a glimpse of a new world
but tommy’s sorrow did not endure long. how could it in face of the wonders to be seen every minute through the window? for a time the old familiar mountains closed in the view, but they assumed strange and unaccustomed shapes as they whirled backward past him, with the foreground all blurred and the more distant peaks turning in stately line, like mammoth soldiers. a hand on his shoulder brought him from the window.
“let’s have your ticket, sonny,” said the conductor.
tommy produced it from the inside pocket of his coat. the conductor took it, unfolded it, and then glanced in surprise from it to the boyish face.
“you’re going a good ways, ain’t you?” he remarked pleasantly. “you’ll have to change cars at washington. we get there at three thirty-nine this afternoon. i’ll get somebody there to look out after you.”
“thank you, sir,” answered tommy. it was good to find that friendly and helpful people lived out in the big world.
“that’s all right,” and the conductor punched his ticket and handed it back to him. “you haven’t got a thing to do now but to sit here and look out the window. got anything to eat?”
“yes, sir,” said tommy, and pointed to a box which his mother had filled for him.
“all right. you’ll find drinking water up there at the end of the car. mind you don’t try to leave the car or get off when we stop, or you’ll be left.” and with this final warning, he passed on to his other duties.
but tommy had no desire whatever to move from his seat. the train flew on past miners’ cabins and scattered hamlets, till at last the mines were left behind, and the mountains began to fall back from the river which they had crowded so closely. the great white inn at clifton forge, with its stately court and playing fountains, gave him a glimpse of fairyland. soon he was looking out miles and miles across a wide valley, dotted like a great chess-board with fields of corn and barley, and with the white farm-houses here and there peeping through their sheltering groves of oaks and chestnuts. it seemed a peaceful, happy, contented country, and tommy’s eyes dwelt upon it wistfully. wide, level fields were something new to his experience, and he longed to have a good run across them. the mountains fell farther and farther away, until at last not one remained to mar the line where the sky stooped to the horizon.
at charlottesville tommy caught his first glimpse of what a great city may be. now charlottesville is not by any means a great city, but the crowds which thronged the long platform and eddied away into the streets drew from him a gasp of astonishment. and then the houses, built one against another in long rows that seemed to have no end! he had not thought that people could live so close together.
the train hurried on over historic ground, if tommy had only known it,—gordonsville, culpeper, manassas,—where thirty-five years before every house and fence and clump of trees had been contested stubbornly and bloodily by blue and gray. another historic place they touched, alexandria, where the church george washington attended and the very pew he sat in still remain. then along the bank of the potomac, whose two miles or more of width made the boy gasp again, across a long bridge, and in a moment tommy found himself looking out at a tall, massive shaft of stone that resembled nothing so much as a gigantic chimney, and beyond it great buildings, and still other great buildings, as far as the eye could reach.
“washington!” yelled the brakeman, slamming back the door. “all out fo’ washington!”
tommy grasped his box convulsively,—it was the only part of his baggage that had been left to his care, for his trunk was ahead in the baggage-car,—and looked anxiously around for his friend the conductor. that blue-coated official had not forgotten him, and in a moment tommy saw him coming.
“now you stay right where you are,” he said, “till i get all the other passengers off, and then i’ll come back after you.”
“all right, sir,” answered tommy, breathing a sigh of relief. “i’ll be right here, sir.”
the crowds at charlottesville were nothing to those that hurried past him now, and he sat watching them, fascinated, until he heard the conductor calling from the door.
“step lively, sonny,” he called, and as they jumped down together to the platform, he saw that tommy was carrying the unopened box in which his dinner was. “why, look here,” he said, “didn’t you eat anything?”
tommy looked down at the box, and hesitated a moment in the effort at recollection.
“i don’t believe i did,” he said at last. “i forgot about it. i wasn’t hungry.”
“i’ll bet it’s the first time you ever forgot your dinner,” chuckled the conductor. “here, now,” he added, as they entered the great waiting-room, “you sit down in this seat and wait for me. i have to go and make my report, but it won’t take me long.”
tommy sat down obediently, and watched the crowds surging back and forth through the station and out upon the long stone platforms. it seemed to him that all the residents of washington must be either leaving the trains or crowding into them. he wondered why so many people should have to travel, but before he could make any progress toward solving the question, the conductor was back again, bringing another official with him.
“this is the boy, jim,” he said. “by the way, what’s your name, sonny?”
“tommy—tommy remington.”
“well, tommy, jim here is one of the callers. he’ll have to take the four-fifty for trenton, jim. don’t let him miss it.”
“i won’t. i’ll look out for him.”
“all right. good-by, tommy.”
“good-by, sir,” and tommy placed his hand in the great paw that the good-natured official held out to him. “and thank you again, sir.”
“you’re welcome”; and he gave tommy’s hand a squeeze that made him wince. “wait a minute,” he added suddenly, turning to jim. “an hour and a half is a long time for the boy to wait. can’t he see some of the sights?”
“we might put him on the street-car,” said jim, “and let him ride out to georgetown and back. that’ll give him enough to think about for a week.”
“all right.” and the conductor slipped a dime into the other’s hand. “here, you pay the car conductor and tell him to look out after the boy. i’ve sort o’ taken a liking to him,” he added shamefacedly, and hurried away toward the home where his wife and another little chap, not half so large as tommy, were waiting to welcome him.
jim went back to tommy.
“come on,” he said. “you’re going to take a street-car ride along the most famous street in the country. here, give me the box. i’ll take care of it till you get back.”
tommy handed over the box, and followed him to the entrance, where queer open cars, such as he had never seen before, were dashing up and departing every minute. jim said a few words to the conductor of one of these, and gave him the dime.
“jump up there on the front seat,” he said to tommy, “and don’t get off the car till you get back here.”
tommy scrambled up beside the motorman, who had been watching the proceeding with kindly interest, and in a moment the car turned out into pennsylvania avenue.
to those who visit washington straight from the stately thoroughfares of boston, new york, or philadelphia, this famous street may at first prove something of a disappointment, although its beauty improves on closer acquaintance; but to this boy, coming straight from the west virginia mountains, it seemed a very vision of loveliness, and he gazed at it with dazzled eyes. the broad avenue, thronged with handsome equipages and hurrying people, stretched straight before him, bathed in the brilliant afternoon sunshine.
“that’s the post-office,” remarked the motorman, as they whirled past a great structure of gray granite. “this big building right ahead here is the united states treasury. that’s where they keep all the money.”
tommy gazed at it with respectful eyes as the car turned the corner and continued on past the building to the next block. there was another sharp turn, and in a moment they were passing what seemed to tommy a great flower-garden, with a beautiful white mansion showing through the trees.
“that’s the white house,” said the motorman. “that’s where the president lives.”
as they passed in front of it, the trees opened into a wide vista, and the boy saw the stately portico with the wings on either side. beyond the west wing extended a long glass structure which seemed crowded with flowers and whose use tommy could not imagine. he had read somewhere that people who live in glass houses should not throw stones, but he had very much doubted if any one really lived in a glass house. yet here was unmistakably a glass house, so perhaps people did live in them, after all. but they were past before he could reason this out any farther, and another tremendous stone building loomed ahead.
“that’s the war department and the navy,” said the motorman. “it’s the largest office building in the world.”
tommy looked, and with beating heart saw two cannon frowning at him. but he had only a glimpse of them and the car had whirled by. there were no more great buildings after this, but the avenue grew lovelier, with its lines of graceful shade-trees, and behind them the beautiful residences nestling amid broad lawns. they circled about a little park with a statue in the center, a man on horseback,—washington, the motorman said,—and then on down the street again. the car crossed a little creek which marked the boundary between washington and georgetown, and at the end of a few minutes ran into a building where several other cars were waiting their turn to be sent back over the line.
five minutes later they started back again, over the same route by which they had come. tommy was careful this time to get a better look at the cannon and the big anchor in front of the war and navy building, and at the white house through the vista of trees that stretched in front of it. as the car swung around the corner of the treasury building, he saw for the first time the full sweep of the avenue. away at the end, high up against the sky, stood a fairy dome, gilded by the last rays of the declining sun. he had no need to ask what it was, for he had seen it pictured too often. it was the dome of the capitol. he kept his eyes fixed on it until the car turned into the side street and stopped again at the station.
jim was on the lookout for him, and led him back into the waiting-room.
“well,” he asked, “what do you think of washington?”
tommy looked up at him, his eyes dark with excitement.
“oh,” he began, “oh!” and sank speechless into a seat.
“kind o’ knocked you out, hey?” and jim laughed. “well, i don’t wonder. here’s your box. your train will be ready pretty soon. you wait here till i come for you.”
for the first time that day, tommy felt the pangs of hunger,—his body demanded sustenance after all this excitement,—and he opened his box and did full justice to the chicken sandwiches and cakes and cheese he found within. he was wrapping up the remains of the lunch when jim called him.
“come on, tommy; here’s your train,” he said, and tommy hurried out upon the platform, where a long train stood ready for its trip to new york. he entered the coach, bade jim good-by, and sat down in one of the seats. through the window he could see the crowd hurrying to and fro along the platform. a train puffed in on the adjoining track and disgorged its living freight. great trucks, piled high with baggage, were wheeled by. then came the far-away voice of the conductor, a scurrying of belated passengers, and the train glided slowly out of the station. evening had come, and along the streets the electric lamps sprang suddenly alight. great crowds of men and women were leaving the government buildings, with one more day’s labor accomplished. it was all new and strange; but even as he looked, a great weariness crept upon him,—the weariness which follows unaccustomed excitement,—his head fell back against the seat, and he was sound asleep. he was vaguely conscious of the conductor getting his ticket from him, but he knew no more until he felt some one roughly shaking him.
“wake up, youngster,” called a voice in his ear. “we’ll be at trenton in a minute. you have to get off there.”
tommy sat up and rubbed his eyes. the bright lights in the coach dazzled him, but he was pulled to his feet and led toward the door.
“wait a minute, now,” said the voice.
then came the little shock that told that the brakes had been applied, and the train stopped.
“now mind the steps,” said the voice, and tommy was hustled down to the platform. “there you are.” and before he quite realized it, the train was speeding away again through the darkness. he looked about him. back of him extended what seemed to be a long shed. the station was on the other side of the tracks, as he could see by the gleaming lights, but there seemed no way to get to it, for two high fences had been built to prevent passengers crossing.
“where are you bound for, youngster?” asked a voice.
“lawrenceville,” answered tommy; and rubbing his eyes desperately, he finally managed to make out another man in blue uniform.
“this your baggage?” and the man picked up tommy’s little trunk and threw it on his shoulder.
“yes, sir; that’s mine.”
“all right. you’ve got to take the stage over here; it’s a six-mile drive. come on.” and the man led the way down a steep flight of stone steps, along a tunnel which ran under the tracks, and up another flight of steps on the other side. “here, bill,” he called to a man who, whip in hand, was standing on the platform; “here’s a passenger fer you.”
the man with the whip hurried toward them.
“is your name thomas remington?” he asked the boy.
“yes, sir.”
“all right, then. they told me t’ look out fer you. here’s th’ stage, out here.”
he led the way through the waiting-room to the street beyond, where the stage stood, the horses hitched to a convenient lamp-post. tommy clambered sleepily aboard.
“where’s your trunk-check?” asked the driver.
tommy fumbled in his pocket and finally produced it.
the driver took it and went back into the station. presently the boy saw him come out again, bearing the trunk on his shoulder. he placed it in the back part of the stage, unhitched his horses, and climbed up beside his passenger.
“now we’re all right,” he said cheerily, and clucked to his horses.
“what time is it?” asked tommy, for it seemed to him that he must have been traveling all night, and that the dawn could not be far distant.
“nearly ten o’clock,” said the driver. “you’ll be at lawrenceville in half an hour.”
by a supreme effort, tommy kept his eyes open until they had left the town behind and were rumbling briskly along a wide, level road. then his head fell back again, and he wakened only at the journey’s end.
“the boy’s been traveling all day,” said some one, “and is nearly dead for sleep. take him up to twenty-one, mr. dean.” and he was led tottering away to bed.
