When am I gettin' my engine, boss?” Big Bill Adams, the yard-foreman, spun round on his high stool and coughed as a cloud of coal-smoke was wafted in through the open door.

“Don't you worry about that engine, laddie,” said Adams kindly. “I'm just writin' away about it now.”

The figure in the doorway blinked. His large, expressive eyes clouded. He shook his head wistfully.

“They're takin' a long, long time. Shake ‘em up, will you, Mr. Adams, please?”

Adams stroked his grey moustache.

“It'll be comin' along any time now, Johnny.”

Johnny closed the door. How many times had he uttered those same words? thought Adams sadly. Through the smoke-blackened window, he watched the pathetic-looking figure picking his way across the maze of rails in the grimy yard; a figure with an unruly mop of soft, gold hair. The shiny-peaked railway cap, two sizes two small for him, perched incongruously on his abnormally large head. His long arms—strangely out of proportion from the rest of his body—hung from thin shoulders.

An engine whistle squealed, and a big black locomotive clanked past with lazily-swinging drivers. Johnny stopped and watched it raptly until it had disappeared.

Adams turned to his desk. He thought of his own sturdy son, at school in Adelaide, and sighed: “Poor Johnny.”

Where Johnny had hailed from, no one seemed to know. Nearly fifteen years before, he had drifted into Jurra-gundi Junction. The locos, fascinated him, so he stayed. The little, squat engines of the Opal run, or the giant locos, that thundered through, southbound and north-bound, they were all the same to him. He loved them, one and all.

One day, many years before, a kindly driver had taken the lad into the cab. For the first time, he thrilled at the feel of a throttle. He had been allowed to toss his first shovelfull of coal into the glowing firebox. From that moment, he lived for railways and engines alone. And so, Johnny became a familiar figure to every driver, fireman and guard, two hundred miles north and south of Jurragundi. He helped in the shed, ran errands—sometimes foolish ones—and assisted in the yard. But he received no salary. His was a labour of love.

The little township of Jurragundi lay sweltering in the hottest summer the residents had ever known. Month in, month out, each morning, a glaring sun arose over the rim of the saltbush plains and travelled its fiery circuit. A sun that turned the rails in the yard, as hot as fire-bars. So hot, that when the shunters stepped on them, they could smell the scorching leather.

In Opal, twenty miles east, it was said to be even hotter. Along almost the entire run to Opal, the track ran through a hardwood forest, so dense that never a breeze penetrated through. Engine-crews, on making the run, pulled into Jurragundi, stumbled from their footplates and swore it was the hottest ever. Lucky for them it was only a twice-a-week service to Opal.

Far up the main line, Johnny heard the shriek of a whistle. He waited expectantly. The engine, followed by a long string of cars, flashed round the bend, pulled into Jurragundi, and stood panting in the sun-blaze. The driver waved to the lone figure that regarded the train so intently. Johnny waved back. A shrill blast, the hiss of steam, the drivers spun and steadied. The train gathered speed and thundered on its way to Adelaide, nearly four hundred miles away.

Johnny crossed the yard, paused beside a stationary loco., and glanced into the cab. There was no one there. He climbed inside and caressed the throttle. The lever felt warm and alive in his hand.

Driver Donovan heard a sound. He laid down his blue enamel flask and stood up. “Hi, you! What are you doin' in there?”

Johnny started back guiltily.

“N-nothin', he stammered.

‘Well, then! Get out! Hop it!”

“I was doin' no harm,” said Johnny. “The other drivers lets me. Besides, I'm gettin' an engine, myself. Mr. Adams told me. He's writin' away.” Donovan laughed harshly.

“G'arn, son, they're kiddin' you. They don't give locos. to half-wits.”

As though struck, Johnny cowered back. He blinked stupidly and his face whitened. Then, turning slowly, he stumbled away towards his tin hut at the far end of the yard.

“Hi, son—'

page 25

Unheeding, Johnny trudged on. Inside his hut he sat down dazedly. What had Donovan meant? Surely he didn't think … He laughed mirthlessly. Yes, that's what he meant. But, hadn't Mr. Adams promised him an engine? And Bill Adams wouldn't lie. Still, it was strange. He'd been waiting for years for that engine. He was aware that drivers sat for tickets. Then why hadn't he been asked to do the same? And no word about his first becoming a fireman. Why … ?

Why did he not line-up with the other men, on pay-night? A thought left him cold and trembling. Why had he never realised it until this minute? Yes, he should have starved, had it not been for the kindness of the railway-men.

He took off the cap that bore the insignia of the railway and listlessly tossed it into the corner. Arising, he packed his few belongings into a battered suitcase. He picked up the cap, stared at it for a moment, then thrust it into his pocket.

Twilight found him miles away from Jurragundi and close to the deserted sawmill. Engines still held their sway. He remembered the loco, that the saw-milling company had used to haul the timber-laden wagons back to the Opal line.

When he arrived at the mill, he gazed at the engine—a cold, lifeless thing. Climbing into the cab, he observed the tarnished brasswork and rusted controls. A bird had built its nest in one corner of the cab. He shuddered. To his simple mind, it seemed like sacrilege. He glanced back at the heaped coal. Why, he could drive it, if …

He dismissed the thought and stepped down on to the dead leaves beside the track. The stars came out. The bush brooded silently, except for the faintest rustle in the gum-leaves. He lay on his back and gazed at the velvet sky. His thoughts were disordered, inexplicable. His little world had collapsed entirely. He sat up.

A shadowy figure darted from the bush and clutched his arm. The whites of two eyes gleamed in an ebony face.

“You coma longa Jurragundi, eh?” stuttered a voice from the gloom.

“Yes,” said Johnny tonelessly.

“Then big debbil fire coma longa, too. Burn Opal up. Me see um, ten mile back. Makum that way to Opal.”

Johnny pondered the aboriginal's statement. No use running the morning train to Opal, if Opal had gone. He had visited the place on several occasions. He had a picture of it in his mind. A small cluster of wooden houses ringed around by a great expanse of forest. He thought about the big wooden bridge over the Clearwater. It would be destroyed if the fire swept that way.

He jumped to his feet as something flashed into his mind. What had the railwaymen been talking about in the yard? He recalled their words. Only women and children in Opal. All the men were away fighting the fire in the north. But Opal was quite safe—they had said so.

He stood undecided.

But, had another fire broken out closer to Opal? Those women and children! What would happen to them, unless they were brought out? Who could bring them out? There was no engine in Opal. Who, then … ?

His heart beat suffocatingly as he gazed at the black mass of the engine.

Only one man could bring them out, and that man . . the thought seared his brain … why, himself.

“You stay longa me,” he snapped at the aboriginal.

He raked the dead ashes from the fire-box and thrust in an armful of dry leaves and wood. When the fire leapt up, he seized the shovel and spread a thin layer of coal on top. Then he attended to the filling of the tank.

He stopped suddenly. He'd forgotten that Opal was linked with Jurragundi by telephone. In the event of Jurragundi sending through an engine, there would be danger of a collision. The thought left him cold. No, he daren't risk it.

The mill was situated about two miles back from the line. So far, he'd heard no engine on its way through. Had they heard about the fire. If so, why hadn't they sent help? Perhaps they hadn't heard. What should he do?

He waited, in an agony of suspense, while the engine warmed. It became a living, glowing thing. He strained his ears for a sound that would indicate that another engine was on its way.

He made up his mind suddenly. Springing to the footplate, he glanced up at the gauge.

“You stay alonga me an' shovel coal,” he said to the blackfellow.

He showed him how to spread the coal evenly over the fire. He'd have to make the run in reverse. And he'd have to remember about those points. They would be locked, but there was a heavy rasp in the ditty-box, so he'd soon cut through the chain.

Johnny jammed the uniform-cap on his head and linked motion.

“Mad!” he yelled exultantly. “Doncvan says so.”

* * *

Back in the station at Jurragundi, the ’phone rang sharply. Chalmers, the night-clerk, glanced up from his sheaf of way-bills.

“Opal calling,” he muttered. “Who the devil can that be? There's no one on duty in Opal.”

He jerked the receiver from the hook.

“Hullo! Hul-lo!”

No answer came back. He turned the handle, but still no reply. Slamming the receiver back angrily, he turned to his desk.

An hour later, Adams stepped into the office.

“Come outside, Fred,” he said to Chalmers. “I want you to look at something.”

Adams pointed an arm towards the east.

“What do you make o' that?”

They studied the red glow that seemed to die and fiare up again periodically.

“Fire,” said Chalmers. “Over Opal way.” He sniffed. “Fire, all right, I can smell it.”

“They would have ’phoned, if they were in any danger,” remarked Adams.

Chalmers told about the call from Opal.

“Good God, man, they might have been ringing for help!”

“But they never answered.”

“Maybe the fire swept the line before they had a chance.”

“Better rouse Donovan,” said Chalmers. “We'll send an engine through. No. 35'll be still hot.”

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page 27

As they drew near Opal, Johnny reached up and tugged hard on the whistle-lanyard. Opal seemed to leap out of the darkness. He saw a small group of white faces in the reflected glow from the firebox.

Angus McPherson, the aged storekeeper in Opal, and the only man who was not away fighting the fire in the north, clutched Johnny's arm as he stepped from the engine.

“Thank God, you've come, mon. We gave up all hope, when we didna get an answer from Jurragundi.”

Johnny sighed with relief. He now knew he would have a clear run back.

“There's a car in the sidin',” said McPherson. “We'll . . ”

“Wooden car … useless,” gasped Johnny. “Wouldn't last five minutes. A steel wagon an' wet tarpaulins—that's what I want. There's covers in the shed. Get ’em, while I couple-up.”

They splashed water from the tanks into the wagon, hustled the women and children aboard and soaked the covering tarpaulins.

Johnny sprang to the footplate. The aboriginal attempted to dive from the cab. Johnny jerked him back and kicked open the firebox door.

“Get busy!” he yelled.

On a full head of steam, they raced out of Opal. The trees on each side of the track echoed the thud of the exhaust; the engine rocked to the thrust of the pistons.

At the back of the trees, the fire glowed red. They rattled past rocky faces; flashed across viaducts as the wooden sides wove fantastic patterns in the night. Johnny clung to the throttle, while the steel floor rocked beneath him. The heat sapped the blood in his veins.

The aboriginal staggered back; his black body glistened with sweat; his eyes rolled. Johnny tore the shovel from his hands. As he laboured, the engine gained momentum and raced away on a down-grade. He dropped the shovel and steadied the throttle.

“No use racin' her wheels off on a down-grade,” he muttered. “But we've got to get over the Clearwater before the bridge goes.”

He saw a tongue of fire leap from the trees, but they had passed in a flash. They roared round the bend. Ahead, was a solid wall of fire.

The black-fellow dropped the shovel, raised his hands to his face, and shrieked. Johnny gritted his teeth and pulled the throttle wide. The fire swirled into the cub. The heat blistered him; he couldn't breathe. Something had him by the throat. He sobbed; he cried aloud in agony.

Thank God! They were through.

On—on—on, they tore into the red night. As if by a miracle, the engine held the rails. He knew he was driving far over the safety margin, but he had to get over the Clearwater before the bridge went. He changed his right hand to the throttle, for the left had gone dead. Through blistered lips, he tried to shout encouragement to his fireman.

The smoke thickened; it choked him. He was fainting. He prayed for strength to carry on.

Oh … let him get over the Clear-water before he roasted, and his job was done!

* * *

Donovan sprang from the cab of No. 35 and pointed towards the bridge that was a mass of leaping flame.

“We can do nothing more,” said Adams dully. “God grant that the fire has missed Opal.”

Suddenly from the back of the fire, came the wild wail of a whistle. Loud and piercing, it sounded above the crackle of the flames.

“Great God!” yelled Donovan. “There's someone on the line.”

He dived into the cab and flung the lever into reverse.

As the engine approached, Adams heard the terrific pounding of the wheels as they hammered the rail-joints.

“Good God! He's comin' through,” gasped Adams to his companions. “But who is it?”

They stared, fascinated.

The black front of a locomotive burst out from that hell of flame. The wheels flew sparks like a shower of gold as the engine gradually slowed. Two hundred yards past them, it stopped. They raced towards it.

A shadowy shape dived from the cab, and, chattering excitedly, pointed towards the engine. Some of the men tore the smouldering tarpaulins from the wagon. Adams climbed into the cab. A figure lay crumpled on the steel floor. Adams turned him over.

“Johnny,” he said huskily as he lifted him down.

Someone flashed a light on the figure that lay so still on the gravel beside the track. A cry of horror burst from half a dozen throats.

“His hand! Oh … look at his hand!”

All this happened a good many years ago, but Johnny is still in Jurragundi. He hasn't got his engine yet; he never shall. As Bill Adams very gently pointed out to him, when he came out of hospital, a man with only one hand, couldn't very well pass a driver's test. But he has a job in the shed, and each pay-night, he lines-up with the other men and is solemnly handed an envelope which is inscribed simply: “Johnny.”

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