Read Online Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan by Bill Doyle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Doyle
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passengers looked up from their roast beef dinners–we raced toward the
front of the train. The car that housed the train employees was next–and we dodged around some workers who were sitting at
a table playing cards and some who were folding sheets at another.
We were running out of train cars! If we didn’t find someplace to remove our disguises soon, we would reach the locomotive,
the end of the line for us.
Finally, we reached the mail car. Basically, it’s a mobile post office. One wall is taken up with row after row of slots where
mail is sorted. Usually, three or four men are there, sorting the mail that’s been picked up along the route. But it was deserted
now.
The other wall has a long sliding door that was open to the cool night air. The door allows workers to reach down into the
net that catches the mailbags left for pickup along the side of the tracks.
The amazing thing is that the train does not have to stop in order to pick up or deliver bags of mail to different areas of the country.
Bags for pick up are left on poles along the tracks. A steel frame supporting a net is extended from the side of the train. When the train passed by the mailbags, the net scoops up the bags and carries them off. To drop off a mailbag, the opposite procedure is followed. A bag is extended from the train by a steel pole, and nets along the tracks catch them.
For some reason, William Henry’s face popped in my head as we entered the car. It wasn’t a completely unpleasant image. But
I also heard his voice, and that was more upsetting.
“Mailbags are flying into the mail car faster than greased lightning. One man was hit by a bag and it snapped his wrist!”
We shouldn’t be in here.
“Judge! Wait!” I cried.
But I was too late.
Judge was two steps ahead of me. As she started to turn toward me, the train jerked, and there was a strange grinding sound.
Suddenly a 10-pound mailbag flew in from outside. The brown canvas bag knocked squarely into Judge and sent her sprawling.
The system was still malfunctioning!
As I rushed toward her, I heard the grinding sound again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur rushing at me. I barely
had time to throw myself backward before a mailbag rocketed between Judge and me. The net that is supposed to hold onto the
mailbags until a worker reaches in to retrieve them wasn’t doing its job. Instead, it was acting like a giant slingshot, plucking
the mailbags off poles and firing them into the car.
Judge and I looked at each other from across the car. Judge appeared winded and confused. She rubbed her side where the bag
had hit her, but she looked unhurt. Then she was on her feet, running for the other end of the car. “Come on!” she called
back to me as she ran from the mail car toward the baggage car.
But I wasn’t going anywhere. As another mailbag fired into the train, I realized I would be a fool to follow her. One of those
bags could kill me.
I took off the top hat and jacket, pulled my cap out of my pocket, and put it back on, then turned to face the music.
The door from the workers’ car slid open. The train officials, led by Mr. Spike, rushed into the mail car.
April 17, 1906
8:15 PM
Without a word, William Henry walked me to the storage closet in the dining car. He opened the door and waved me in. The closet’s shelves were jammed with tablecloths,
napkins, canisters filled with wooden spoons–all the day-to-day things needed for the dining car to run smoothly.
There was barely room inside for the two of us, and William Henry’s clean, soapy smell filled the closet. He watched my eyes
traveling over items on the shelves and said, “We don’t keep any sharp objects in here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Who did he think I was? He was one of the suspects. I wasn’t!
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he cut me off. “Mr. Spike ordered me to keep you in a safe location–”
“And do you always
front of the train. The car that housed the train employees was next–and we dodged around some workers who were sitting at
a table playing cards and some who were folding sheets at another.
We were running out of train cars! If we didn’t find someplace to remove our disguises soon, we would reach the locomotive,
the end of the line for us.
Finally, we reached the mail car. Basically, it’s a mobile post office. One wall is taken up with row after row of slots where
mail is sorted. Usually, three or four men are there, sorting the mail that’s been picked up along the route. But it was deserted
now.
The other wall has a long sliding door that was open to the cool night air. The door allows workers to reach down into the
net that catches the mailbags left for pickup along the side of the tracks.
The amazing thing is that the train does not have to stop in order to pick up or deliver bags of mail to different areas of the country.
Bags for pick up are left on poles along the tracks. A steel frame supporting a net is extended from the side of the train. When the train passed by the mailbags, the net scoops up the bags and carries them off. To drop off a mailbag, the opposite procedure is followed. A bag is extended from the train by a steel pole, and nets along the tracks catch them.
For some reason, William Henry’s face popped in my head as we entered the car. It wasn’t a completely unpleasant image. But
I also heard his voice, and that was more upsetting.
“Mailbags are flying into the mail car faster than greased lightning. One man was hit by a bag and it snapped his wrist!”
We shouldn’t be in here.
“Judge! Wait!” I cried.
But I was too late.
Judge was two steps ahead of me. As she started to turn toward me, the train jerked, and there was a strange grinding sound.
Suddenly a 10-pound mailbag flew in from outside. The brown canvas bag knocked squarely into Judge and sent her sprawling.
The system was still malfunctioning!
As I rushed toward her, I heard the grinding sound again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur rushing at me. I barely
had time to throw myself backward before a mailbag rocketed between Judge and me. The net that is supposed to hold onto the
mailbags until a worker reaches in to retrieve them wasn’t doing its job. Instead, it was acting like a giant slingshot, plucking
the mailbags off poles and firing them into the car.
Judge and I looked at each other from across the car. Judge appeared winded and confused. She rubbed her side where the bag
had hit her, but she looked unhurt. Then she was on her feet, running for the other end of the car. “Come on!” she called
back to me as she ran from the mail car toward the baggage car.
But I wasn’t going anywhere. As another mailbag fired into the train, I realized I would be a fool to follow her. One of those
bags could kill me.
I took off the top hat and jacket, pulled my cap out of my pocket, and put it back on, then turned to face the music.
The door from the workers’ car slid open. The train officials, led by Mr. Spike, rushed into the mail car.
April 17, 1906
8:15 PM
Without a word, William Henry walked me to the storage closet in the dining car. He opened the door and waved me in. The closet’s shelves were jammed with tablecloths,
napkins, canisters filled with wooden spoons–all the day-to-day things needed for the dining car to run smoothly.
There was barely room inside for the two of us, and William Henry’s clean, soapy smell filled the closet. He watched my eyes
traveling over items on the shelves and said, “We don’t keep any sharp objects in here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Who did he think I was? He was one of the suspects. I wasn’t!
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he cut me off. “Mr. Spike ordered me to keep you in a safe location–”
“And do you always
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