in turning your freight business our way. We'll save you at least two-thirds of the expense on the haul across Poquette." _