The Cinder Buggy by Garet Garrett

no breaking point. Continuously day and night he walked among them like a principle of evil, calling to a spirit of demonry within them,—a spirit that racked their bodies, scared their souls, and responded in spite of their reason. A maddened hand would sometimes be raised against him. He never flinched. He was derisive. The hand would drop. He never gave a man a ticket for that.
    Brains were another problem. He treated it separately, though in the same way and with the same consequences. Any inquisitive young man wishing to learn the iron business could begin at the bottom. He might begin in the mill and work toward the office or begin in the office and work toward the mill. He was sure to move fast in either direction. If he survived the ruthless selection that took place on the lower rungs of the ladder he could count on gaining a small partnership in a few years. An interest of two or three per cent. in the business was more stimulating than wages. As the business grew the number of junior partners increased. There might be six or eight at a time, all trying to keep pace with Enoch. They emerged from the flux like a procession of sparks, burned brightly for a little while and fell in darkness. He used them up and bought them out.
    In time the town of New Damascus, like the yard of his mill, was littered with things Enoch Gib had strained to the breaking point. Some, like Tom Mc-Antee, were decently covered up in the cemetery. Others were aimlessly walking about. Conspicuous among these were the used up partners. They all had nice houses and plenty to live on. The business was profitable. But they were withered and rickety, older than old Enoch in the midst of their years, and had a baffled look in their eyes.
    The town became rich and famous. The mill was the source of its greatness. There the first American rails were rolled. For twenty years they were the best iron rails in the world. There iron nails were first cut from a sheet, like cookies out of dough. Then the Civil War came and iron that cost ten dollars a ton to make could be sold for fifty and sixty.

IX
    O NE August evening in 1869 a number of Damascenes were gathered as usual at the railroad station to witness and audit the arrival and departure of the seven o’clock train. This was an event still miraculous and unbelievable, requiring verification of the senses. A young man swung off before the train had quite stopped, walked forward, and stood watching the small freight unload. When the last of it was off one of the heavers, leaning from the car door, called to the station agent, Andy Weir:
    “Give us an extra hand here. There’s a flat passenger.”
    Weir came and looked in.
    “Them’s rawkis words you use,” he said admonishingly. “Suppose it was somebody we knew.”
    “Come on,” said the heaver. “Give us a hand. This ain’t a hearse. It’s a railroad train.”
    Weir beckoned. Several men stepped out of the crowd to help. With a hollow grating sound the end of a long pine box was pushed into view. It came out slowly. Weir felt for handles. There weren’t any. It was a plain coffin case.
    “Shoulder it,” he said to his volunteers.
    They walked with it to the far end of the platform and stopped.
    “Might rain,” said Weir, changing his mind. “Over there,” he added, after looking around. “Under the overhang.”
    They turned back. Awkwardly, with scraping feet and gruntings, they put it down against the station wall under the projecting eave, and then stood looking at it, all a little red from the exertion and stooping.
    “Tain’t yours, is it?” said Weir, turning suddenly on the young man who had followed the box to and fro.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Who are you?”
    “John Breakspeare.”
    The station agent bent down and read the card tacked to the top of the box. The name was Aaron Breakspeare.
    “I knew him,” he said, now gazing at the young man. “Knew him well, I might say. Everybody around here did. You ain’t his