Gertie is Mysteriously cared for—Sam Natly Dines under Difficulties in Connexion with the Block System.  
One day, not long after the half-yearly meeting described in the last chapter, Mrs Marrot—being at the time engaged with the baby—received a visit from an elderly gentleman, who introduced himself as a lawyer, and said that he had been sent by a client to make a proposal to her—
 
“Of course,” he said, with a bland smile, “I do not refer to a matrimonial proposal.”
 
Mrs Marrot felt and looked surprised, but waited for more in silence.
 
“To come to the point at once,” continued the elderly gentleman, “my client, who is rather eccentric, has taken a great fancy, it seems, to your little daughter Gertrude—Gertie he calls her—and is desirous of giving her a good education, if you have no objection.”
 
Mrs Marrot, being under the impression that this would involve Gertie’s being taken away from her, and being put to a boarding-school, at once looked her objections so plainly, that her visitor hastened to explain that his client did not wish Gertie to quit her parents’ house, but merely to go for a few hours each day to the residence of a teacher in the neighbourhood—a governess—whom he should provide.
 
This altered the case so much that Mrs Marrot expressed herself quite ready to allow Gertie to undergo that amount of education, and hoped it would do her good, though, for her part she did not believe in education herself, seeing that she had got on in life perfectly well without it. She also expressed some curiosity to know who was so good as to take such an interest in her child.
 
“That, my good woman, I cannot tell, for two reasons; first because my client has enjoined me to give no information whatever about him; and, secondly, because I do not myself know his name, his business with me having been transacted through a young friend of mine, who is also a friend of his. All I can say is, that his intentions towards your child are purely philanthropic, and the teacher whom he shall select will not be appointed, unless you approve. That teacher, I may tell you, is Miss Tipps.”
 
“What! Miss Netta teach my Gertie?” exclaimed Mrs Marrot in great surprise—“never!”
 
“My good woman,” said the lawyer with a perplexed look, “what is your objection to Miss Tipps?”
 
“Objection? I’ve no objection to Miss Netta, but she will have some objection to me and Gertie.”
 
“I thought,” said the lawyer, “that Miss Tipps had already taught your child, to some extent, gratuitously.”
 
“So she has, God bless her; but that was in the Sunday-school, where she teaches a number of poor people’s children for the sake of our dear Lord—but that is a very different thing from giving or’nary schoolin’ to my Gertie.”
 
“That may be,” rejoined the lawyer; “but you are aware that Miss Tipps already teaches in order to increase her mother’s small income, and she will probably be glad to get another pupil. We mean to pay her well for the service, and I suppose that if she has no objection you will have none.”
 
“Cer’nly not!” replied Mrs Marrot with much emphasis.
 
Whenever Mrs Marrot said anything with unusual emphasis, baby Marrot entertained the unalterable conviction that he was being scolded; no sooner, therefore, did he observe the well-known look, and hear the familiar tones, than he opened wide his mouth and howled with injured feeling. At the same moment a train rushed past like an average earthquake, and in the midst of this the man of law rose, and saying that he would communicate with Mrs Marrot soon, took his leave.
 
Next evening Mrs Tipps was seated at tea with Netta, planning with anxious care how to make the two ends meet, but, apparently, without much success.
 
“It is dreadful, Netta,” said Mrs Tipps; “I was never before brought to this condition.”
 
“It is very dreadful,” responded Netta, “but that renders it all the more imperative that we should take some decided step towards the payment of our debts.”
 
“Yes, the liquidation of our debts,” said Mrs Tipps, nodding slowly; “that was the term your dear father was wont to use.”
 
“You know, mamma, at the worst we can sell our furniture—or part of it—and pay them off, and then, with a system of rigid economy—”
 
A postman’s knock cut short the sentence, and in a few seconds Mrs Durby—careworn and subdued—presented a letter to her mistress and retired.
 
“My—my dear!” exclaimed Mrs Tipps, “th–this is positively miraculous. Here is a cheque for fifty pounds, and—but read for yourself.”
 
Netta seized the letter and read it aloud. It ran thus:—
 
“Clarendon Hotel, London.
 
“Dear Madam,—There is a little girl living in your neighbourhood, in whose father I have a deep interest. I am particularly anxious to give this child, Gertrude Marrot by name, a good plain education. Understanding that your daughter has had considerable experience in teaching the young, and is, or has been, engaged in tuition, I venture to propose that she should undertake the training of this child, who will attend at your daughter’s residence for that purpose at any hours you may deem most suitable. In the belief that your daughter will have no objection to accept of this trust I enclose a cheque for 50 pounds—the first year’s salary—in advance. I am, dear madam, your very obedient servant,
 
“Samuel Tough.”
 
Although the above can scarcely be considered a brilliant achievement of Edwin Gurwood, it nevertheless accomplished its purpose; for the letter was, in all respects, so very unlike Captain Lee, that neither Mrs Tipps nor her daughter suspected him for an instant. On the contrary, they took it in good faith. Netta wrote a reply by return of post agreeing to the proposal, and on the day following began her pleasant task, to the inexpressible delight of Gertie, who would joyfully, on any terms whatever, have been Netta’s slave—not to mention pupil.
 
A considerable time after this happy arrangement had been made, Mrs Durby, in a moment of confidential weakness, related to little Gertie the circumstances attending the loss of the diamond ring. Gertie, on returning home, communicated the matter to Loo, and gave it as her opinion that it was a pity such a valuable ring had been lost.
 
“Couldn’t father find out about it somehow?” she asked with a hopeful look—hopeful because she believed her father capable of doing anything he chose to set his mind to.
 
“Perhaps he could, but he won’t be home to-night,” replied Loo, thoughtfully.
 
“I think Sam Natly could tell us how to find it. Suppose I go and ask him,” said Gertie.
 
Loo laughed, and said she thought Sam couldn’t help them much. The child was, however, a resolute little thing, and, having taken up the idea, determined to go and see Sam forthwith, as he was on duty not far from John Marrot’s cottage.
 
Sam had recently been advanced from the position of a porter, to the responsible office of a signalman. The great sin he had committed in going to sleep in a first-class carriage, when unable to keep his eyes open, had been forgiven, partly because it was his first offence, partly because of the good and opportune service he had rendered on the day of the attempted robbery, and partly on account of his being one of the steadiest and most intelligent men on the line. Sam’s wife, under the care of Mrs Tipps and Mrs Durby, had made a marvellous recovery, and Sam’s gratitude knew no bounds. Mrs Tipps happened to refer to him one day when conversing with Captain Lee, and the latter was much pleased to discover that the man in whom Mrs Tipps felt so much interest, was the same man who had come to his help in the hour of his extremity. He therefore made inquiry about him of the station-master at Clatterby. That gentleman said that Sam was a first-rate man, a stout, hard-working, modest fellow, besides being remarkably intelligent, and clear-headed and cool, especially in the midst of danger, as had been exemplified more than once in cases of accident at the station, in addition to which Sam was a confirmed abstainer from strong drink. All these facts were remembered, and when the block system of signalling was introduced on that part of the line Sam was made a signalman.
 
The scene of his new labours was an elevated box at the side of the line, not far from Gertie’s home. As this box was rather curious we shall describe it. It was a huge square sentry-box, with three of its sides composed of windows; these commanded a view of the line in all directions. On the fourth side of the box hung a time-piece and a framed copy of signal regulations. There was a diminutive stove in one corner, and a chest in another. In front of the box facing the clock were two telegraphic instruments, and a row of eight or ten long iron levers, which very much resembled a row of muskets in a rack. These levers were formidable instruments in aspect and in fact, for they not only cost Sam a pretty strong effort to move them, but they moved points and signals, on the correct and prompt movements of which depended the safety of the line, and the lives of human beings.
 
Just before little Gertie reached the station, Sam happened to be engaged in attempting to take his dinner. We use the word attempting advisedly, because our signalman had not the ghost of a chance to sit down, as ordinary mortals do, and take his dinner with any degree of certainty. He took it as it were, disjointedly in the midst of alarms. That the reader may understand why, we must observe that the “block system” of signalling, which had recently been introduced on part of the line, necessitated constant attention, and a series of acts, which gave the signalman no rest, during certain periods of his watch, for more than two minutes at a time, if so long. The block system is the method of protecting trains by “blocking” the line; that is, forbidding the advance of trains until the line is clear, thus securing an interval of space between trains, instead of the older and more common method of an interval of time. The chief objection to the latter system is this, that one accident is apt to cause another. Suppose a train despatched from a station; an interval of say quarter of an hour allowed and then another sent off. If the first train should break down, there is some chance of the second train overtaking and running into it. With the block system this is impossible. For instance, a train starts from any station, say A, and has to run past stations B and C. The instant it starts the signalman at A rings a telegraph bell to attract B’s attention, at the same time he indicates on another telegraphic instrument “Train on line,” locks his instruments in that position, and puts up the “stop” signal, or, blocks the line. B replies, acknowledging the signal, and telegraphs to C to be ready. The moment the train passes B’s station, he telegraphs to C, “Train on line,” and blocks that part of the line with the semaphore, “Stop”, as A had done, he also telegraphs back to A, “Line clear,” whereupon A lets a second train on, if one is ready. Very soon C sends “Line clear” to B, whereupon B is prepared to let on that second train, when it comes up, and so on ad infinitum. The signals, right and left are invariably repeated, so that there is no chance of mistake though the failure of the telegraph instruments, because if any of these should fail, the want of a reply would at once induce a telegram through the “speaking” instrument with which each station is furnished, and which is similar to the telegraph instruments used at most railway stations, and the line would remain “blocked” until a satisfactory answer set it free. The working of the semaphore signals, which are familiar to most people as tall posts with projecting moveable arms, is accomplished by the mechanical action of the “levers” before mentioned. There are two “distant” signals and one “home” signal to be worked by each man. Besides these there are levers for working the various “points” around the station which lead to sidings, and when these levers are in action, i.e. placed for the shunting of a goods train, they self-lock the levers that “block” the line, so that while this operation of shunting (which just means shoving a train to one side out of the way) is going on, the signalman could not make the mistake of letting a train pass the distant signal—the thing is rendered impossible.
 
From this it will be seen that the signalman has entire control of the line, and if we consider that shunting of waggons, carriages, and trains is a pretty constant and lively operation at some stations, we can easily conceive that the office of signalman can only be filled by a very able and trustworthy man.
 
As we have said, just before Gertie’s arrival Sam Natly chanced to be attempting to dine. The telegraph needles pointed to “Line clear” on both sides of him. Dinner consisted of a sort of Irish stew cooked in a little square iron pan that fitted into the small stove. Being a placid, good-humoured man, not easily thrown off his balance either mentally or physically, Sam smiled slightly to himself as he put the first bit of meat into his mouth. He thought of his wife, wished that she was there to assist in the eating of it and shut his lips on the savoury morsel. A piece of potato was arrested by the sharp telegraph bell—one beat—of warning. The potato followed the meat as he was in the act of rising. Sam touched his telegraphic bell in reply to his signal-friend on the right, and “Train on line” was marked by a telegraphic needle pointing to these words. As the train was yet a great way off, at least as to distance, he sat down again and disposed of bit number two. Number three followed, and he had made some approach to engulfing number four when a shrill whistle struck his ear. Up he sprang, glanced at the time-piece, wiped his mouth, and went to the levers. He touched his bell—a single note of warning to his signal-friend on the left and received a reply, one beat, meaning “Ready.” The train appeared, came up like a rocket and went past like a thunderbolt. When Sam saw its red tail-light, and thus knew that all the t............