The Limping Goose

21

Sam Cragg was free, but he was thirty-five miles from New York City, without a nickel in his pocket. And the Law was after him. He ran from the rear of the jail to a street and he walked swiftly down the street and then ran through another alley. It wouldn’t be long before the police would be after him. The old tramp would yell the moment he thought Sam was clear of jail and not likely to return.

They’d be after him. He walked swiftly up another street, cut through a third alley and saw railroad tracks. This was safer than the highway, he thought. A train.

Of course he had no money, but Johnny and he had ridden the rods in the days of old. A freight train was all Sam needed.

A long platform was ahead of him. There were two or three people waiting for a train. Sam went up to one of the men. “When does the next freight train go through here?” he asked politely.

“Freight train? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a freight train on this line.”

“All railroads have freight trains,” insisted Sam. “How else would they move their freight?”

“Search me. All I know is that there’s my train coming right now.”

A train, pulled by an electric engine, rolled smoothly into the depot. The few passengers on the platform began to board it. Sam looked around him, caught sight of a blue uniform at the far end of the platform. He sprang for the steps of a car, scrambled in.

The train began to move. Sam went in and found a seat. The conductor entered the front of the car, scanned the tickets of the passengers, stuck into the metal wedges beside the windows. He took a ticket from a new passenger, came down to Sam.

“Ticket?”

“Huh? Uh, didn’t you get my ticket at the last station?”

“I don’t believe so,” said the conductor. “I’d have left the slip there.” The conductor indicated the ticket wedge by Sam’s window. It was empty.

“I was sure I gave it to you,” grumbled Sam.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t.”

Sam began to search his pockets. Deliberately he explored his coat pockets, then stood up and went through his trousers pockets. The conductor waited patiently.

“I know I bought a ticket,” Sam insisted.

“You may find it later.”

“Yeah, sure — I’ll give it to you later. When I find it”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to have it now. Or the price.”

“How much is it?”

“To Grand Central? A dollar ten.”

“Okay, I’ll pay.” Sam thrust his hand into his trousers pocket, showed exaggerated alarm. “Holy smoke!” Quickly he reached into his breast pocket. “My wallet!” He snapped his fingers. “I left it at home on the piano.”

“You have no money then,” said the conductor, “and no ticket.”

“Tell you what buddy,” Sam suggested, “I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

The conductor had played the game all the way. But he was an old hand at this sort of thing. He said nastily, “You’ll get off at the next station.”

“I can’t,” cried Sam. “I’ve got to get to New York. It’s... it’s important.”

“You’ll get off,” snapped the conductor, “or I’ll kick you off.”

“You and who else?” challenged Sam.

The train was already slackening speed for the next stop. The conductor pointed to the door. “Out!”

“I asked you, who’s going to make me?”

“I’ll call a policeman,” the conductor said. “It’s against the law to try to swindle the railroad out of a fare.”

The word “policeman” was enough for Sam. He got up meekly and went into the vestibule. When the train stopped he stepped off to the platform. The conductor swung out and kept his eye on Sam until the train was moving again.

Five miles. Perhaps six. He could wait for the next train and try the same routine and advance himself another five or six miles. In seven or eight tries, he would be in New York. But it was the slack time of the day and the trains did not run too frequently. Sam waited on the platform for fifteen minutes, then left it — suddenly.

A policeman had appeared out of nowhere. There were always policemen around railroad stations.

Sam gave up the idea of riding into Manhattan by train. He walked through a little village and found himself upon a winding macadam road. A grocery delivery truck came along and Sam gave it the old thumb. The truck stopped.

“What’s the matter?” the driver asked.

“I want a ride.”

The man grinned. “Okay, I’ll give you a lift — as far as I go.”

Sam got in and the grocery truck drove all of a hundred yards and stopped before a house. “This is as far as I go. I deliver these groceries, then go back to the store.”

Sam got out of the truck. “Thanks,” he said curtly and started walking again. He walked a mile. The road wound to the right, to the left, went up a small hill and down into a small valley. It was a back road.

Ahead, there was a crossing. Sam quickened his steps when he saw the road markers. When he came up, he read: “Peekskill, 3 Miles.”

He cried out in chagrin. The winding road had led him back ward Peekskill. Almost half of the distance he had made on the train was lost. He sought the sign on the cross road and found a marker: “White Plains, 22 Miles.” That was no good. He had been in White Plains before and if he remembered correctly, White Plains was at least twenty miles from Manhattan.

Reluctantly he retraced his steps, reached the railroad depot and crossed by the road. There he found a marker that told him New York was only thirty-one miles. He started resolutely down the road.

He walked. He walked a mile. A single car whizzed past him without even slackening speed. He walked another mile and an ancient car came chugging along. Sam stepped out as far into the road as he dared and waved violently.

Brakes squealed and the car stopped. “For the love of Pete, mister,” Sam cried, “give me a lift. My dogs are killing me.”

The driver of the ancient jalopy was a white-haired man crowding seventy. He said, “Get in!”

Wearily, Sam got into the old car. “Where you going, mister?” the driver asked.

“God’s country, New York.”

The elderly man smiled slightly. “First time I ever heard New York called that. You don’t like the country?”

Sam shuddered. “Not me. Gimme New York, just let me see it once more and I’ll never leave it again. The things that have happened to me!”

“Nothing much ever happens out in the country,” the driver went on. “In the city there’s all sorts of trouble, all the time. I had the radio on just a minute ago and they were telling about some fella back in Peekskill who broke out of jail. A real desperado, shoot-’em-up type.” Sam wished that he could shrink to half his size. “Yep,” the old man went on, “a real killer, they say. The police are setting up roadblocks all around.”

“Roadblocks!” exclaimed Sam in consternation. “You mean — they’ll stop all the cars?”

The driver pointed ahead. “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was one up there.”

A New York State highway patrol car was slewed across the road, blocking most of it. The driver began braking his ancient car. A State Trooper waved him down.

Sam made a complete mental surrender. He knew he was going back to Peekskill — and this time he would remain there. He was gone, finished, done.

“What’s the trouble, Carl?” the old man was saying to the Trooper.

“Usual stuff, Judge,” the Trooper replied courteously. “Jail-break. Some two-gun man they picked up shot his way out of the Peekskill jail.”

“Oh, they’ll get him, all right,” said the man beside Sam.

“I’m sure they will,” replied the State Trooper. He scarcely looked at Sam as he waved the old driver to continue on past the police car.

For a full half mile Sam could not say a word, then he asked weakly, “You’re a judge, mister?”

“A justice of the peace, that’s all,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ve lived up here in the country all my life and the neighbors wanted me to have a little income in my old age, I guess, so they voted me in for an easy job. Nice chap, that Trooper. Most of ’em are good boys.”

“Sure,” said Sam, “they sure are.”

He was silent again and the little car ate up the winding back road miles. After a while the car turned into a parkway and picked up some speed. But finally, as they were nearing Yonkers, the justice of the peace said, “I guess I ought to tell you, neighbor, the police don’t approve of hitchhikers out here and they’ve been arresting a lot of people. But Yonkers is as far as I go. If you’re in a hurry to get home, I think you’d better take the subway at Yonkers. I’ll drive you to it. Uh, could you use a quarter?”

He tendered the coin to Sam. The latter took it. “Judge,” he said, with deep emotion, “you’re the first honest-to-gosh human being I’ve met in a year of Sundays. You... you almost make up for what I went through today.”