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Night Train By Donald Duke Dust Jacket Pacific Rail Journal 1961
Night Train By Donald Duke Dust Jacket Pacific Rail Journal Copyright 1961 127 Pages
F0REWORD
The hands on the glowing clock high on the wall of Union Station point to 8 P.M., departure time for the Limited.
Out on the busy concourse, passengers' friends move back from the Pullmans and wave final farewells to the faces pressed against the windows. Smiling porters bend to pick up their trade-mark step boxes.
Overloaded mail trucks are hurried along to storage ears in an adjoining train before it pulls out for the north. Strings of coupled baggage wagons piled high with suitcases roll by, piloted by drivers busily dodging people and posts. Overalled car toads in the eerie glare of their smoky torches move steadily along the train with long hammers, testing wheels with ringing blows in a last minute safety check.
Up ahead, dozens of signal lights wink a green, red and amber mosaic. Occasionally, a lantern near the ground swings from an unseen hand in a long arc, then is gone. All are silent messages addressed to trained eyes.
The engineer leans from his cab window to cast a questioning glance back down the line of cars. He sees the conductor snap shut his gold watch, wave his arm. Off go the nab lights. Metered by the notched throttle quadrant, superheated steam surges into action-polished cylinders. There is the gentlest of tugs. The wheels begin to turn, slowly at first, then with a faster churning. The train straightens like an arrow, eager for the run. The Limited is off!
Depot lights drop away, soon are lost. The train winds through drab canyons of the business district. Giant warehouses are murky shadows, mysterious and repellent. The city thins out; a few scattered homes appear, slip by. Open fields begin.
Far ahead, ruby crossing lights blink their on-off, on-off warning to motorists. Bells clang the approach of the swift-running Limited; crossing gates drop as long-armed barriers. In the distance, a ray of light stabs across the scene, gilding the rails. It grows brighter, becomes the lancing beam of an oncoming train. Thunder and the chime blast of a throaty whistle herald the rushing passage.
The Limited runs free now, in full-throttled abandon, joyfully hurling itself through the night, briefly waking small towns that come and go like large beads on a child's necklace.
Suddenly the probing headlight illuminates a long string of freight cars, resignedly sidetracked to give the racing Cinderella sister the right of way. The orange glow of fireboxes is doubled for an instant in passing, then dies as quickly as lightning on a hot summer night.
In the trailing cars, there is slight awareness of all this. A baggageman checks a waybill. An eyeshaded postal clerk steadies himself against a curve, flicks letters from pouch to pouch. Replete, late diners push hack their chairs, head for a final cigar in the club car. One by one, the yellow eyes of the cars shut. Shades are drawn as the heavy hotel on wheels flashes toward its distant goal. And night is left to busy itself with the men in command.
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