BRINDLE ROGER. 
i 
By WINFIELD T. SHERWOOD 
O N a June Sunday, nearly thirty years ago, 
Timothy Loyd, station agent, ticket 
agent, baggage master, and telegraph 
operator at Oakville, ate his breakfast, and then 
walked down the single street of the village 
to the station, just as he had done every morn¬ 
ing for twenty-five years. In one hand he 
carried a two-quart tin basin, the contents of 
which threw a considerable light upon what the 
Loyd family had eaten for breakfast. With the 
thumb and forefinger of the other hand he held, 
by the aid of a bit of newspaper, the knuckle¬ 
like end of a ham bone. As his well-known 
steps resounded upon the platform, there could 
be heard one or two horny scratches on the 
inside of the office door, and then a muffled 
tail-beating against a desk, while the old man 
methodically took out his key. Loyd opened 
the door and Roger walked deliberately forth, 
for the scratching and tail-drumming were only 
morning salutes, in no wise to be associated 
with impatience. In fact, Roger, like his master, 
had passed the impatient age. Both had grown 
gray in the service of the company; the master’s 
term beginning when the railroad was com¬ 
pleted, and the dog’s dating from the time the 
office was robbed, ten years back. The day 
following the robbery, Loyd bought the brindle 
yearling pup, and one or both had been inside 
the place ever since. 
Roger was not handsome, and his ancestors 
had shown a shocking lack of exclusiveness in 
growing the family tree. Different points in 
his makeup bore resemblance to nearly all the 
breeds of big dogs, yet he could not legitimately 
claim to be a St. Bernard, a Great Dane or any 
other of the celebrated species. He was what 
people call a cur, but one hesitated to mention 
it to his face. Between himself and the master 
there existed a perfect understanding and mutual 
respect, although they indulged in few outward 
signs of affection. Each knew his duty and per¬ 
formed it without shirking. 
During the week days Roger roamed about 
the village, frequented Mrs. Loyd’s kitchen, or 
stayed in the telegraph office, as suited his 
fancy, but he was always on hand to be locked 
in, when closing up time came. Sundays, how¬ 
ever—that day when the master handed no bits 
of paper through the ticket window; was not 
in need of the clinkling pieces of brass, with 
leather strips looped through them; and when 
the busy little clickers upon the telegraph table 
would be still for an hour at a time; that was 
Roger’s day to ’tend office, and he never strayed. 
This morning the dog ate his breakfast from 
the basin, and then lay down to have a com¬ 
fortable gnaw at the ham bone, while Loyd 
dangled his feet from the station platform, and 
patiently awaited Roger’s time. At length the 
dog arose, went slowly into the office, and 
stretching himself in the square of sunshine 
which came through the dingy window, fell 
asleep as the lock clicked. 
Loyd glanced up and down the deserted street, 
and along the row of fifty odd houses, all more 
or less white, which constituted Oakville, and 
seeing no one to visit with, walked the few 
hundred feet to his own thrifty looking cottage. 
There he drew a rocking chair out on to the 
front porch, and with his feet on the veranda 
railing, basked in the sunshine and the glory 
of republican righteousness, while he read his 
weekly paper. 
A hundred miles away, at the inland city of 
Madison, Frank Carlton, train dispatcher for 
the middle division of the N. S. & W. Railroad, 
consulted his perfectly accurate watch, and dis¬ 
covered that it lacked only fifteen minutes of 
nine o’clock. He tossed the baby once more 
and snuggled the dimpled cheeks, as he laid it 
back in the crib. Then giving his wife a half¬ 
hitch hug and picking up his hat, he started out, 
accompanied by his bare-headed daughter, a 
pink-and-white creation five years old. At the 
end of the block they stopped- while he made 
a solemn agreement with the child to take her 
and her mother for a ride in the country that 
evening. This done, the child went scampering 
back with the news, and Carlton walked briskly 
on to the superintendent’s office. 
“Good morning Chet! Much moving to¬ 
day?” he called to his mate, as precisely on time 
he entered the dispatcher’s room. The mate, 
whose eight hours of duty were now ended, re¬ 
turned the salutation sleepily and answered. 
“Nothing but one wildcat.”* 
After vacating the chair for Carlton, Chester 
Wheeler yawned and stretched as he looked out 
of the window, observing, “It’s ’most too nice 
a day to stay in. Guess I’ll go for a sail on the 
river, after I’ve had breakfast and a nap.” 
“I would like to do that myself,” replied Carl¬ 
ton, while Wheeler was departing. 
Having already glanced over the train sheet 
and order book, he tilted his chair back, and 
putting his feet upon the desk, lighted a cigar, 
while he looked longingly out of doors in re- 
*A train without schedule time. 
sponse to the feelings his mate’s remark ha< 
aroused. 
Near the window a stunted old elm had man 
aged to retain some of its stubbed limbs ii 
spite of the tangle- of telegraph wires which rai 
through' them and the smothering pavement ove 
its roots. The tree’s pathetic efforts at leafagi 
had resulted in scarcely more than a greenisl 
film, not sufficient to attract any birds, othei 
than the noisy little sparrows. Looking througl 
this veil and between bare brick walls, Carltor 
could see a narrow section of a round greer 
hill beyond the city limits. On this hill stooc 
a tree, untrimmed and unfettered, a sturdy oak 
with limbs that could bend and wave as thej 
saluted in hurricane, but which made no sigr 
to the lesser winds, save the dainty fluttering ol 
leaves. He thought how much it resembled the 
old oak in the hill pasture at the home farm 
and wondered if that tree were still standing 
Then from the storehouse of his mind, the 
awakened memories of boyhood days came 
stealing forth with noiseless barefoot tread, until 
an instrument upon his desk snapped out the 
dispatcher’s call. Reluctantly he opened the 
key and replied. 
The operator at Brayton reported that a wild¬ 
cat of empty. gondolas had been made up, and 
was ready for orders. Carlton gave an order, 
listened to its repetition, with the names of the 
engineer and conductor, O K’d it and wrote 
out the record. 
Resuming his former position, he picked up 
the broken thread of his thoughts and went on 
smoking. 
General Superintendent Briggs, out for a 
morning walk, gravitated naturally toward the 
office, as one does whose life is wrapped up in 
a great enterprise. He was a fine type of man. 
such a man as we say “fills his uniform.” A 
period of service as train dispatcher had been 
one of the steps leading to his position. Even 
now, when time permitted, he enjoyed going to 
that room and listening to the pulsebeats of the 
throbbing traffic upon his road, as the train- 
loads of coal, merchandise, cattle and people 
were shuttled back and forth over a single track. 
This morning the fancy struck him to have a 
chat with Carlton. He had liked the younger 
man, ever since the time some years ago, when 
at one of the smaller stations he had seen and 
marked him for promotion. 
As the superintendent entered, Carlton, a little 
abashed at the awkwardness of his own position, 
squirmed his legs down from the desk as un¬ 
obtrusively as possible and rose to offer his 
superior a chair. Briggs’ eyes twinkled a bit 
as he saw the dispatcher’s confusion, and offer¬ 
ing him a fresh cigar, he said: 
“Now, if you will just put your feet back on 
the desk, I shall feel more at liberty to make 
