gear.”
“Right,” Byrne said again, already moving about the cabin, pulling a cake of shaving soap and his sharp knife from the sheath on his calf.
“Mr. Flagler wants to take a look at just what the new spur he built to the beachfront has bought him,” Harris said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the metal pot. “You’ll be ridin’ a work train over that’s meant to haul in material from the coal and lumber docks. The cars should be empty, but there’s still a gang of state convicts the company leased to do the hard haulin’ and they ain’t exactly a friendly bunch. I don’t want the boss out there without one of us nearby just in case somebody gets pissy, mind you.”
“Right,” Byrne said a third time, buttoning his shirt and slipping on his suspenders. He rinsed off the knife and slipped it back in the sheath, rolling his pants leg back over it, and then reached for his coat.
“I wouldn’t suggest takin’ that,” Harris said, that know-it-all grin once again coming to his face.
Byrne removed the telescoping baton from inside the coat and slipped it down into his hip pocket. As they started out the door Harris stopped, reached up into a baggage rack, brought down a small cloth jockey cap and handed it to Byrne.
“Only a fool walks around in the Florida sun without a hat, m’boy,” Harris said and continued out the door.
Byrne noticed the immediate advantage in having a brim to pull down and shade his eyes. He’d never experienced such sunlight: intense, clear and blinding if one didn’t keep it from glancing directly off the face. He scanned the surrounding rail yard. It seemed nearly as busy as that of the Philadelphia stop but in a different manner. Here, building material and supplies were flowing. Flat cars were being stacked with lumber and men wheeled crates up ramps into the adjoining box cars. The heated air was pungent with the odor of sawdust and raw earth and sweat. Byrne was standing near Flagler’s car and stepped closer to number 90 when he heard movement at the door. Without forethought he inadvertently moved into the shade created by the train car and felt the temperature of his exposed skin immediately start to cool. “Only a fool stands in the direct sun when there is shade available,” he whispered under his breath. Harris could have taught him more than just the hat trick.
When Mr. Flagler finally appeared in the doorway, he was wearing a suit of light wool including a collar shirt and tie and an odd pair of darkly shaded spectacles of the likes Byrne had never seen. Flagler stepped down spryly and began immediately across the station decking headed south. He was, Byrne would soon learn, in business mode, his bearing straight and purposeful, his eyes set straight ahead but still absorbing all around him. Byrne fell in behind the man and shortly realized that, like some kind of pied piper, Flagler began to draw suited men from the offices and doorways, who were seemingly trying to draw his notice or simply gather some of the great man’s luck or brilliance by trailing in his wake. The gathering made Byrne nervous and he slid his hand down in his pocket where he fingered the metal baton. But the group kept their distance, greeting Flagler with good humor and welcomes. They all appeared to know his destination and no one stepped out in front of the man’s path. After crossing thirty yards of limestone rail yard, the entourage approached another set of tracks where an engine with only two cars attached sat waiting. Byrne could see from the grime and soot, with which he was intimately familiar, that this was a working engine and looked odd hauling the clean passenger cars that appeared to have been hastily brought on line for the occasion. Flagler was greeted by a man in a business suit who looked uncomfortable in the getup, and Byrne heard him introduced as the shipping yard manager. Flagler shook the man’s hand in a friendly manner and smiled, the first time
“Right,” Byrne said again, already moving about the cabin, pulling a cake of shaving soap and his sharp knife from the sheath on his calf.
“Mr. Flagler wants to take a look at just what the new spur he built to the beachfront has bought him,” Harris said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the metal pot. “You’ll be ridin’ a work train over that’s meant to haul in material from the coal and lumber docks. The cars should be empty, but there’s still a gang of state convicts the company leased to do the hard haulin’ and they ain’t exactly a friendly bunch. I don’t want the boss out there without one of us nearby just in case somebody gets pissy, mind you.”
“Right,” Byrne said a third time, buttoning his shirt and slipping on his suspenders. He rinsed off the knife and slipped it back in the sheath, rolling his pants leg back over it, and then reached for his coat.
“I wouldn’t suggest takin’ that,” Harris said, that know-it-all grin once again coming to his face.
Byrne removed the telescoping baton from inside the coat and slipped it down into his hip pocket. As they started out the door Harris stopped, reached up into a baggage rack, brought down a small cloth jockey cap and handed it to Byrne.
“Only a fool walks around in the Florida sun without a hat, m’boy,” Harris said and continued out the door.
Byrne noticed the immediate advantage in having a brim to pull down and shade his eyes. He’d never experienced such sunlight: intense, clear and blinding if one didn’t keep it from glancing directly off the face. He scanned the surrounding rail yard. It seemed nearly as busy as that of the Philadelphia stop but in a different manner. Here, building material and supplies were flowing. Flat cars were being stacked with lumber and men wheeled crates up ramps into the adjoining box cars. The heated air was pungent with the odor of sawdust and raw earth and sweat. Byrne was standing near Flagler’s car and stepped closer to number 90 when he heard movement at the door. Without forethought he inadvertently moved into the shade created by the train car and felt the temperature of his exposed skin immediately start to cool. “Only a fool stands in the direct sun when there is shade available,” he whispered under his breath. Harris could have taught him more than just the hat trick.
When Mr. Flagler finally appeared in the doorway, he was wearing a suit of light wool including a collar shirt and tie and an odd pair of darkly shaded spectacles of the likes Byrne had never seen. Flagler stepped down spryly and began immediately across the station decking headed south. He was, Byrne would soon learn, in business mode, his bearing straight and purposeful, his eyes set straight ahead but still absorbing all around him. Byrne fell in behind the man and shortly realized that, like some kind of pied piper, Flagler began to draw suited men from the offices and doorways, who were seemingly trying to draw his notice or simply gather some of the great man’s luck or brilliance by trailing in his wake. The gathering made Byrne nervous and he slid his hand down in his pocket where he fingered the metal baton. But the group kept their distance, greeting Flagler with good humor and welcomes. They all appeared to know his destination and no one stepped out in front of the man’s path. After crossing thirty yards of limestone rail yard, the entourage approached another set of tracks where an engine with only two cars attached sat waiting. Byrne could see from the grime and soot, with which he was intimately familiar, that this was a working engine and looked odd hauling the clean passenger cars that appeared to have been hastily brought on line for the occasion. Flagler was greeted by a man in a business suit who looked uncomfortable in the getup, and Byrne heard him introduced as the shipping yard manager. Flagler shook the man’s hand in a friendly manner and smiled, the first time
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