It's something of a tradition for railways to be operated efficiently. This is the story of Humbolt Junction; a small town sidled up against the mainline railway track. It was a busy little station ruled over by the stationmaster, Captain William Ponsonby (ret), an old-time Station Master in a top hat and morning coat, a man of substance and importance. A commander of men, on railway property his word was Law.
He was emperor of his domain. Nothing happened he wasn't aware of. He ran the station like clockwork. The watch in his pocket kept time for the station, and it kept time for the town. His influence was everywhere. The townsfolk set their watches and clocks by his. It was always right, always correct. It was the only time. But more than anything the trains ran on time in Humbolt junction. They left on time, and they arrived on time. No engine driver would dare to be early or late. This was the way things were in Humbolt junction.
This small, precise town was disrupted once a year when the circus train arrived. It would be shunted into one of the many sidings from where streamed forth an unruly crowd of circus performers and their animals. Captain William Ponsonby hated the circus.
He couldn't stand the irreverence, the disregard for formal organization, and he couldn't stand the clowns. One, Pezeko, loved to mock the station master and at every show he would put on and old top hat and carrying an oversize watch, he would march up and down an imaginary platform, imitating Captain William Ponsonby. He’d pull out his silly watch and pretend to order the trains. The townsfolk were careful not to let the Captain see them laughing. The captain didn't go to the circus. Life was a serious business for Captain William Ponsonby. He couldn't bear disorder and stayed in the station office keeping time.
The circus ended its run in the town and packed up its bags, it packed up its animals, it packed up its performers, and prepared to leave. But it couldn't pack up Pezeko. While the train sat in the siding waiting to join the main line, he was prancing around the station, doing cartwheels behind Captain Ponsonby who tried to order him off, but Pezeko was irrepressible. He was entertainment for the crowd that had gathered to wave goodbye to the circus. Captain Ponsonby grew red in the face with anger, but he could do nothing. He was helpless. When Pezeko walked the rails pretending to be a highwire act the crowd roared. This was too much for Captain Ponsonby. "Get off the track you fool," he roared. Of course, to call a clown a fool is considered a compliment. The crowd roared — which is what crowds do. Again, Captain Ponsonby roared, "Get of the track. The eight forty-nine express is coming down the line.” Pezeko simply pulled out his watch and held his hand to his ear and shook his head.
Fact is, the eight forty-nine was coming down the line. As it did everyday at ninety miles an hour. Nothing could stop it. Neither weather nor war had ever stopped the eight forty-nine from coming through on time., and a circus and a clown weren't going to change that. And Pezeko knew it too. He waved goodbye to the crowd before skipping across the track to join the circus train. But as he did so he tripped and fell. He pulled himself to his knees and tried to stand. He couldn't. His Knee had jammed between the rail and the signal rod.
The crowd thought he was clowning. Pezeko looked up the track. He placed his hand on the rail to try again to lift himself free. But snatched it away as though the rail was hot. He'd felt it, as you would too if you'd placed your hand on the track. You'd have felt the hum of the eight forty-nine coming down the line.
"Get that fool off the track," roared Captain Ponsonby. Station hands rushed to help. They tugged and tugged, but of course Pezeko was stuck. "Grease his leg," called someone. They did. No good. We'll have to remove the rail.
"You can't remove the rail," said Captain Ponsonby quietly. "The eight forty-nine is coming down the line, and it's eight forty-four. There is no time.
"Then change the signal," someone yelled. They tried, but Pezeko's knee was jamming the signal rod. And if you could have placed your hand on the rail, you would have felt it; the tremor in the track of the eight forty-nine coming down the line.
"Get those children out of here," roared Captain William Ponsonby, because he knew. Parents pulled the young ones away. They also knew. You couldn’t sacrifice a train full of passengers for one pesky clown. And if you could have placed your hand on that rail, as Pezeko did, you would have felt the hum of the eight forty-nine coming down the line.
He looked up at Captain William Ponsonby. Beads of sweat were appearing through his make up. His eyes were pleading as Captain Ponsonby turned away. Most of the crowd had left. The few remaining turned their backs on Pezeko. They knew. And if, like him, you could have placed your hand on rail, you would have felt it shake, and you would have heard the whistle through the morning mist as the eight forty-nine roared down the line. Two hundred tons of fire and steel.
"Please," said a voice. Captain Ponsonby turned. It was a small child that had spoken. She'd been missed when the others had been hurried away.
"Please stop the train," she said. Even though Pezeko struggled to keep smiling, a tear ran down his face. She knew. Captain Ponsonby looked at the clown, he looked at the little girl, and he looked up the track into the mist.
"But," he said, taking his watch from his pocket, "it's the eight forty-nine coming down the line, and it’s right on time, as it always is.
Captain Ponsonby again looked up the track, then he flipped open the glass case and slowly placed his finger on the minute hand, pressing hard, forcing it to stop. And if you could have placed your finger on that watch hand, you would have felt the grinding of cogs and gears as time strained to move forward against the iron will of Captain William Ponsonby, and you would have heard the screeching of steel on steel as it fought the inertia of the eight fifty-five express, a mile up the track.
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