The Iron Horse | Page 2

of intimidation, with
all the intermediate modulations--so that, what with the tremors, and
shocks, and crashes, and shrieks, and thunderous roar of trains, Gertie's
father's house maintained an upright front in circumstances that might
have been equalled but could not have been surpassed by those of the

Eddystone Lighthouse in the wildest of winter storms, while it excelled
that celebrated building in this, that it faced a storm which knew no
calm, but raged furiously all the year round.
John Marrot was an engine-driver on the Grand National Trunk
Railway. This is equivalent to saying that he was a steady, sober,
trustworthy man. None but men of the best character are nowadays put
in so responsible a position. Nearly all the drivers on the line were of
this kind--some better than others, no doubt, but all good. Of course
there are exceptions to every rule. As in the best regulated families
accidents will happen, so, on the best conducted lines, an occasional
black sheep will get among the drivers, but this is the exception that
proves the rule. The rule in the Grand National Trunk Railway was--get
the best drivers and pay them well. The same may be said of the
firemen, whose ambition was ultimately to drive the iron chargers
which they fed. Besides being all that we have said, John was a big,
burly, soft-hearted, hard-headed man, who knew that two and two in
ordinary circumstances made four, and who didn't require to be told
that his left foot was not his right one.
It was generally supposed that John Marrot had no nerves, and that his
muscles had imbibed some of the iron of which his engine was
composed. This was a mistake, though there was some truth in both
suppositions.
John's family consisted of himself when at home, which, although often,
was never for long; his wife--fat and fair, capable of being roused, but,
on the whole, a good, sensible, loving woman; his eldest daughter,
Lucy or Loo--nineteen, dark, pretty, and amiable; his youngest
daughter, Gertrude, alias Gertie--six, sunny and serious, at least as
serious as was possible for one so young, so innocent, so healthy, and
so happy as she; his son Bob, aged twelve, who was a lamp-boy at the
great station not far off, and of whom it may be briefly said that he was
"no better than he should be," and, lastly, the baby--not yet at the
walking period of life, with a round head, round body, round eyes, and
a round dozen at least--if not more--of hairs standing straight up on the
top of his bald pate, suggesting the idea that he must at some period of

his life have been singed by a passing locomotive--an event not by any
means beyond the bounds of possibility, for it may be written, with
more truth of this, than of any other infant, that he had been born and
nurtured amid thunder, smoke, and blazes.
As might have been expected in the circumstances, he was a powerful
baby. We cannot afford space for a full description, but it would be
wrong to omit mention of the strength of his lungs. The imitative
tendency of children is proverbial. Clearly the locomotive was baby
Marrot's pattern in many things. No infant that ever drew breath
equalled this one at a yell. There was absolutely a touch of sublimity in
the sound of the duet--frequently heard--when baby chanced to be
performing a solo and his father's engine went shrieking past with a
running accompaniment! It is a disputed point to this day which of the
two beat the other; and it is an admitted fact that nothing else could
equal either.
There were two other inmates of John Marrot's house--not members of
the family. One was his fireman, William Garvie, who lodged with him,
the other a small servant or maid-of-all-work who led a rugged
existence, but appeared to enjoy it, although it kept her thin. Her name
was Ann Stocks, familiarly known as Nanny.
We are thus particular in describing the engine-driver's household
because, apart from other reasons, a group of human beings who could
live, and thrive, and eat, and sleep, and love, and learn, and so forth, in
such circumstances is noteworthy.
It was quite a treat--believe it, reader--to see little Gertie and the baby
slumber while the engines were apparently having "a night of it"
outside! Come with us and behold. It is 10:30 p.m. Father is crossing
country on the limited mail at any pace you choose between fifty and
eighty miles an hour, time having been lost at the last station, owing to
the unaccountable disappearance of a first-class passenger, and time
having to be made up by fair means or otherwise. His mate stands
beside him. In the family mansion pretty