Great Brain At the Academy

by John D. Fitzgerald

  “You sure have taught me a lot about trains,” Tom said. “But I’ll never know all I should unless you fix it so I can ride in the locomotive from here to Salt Lake City.”

  ‘T can’t do that, Tom,” Mr. Walters said. “It is against regulations.”

  The conductor didn’t know it but he had walked right into Tom’s trap.

  “It is also against regulations to let card sharks operate on trains,” Tom said. “This Harrison fellow could have gone on cheating passengers for years if it hadn’t been for me. And you can report how these crooked decks of cards are marked at the factory so other conductors will know how to spot them. I figure the railroad owes me something for that.”

  Mr. Walters nodded. “When you put it that way,” he said, “I agree the railroad owes you a ride in the locomotive. But you’ll get your clothes all dirty.”

  Tom was so happy he wanted to do a little dance. “I’ve got a rain slicker and rain hat in my suitcase I can wear.”

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  “Go get them,” Mr. Walters said. “But come up to the locomotive on the other side of the train. I don’t want the stationmaster to see you. I haven’t time to explain to him right now.”

  Sweyn was back in his seat when Tom entered the coach. He stared bug-eyed as Tom opened the suitcase and put on his rain slicker and hat.

  “Have you gone plumb loco?” he asked. “It isn’t raining. And even if it was you can’t get wet in here.”

  “I’m going to ride in the locomotive and don’t want to get my clothes dirty,” Tom said.

  “In a pig’s eye,” Sweyn said.

  “Just make sure you take my suitcase off the train when we get to Salt Lake City,” Tom said.

  Poor Sweyn just sat there with his mouth open as he watched Tom leave the coach.

  Tom ran around to the other side of the train and up to the locomotive. He could hear Mr. Walters talking to the engineer.

  “Got a passenger for you. Ed, from here to Salt Lake City,” the conductor said. “He is a boy about eleven or twelve years old. He has a curious mind and will ask you a lot of questions.”

  “I get it,” Ed said. “He must be the son of some big shot on the railroad.”

  “I haven’t time to explain now,” Mr. Walters said. “Just make sure he gets off on the opposite side from the depot so the stationmaster doesn’t see him. You’ll find him waiting on the other side now.”

  A moment later the engineer put his head out of the cab window. “Come on up to the deck, boy,” he said.

  Tom was so excited he almost slipped and fell as he

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  climbed into the cab of the locomotive. The engineer was wearing blue overalls, a blue shirt, and a blue cap with a long visor. He had a red bandanna handkerchief tied around his neck. The fireman was dressed the same but his face, hands, and clothing were covered with coal dust.

  “My name is Ed,” the engineer said, “and the fireman’s name is Bill. What is your name, boy?”

  “Tom Fitzgerald,” Tom answered.

  The engineer scratched his forehead. “Funny,” he said, “but I never heard of any big shot on this railroad by that name.”

  Tom knew he’d better change the subject quickly. “Why did you tell me to come up to the deck?” he asked. “I thought only boats had decks.”

  “The platform of a locomotive is called the deck by railroad men,” Ed answered. “Now stand back from the gangway so Bill can slug the firebox.”

  Tom stepped back. He watched the fireman use the end of a scoop shovel to open the door of the firebox. He was surprised at the intense heat coming from the burning coal. He watched Bill stoke the firebox with coal taken from the tender.

  “That ought to take care of it until we get to Salt Lake City,” Bill said, shutting the door of the firebox.

  “We are going to have to pound her to make up for the few minutes we are late,” Ed said.

  Tom was puzzled. “I understood ‘gangway’ meant the rear part of the deck,” he said. “And I knew when you told Bill to slug the firebox you wanted him to put more coal in it. But what do you mean by ‘pounding’ her?”

  “It is railroad talk meaning we’ve got to get all the speed we safely can out of this locomotive,” Ed said. “See

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  that cord? The one on the left? It rings the bell to let passengers know we will be leaving in a few minutes. Don’t yank on it too hard or the bell will just spin around. You can tell by the feel of the cord and the sound of the bell when you are doing it just right.”

  Boy, oh, boy, was Tom in his glory. He never expected they would let him ring the bell. He had heard locomotive bells many times in Adenville. But the sound of the bell on engine number 205 as he rang it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

  “That’s enough,” Ed said. “I’ve got to look out the cab window now so I can see when the conductor gives us the highball. ‘Highball’ is another railroad term, Tom, meaning the arm signal to start. Get your hand on that other cord that blows the whistle. Give it two quick pulls when you hear the conductor call ‘All aboard.* “

  By this time Tom was more excited than a dog chas-ing a rabbit. In a couple of minutes he heard Mr. Walters calling, “All aboard!”

  Tom jerked the cord twice and heard two short blasts from the steam whistle. “Do we start now?” he asked.

  “Not until the conductor gives me the arm signal,” Ed said. “There it is. Now grab that handrailing so you don’t fall.”

  Tom took hold of the handrailing. He watched the engineer release the air brakes. Ed turned a valve, then put his left hand on a bar about two feet long with a round handle on one end.

  “This used to be called a Johnson bar,” Ed said, “but now we call it the throttle. The farther I push it forward the more steam pressure it will release to the cylinders and the faster we will go. I take it nice and easy so we

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  don’t jerk the cars we are pulling until we get under way. A steam locomotive is about the simplest machine ever invented. But each one is just a little bit different. You take this one. I have to sort of coax it and drive it by the feel of the throttle.”

  The train began to move as Ed slowly pushed the throttle forward.

  “Why do you say it is a simple machine?” Tom asked.

  “It has a firebox into which we put coal to burn,” Ed said as the train began to pick up speed. “This heats the water in the boiler, producing steam. The steam is released to each cylinder and its pressure pushes the pistons. The pistons are attached to rods which are connected with the drivers. The steam pressure in the cylinders moves the pistons back and forth, and this moves the rods that make the drivers go around.”

  “Why do you call the wheels ‘drivers’?” Tom asked.

  “Because they are the wheels that actually drive the locomotive,” Ed answered. “This is an American type 4-4-0 locomotive which means the drive wheels are four-and-a-half feet high. The drivers on a locomotive built to pull a freight train are smaller, which gives the wheels more pulling power. And on fast passenger trains they use locomotives with larger drivers because the bigger the drivers the faster a locomotive can go.”

  Tom was getting used to the rocking motion of the locomotive and he let go of the handrail. “How fast will number 205 go?” he asked.

  “She will do a mile a minute on a straightaway,” Ed answered. “And Walters was certainly right. You do have a curious mind.”

  Tom didn’t want the engineer to get bored answer-

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  ing questions. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must learn all about locomotives by the time we reach Salt Lake City. I won’t ask any more questions if you don’t want me to though.”

  “Go ahead and ask all the questions you want,” Ed said.

  “What is the fastest a train will go?” Tom asked, quickly taking advantage of the offer.

  “Engine number 999. pulling the Empire State Express between Syracuse and Buffalo, New York, ran a measure
d mile at one-hundred-twelve-and-a-half miles per hour back in 1893,” Ed said.

  “Boy, oh, boy!” Tom exclaimed. “That is really traveling.”

  “We are coming to a road crossing,” Ed said. “Grab the whistle cord and give three long blasts.”

  Tom pulled the cord. He discovered as long as he held it down the whistle kept on blowing and when he let it up the whistle stopped.

  A few minutes later Ed spoke to the fireman. “We are coming to that bad curve now, Bill,” he said. “I’m go-ing to take it ten miles above our usual speed. You know what to do.”

  Tom was astonished as he saw Bill go to the side of the cab opposite the engineer, place his hands against it, and push.

  “As long as you are here, Tom,” Bill said, “give me a hand so engine number 205 doesn’t tip over.”

  Tom stood beside Bill and began to push. He could hear Bill grunting as if using all his strength as they went around the curve. Tom pushed as hard as he could until he heard both Ed and Bill laughing.

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  “Don’t feel bad about it, Tom,” Ed said. “I had a green fireman one time who fell for it too. And to make up for playing a little joke on you, I’m going to let you drive engine 205. No sense in riding in a locomotive if you can’t tell your friends you drove one. Get over here in front of me and put your left hand on the throttle and your head out the tab window.”

  Tom did as he was toid.

  “We’ve got a straightaway coming up now for a few miles,” Ed said. “I’m going to give it all old number 205 has got.”

  Tom felt Ed pushing the throttle forward. With his head out the cab window and the wind whistling in his ears, it seemed as if they were flying.

  “I’m going to take my hand off the throttle now,” the engineer said. “Hold her steady. There you go, Tom. You are now driving number 205 at sixty miles an hour.”

  Tom said later that was the happiest moment of his life. Many times in his life he had made his great brain work like sixty. But this was the first time he had ever actually traveled at sixty miles an hour. Ed only let him drive the locomotive for about a minute but that was enough.

  It was with a feeling of regret that he said good-bye to Ed and Bill when the train arrived at the depot in Salt Lake City.

  “Good-bye and thanks,” he said. “I’ll remember both of you and number 205 for the rest of my life.”

  “Bill and I enjoyed having you with us,” Ed said. “When we were boys your age we both used-to dream about riding in a locomotive. I guess that is why we be-came railroad men.”

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  Tom climbed down the iron rungs of the locomotive to the ground. Then he went around the train to meet Sweyn.

  Tom was just about the happiest kid in the world right then. But he sure as heck wasn’t a happy kid for long. And if he’d known what lay ahead of him that day he would have probably climbed back into the cab of the locomotive and just kept on going.

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  CHAPTER THREE

  Off on the Wrong Foot

  I WAS SURPRISED when Tom wrote me that he had got off on the wrong foot at the academy but that it wasn’t anything serious. For my money, any trouble The Great Brain got into had to be serious. Papa was hoping the Jesuit priests would reform Tom. That to me was like hoping the priests would gel rid of the freckles on Tom’s face. I found out I was right when Father Rodriguez sent the first monthly report on Tom’s and Sweyn’s progress and deportment. These reports were sent to the parents of all students every month.

  Papa always stopped at the post office at the end of his day’s work, but he never opened the mail until after

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  supper. Mamma said it was because Papa didn’t want to spoil his appetite if there was any bad news in the mail. It was a good system because Papa wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite if he’d read the report on Tom before supper.

  Papa waited until after the dishes were put away and then read the reports aloud to Mamma, Aunt Bertha, and me in the parlor. He read the report on Sweyn first and when he finished he looked as pleased as a rabbit with two carrots. But by the time he finished Tom’s report his cheeks were so blown up with anger I thought he would blow his teeth right out of his mouth.

  “I’ll wager they expel him and send him home!” he shouted, waving the report in the air like it was a red flag and he was a bull-Mamma took it very calmly. “He just needs time to adjust,” she said.

  “Adjust?” Papa cried. “The Great Brain will have a difficult time adjusting in heaven.” And then he added, “If he ever gets there.”

  I didn’t blame Papa for being so upset. The report was in polite language but made it very plain that if Tom didn’t mend his ways he would be sent home. I didn’t get all the details of what had happened until my brothers came home for the Christmas vacation. And, of course, what Tom told me and what Sweyn told me and what Father Rodriguez wrote in his report were three slightly different stories. So I have to be sort of a detective to figure out exactly what happened.

  Tom met Sweyn on the platform in back of the depot in Salt Lake City. If there was any truth in that business about people turning green with envy Sweyn would have

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  been the color of our grass in the summertime.

  “I thought you were joking,” he said, “until the conductor told me you were actually riding in the locomotive. How did you ever pull that off?”

  “When a fellow has a great brain, anything is possible,” Tom said, taking off the raincoat and hat.

  “Well, you had better put your great brain to work on a way to get cleaned up before Father O’Malley sees you,” Sweyn said. “You look like a chimney sweep with that soot and coal dust all over your face. Maybe you can sneak into the washroom in the depot and wash up.”

  But Tom didn’t get a chance to wash up. Father O’Malley was waiting for them just inside the doorway of the depot. He was a middle-aged man wearing the traditional black robe and hood of a Jesuit priest. The hood was pushed back on his neck, revealing a head that was bald except for a fringe of hair around the edges. There was a braided cord around his waist and a crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck. His cheeks were rosy red, as if somebody had just pinched them.

  “Welcome back, Sweyn,” he said as they shook hands. “I trust the good Lord gave you a pleasant journey from Adenville.” Then he looked at Tom. “And this must be your brother Thomas, who doesn’t look as if he had a pleasant journey at all.”

  “I rode in the cab of the locomotive from Provo,” Tom said proudly, still thrilled by the ride.

  “Did you now?” Father O’Malley said. “That is something I’ve always wanted to do. You must tell me all about it some time, Thomas.”

  “Please don’t call me Thomas,” Tom said. “It sounds kind of sissified. Please call me Tom instead.”

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  “I doubt if anyone would call your patron saint, Thomas, a sissy,” Father O’Malley said. “However, I will call you Tom if you prefer. But Father Rodriguez may take an entirely different point of view.”

  “Speaking of Father Rodriguez,” Sweyn said, “can my brother wash up before we go to the academy?”

  “I’m sorry, Sweyn,” the priest said. “But my orders are to deliver the out-of-town boys exactly the way they arrive. If it wasn’t for this rule they would all want to wash up, clean the dirt from beneath their fingernails, put on a clean shirt and necktie, and anything else that might help make a good first impression on Father Rodriguez.”

  Sweyn looked at Tom. “That means on your first day you’ll get demerits,” he said.

  Did that bother Tom? Heck no.

  “It was worth getting demerits to ride in a locomotive,” he said.

  He followed Sweyn and the priest out of the depot to where several horse-drawn liveries were waiting. Their drivers were soliciting customers by proclaiming good accommodations and free transportation to the various hotels. Father O’Malley stopped when they came to a sin-gle horse hitched to a b
uggy with two seats. He got into the front; seat and Tom and Sweyn climbed into the rear.

  “Have you ever been to Salt Lake City before, Tom?” the priest asked.

  “No, Father,” Tom answered.

  “Then I shall give you a very short tour of it,” the priest said.

  Father O’Malley drove without speaking until they came to Temple Square. “The six-spired gray granite building is the Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of

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  Latter-day Saints,” he said. “Construction was begun in 1853 but it wasn’t completed until forty years later. The big building with a roof that resembles the back of a huge tortoise is the Mormon Tabernacle. The acoustics are remarkable. You can drop a pin at one end and hear it drop at the other end two hundred feet away.”

  Tom had read all about the temple and tabernacle. But what excited him most were the horse-drawn streetcars, the tall buildings, and the crowds of people as they drove down Main Street.

  They left the business district and Father O’Malley pointed out Saint Mary’s Academy for Catholic Girls and the Presbyterian Westminster College. After seeing these two schools Tom was very disappointed when they arrived at the Catholic Academy. Sweyn had told him it had once been the home of a wealthy Catholic who had donated it to the Jesuits for a school. Tom didn’t blame the wealthy Catholic for not wanting to live there anymore. It might have been a nice neighborhood at one time but now the big homes had been turned into cheap rooming houses or torn down to make way for factories and warehouses.

  The academy itself was a three-story wooden building with dormer windows in the attic, making it look four stories tall. Its white paint was a dirty gray color from the smokestacks of surrounding factories and so blistered with age that it was peeling from some of the boards. One side of the academy was flush up against the sidewalk. The other three sides were enclosed within a high rock wall that had a gate at the front entrance.