The Engineer’s Heartbreak

A sad crash occurred on the rail line—a freight and a passenger coach—and the train crews picked themselves up and cried out to those there. There had been a collision. Engine No. 17 was resting on an side track but the day train thundered down on her, and the long train was a third of its length on the main track. The fireman had jumped, but the engineer, Tom, was pinned down to the earth by one of the levers. When he was finally relieved by a doctor who was among the passengers, the doctor knelt beside him and said, 'Arm broken—leg broken—crushed in a pulp. He cannot live.' When the engineer Tom spoke, he whispered, 'It wasn't due here until 10:10, and it was just 10:05 when I struck the freight. I was ahead of time—moving on her time.' He then spoke of his five-year-old daughter, Jennie, who was sick at home. 'This morning when I left home, little Jennie—our five-year-old—was sinking fast. She kept crying out, 'Don't go, papa—don't leave little Jennie to die.' It was like a knife in my heart to leave her, but go I must. I was leaving the house when the doctor put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'Tom, my boy, by 10 o'clock tomorrow morning she'll be either dead or better.' When I pulled out of the depot tonight, headed for home and Jennie, I wanted to fly. I kept gaining on my time. When the thought came to me that Jennie might be dead when I entered the door, I should have pulled the throttle out if the steam had been in the boiler.' He lay on the track quiet for a moment. Then he whispered: 'And now—that's Jennie. She's beckoning—she's calling. Right down the track—over the high bridge—through the deep cut—I'm coming—I'm coming.' And the men wiped tears from their eyes and whispered: 'He has found his child in death.'