Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery
and adventure, William and Robeson.
More often than not, a classic suffers in adaptation from one medium to another. The
play you are about to hear is an exception. The late great writer-director Irving Reese
has given a dimension to the story that the late great Charles Dickens never imagined
when he wrote it almost a hundred years ago. We suggest that you might find it interesting
to read the Dickens story after listening to this, the restramitization of The Signal
Man, starring Miss Ellen Drew.
It had smashed by like a wounded monster screaming in pain and disappeared into the dark tunnel.
In those brief seconds, I had relived the emotions of my childhood. I still trembled
with the child's terror and fascination that had surged through me the many times I stood
here twenty years before. Nothing had changed. The steep, dripping wet walls of jagged stone
that led down to the tracks, the gloomy mouth of the tunnel, the small signalman shack huddled
against the side of the cutting. Even the job was held by the same man, they told me
in the village. He stood there in the glow of an angry sunset, furling a signal flag
around a short pole. I called to him, hello, below. Instead of looking up at me, he turned
intensely to stare toward a red signal light that glowed at the mouth of the tunnel. Hello,
below there. I would like to speak to you. May I come down? He finally looked at me and
silently pointed his flag to the path in the embankment. I climbed down quickly and walked
toward him with a casual smile. He watched me suspiciously, almost fearfully. Hello,
I'm Amy Sayers. I'm sorry if I startled you when I called down. Why would you think that,
Miss? Well, you stare at me as though you had a dread of me. Yes, Miss. I was doubtful
whether I had seen you before. Well, if you have, it was when I was eight years old, standing
on that bridge over the tunnel up there. I used to love watching the trains. Then my
family moved to the city and this is my first visit back in 20 years. Well, you don't believe
me. Well, I'm not certain. But where could you have seen me? Don't you know? I know,
since I've been away for 20 years. Up there, by the red signal light at the mouth of the
tunnel. Oh, that's why you turned and stared there when I first called. Yes, Miss. Well,
what would I be doing at the signal light? I don't know. I wish I... No, it's a mistake,
Miss. What is it you wish to speak to me about? Well, I'm a writer. I wanted to interview
you. Me? Why me, Miss? Well, my magazine does a weekly biographical piece on interesting
people and unusual occupations. It's called Close Up. Oh, it's Miss. I've read them.
You have? You seem surprised. Pleased, perhaps. That one so unsophisticated... Well, I didn't
really mean it that way. There's a bit of a fire in my shack. It'd be more comfortable
for you there. Won't you come on in? Thank you. Oh, how snug and comfortable. Most of
my waking life is spent here and I've tried to make it pleasant. My, you have a fine collection
of books. They've given me much companionship in the long nights. Pretty weighty companions.
Gibbon's Decline and Fall, Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Darwin's... Do they surprise
you, Miss? Well, I can't help wondering why a man with a mind capable of absorbing these
subjects would stay on a desolate job like this. Oh, why would a pretty lady reporter
come here for a story? There are many other places and people. Well, as I told you, I
used to come here as a child and the trains frightened and fascinated me. I always remembered
it vividly through the years. I promised myself that one day I would come back and do a story
on it. Good subjects aren't easy to find, you know. Why did you choose just now to come?
These ideas germinate in the writer's mind for a while and then an impulse... And you
were drawn here? Well, you say that as though mystic forces were involved. It was much simpler,
I assure you. I've been working hard and I decided that a few days in the country would
do me good. I planned to use them profitably by doing a story on you. Oh, you might have
come to that decision last month or last year. Well, that's true. But I can't see why you
attached that special... Why does the train frighten you so? Now wouldn't you think I
might outgrow that silly childish fear? If I was drawn here, as you say, I guess it was
to see whether I had. The modern psychiatrist would say it was a desire to relive a childhood
experience. Oh, yes, miss, there are many answers. Philosophers have even speculated
on the possibility that the future can include on the memory as well as the past. Surely
you don't believe that. I believe only in the evidence of my five senses. May I ask,
why did you go to the door? To check the tunnel light. Does it need to be checked so often?
You did before we came in. Why are you staring at me like that? Oh, was I staring at you?
Oh, please. Something is preying on your mind. Can't you tell me? The fire needs stirring.
You're avoiding my question. You let me ask you a question. When the train passed just
now, why did you suddenly throw your hands up to your eyes? Like this, as though to shut
out some dreadful sight. Why? It was that uncontrollable childish reaction, like I said.
I felt as though the train would draw me out of here and onto the track. I covered my eyes
like a child not to see it. And you had no feeling that the action was conveyed to you
for some reason? No, why should it? Because there's been someone at the red light at the
mouth of the tunnel each night for a week now, holding its hands up to its eyes like
you did, as though to shut out some terrible sight. And you have actually seen it? Oh,
every night? Was it there just now when you went to the door? Yes, I saw it quite clearly.
Who was it? You.
We sat there for a long breathless moment as the train roared off into the night, leaving
only their singing rails to mark its passing. It was a moment of terror until reason snapped
me back to reality. But it's impossible. How can I be sitting here in your signal shack
and be outside under the signal light at the same time? I don't know, miss, but that's
the way it seems to be. You were standing out there with your left arm across your face
and waving your right arm violently as though to say, for God's sake, clear the way, clear
the way. You heard those words? Well, I'm not certain, not about those specific words,
but I've heard it called before. When? Oh, one moonlight night about a year ago, I was
sitting here when I heard a voice cry, Hello, below there. Well, that's why you were startled
when I used the same words from the top of the bank. Yes, miss. I ran to the door and
I looked out and I saw this, this someone else standing up there by the red light near
the tunnel waving its arms as I just showed you. And the voice was hoarse with shouting
and it cried, Hello, below there. Look out, look out. I caught up my lamp and I ran towards
the figure calling, What's wrong? What's happened? Where? And when I got to the light, it was
gone. Did you see where? The tunnel was the only place you could go without passing me.
Well, I ran into the tunnel for a hundred yards or so and I searched around with my
light and then I ran back here in a telegraph both ways. Here's Mr. Telegraph. An alarm
has been given. Is anything wrong? The answer came back both ways. All is well. Of course,
with that wind moaning through the tunnel and the wild harp it makes of the telegraph
wires, it's understandable that you could have the illusion you heard a call and anyone
staring at the dark long enough as you did from the door could imagine seeing something.
You let it prey on your mind so long it seems real. I was not finished, Miss. I'm sorry.
Within six hours after it first appeared, the main line flyer crashed and derailed at
the far end of the tunnel. Within 10 hours, the dead and wounded were then brought through
the tunnel over to the spot where the figure stood. Coincidence. A tragic, remarkable
coincidence. But I can't see... There is more, Miss. Please forgive me. Six or seven
months passed and I recovered from the surprise and the shock when one morning just as daylight
was breaking, I looked toward the red light and I saw it again. Did it cry out? No, it
was silent. And it didn't wave its arm? No, Miss, no. It leaned against the post with
both hands covering the eyes. Like this. As though to blot out some terrible sight. So
that's why you asked me why I put my hands to my eyes when the first train passed. Oh,
yes, Miss. You called out the words it used the first time and then you covered your eyes
as it did the second time. Go on, please. Well, that very day as the train came out
of the tunnel, I noticed a confusion of hands and heads at one of the coach platforms and
something waving. And I saw it in time to flag down the engineer. He applied his brakes,
but the train drifted past here about a hundred yards. And as I ran up to it, I heard terrible
screams and cries. And a beautiful young woman had fallen between the cars and she was brought
in here. And she died on this very spot between us. Oh, how horrible. But I still don't see
any final word, Miss. And you judge how my mind is troubled. It came back a week ago
and ever since it's been there. At the light? Yes. It covers its eyes, waves its arm and
it shouts for God's sake, clear the way, clear the way. I have no rest or peace for it. It
calls to me many minutes together in an agonized manner. Below there, look out, look out. It
stands waving at me and it sounds the telegraph ticker. Has it sounded the ticker since I've
been here? Twice. I assure you, it's your imagination. There has been no sound of the
telegraph. Oh, I don't wonder that you failed to hear it, but I heard it. Do you hear it now?
Yes. What is it saying? Well, it isn't clear. It only warns. It doesn't say against what. If I
only knew I could warn them, but it doesn't say. What is the danger? Where? There is danger
somewhere on the line. Some terrible calamity will happen tonight and I can do nothing about
it. Nothing. It was obvious that this poor, tortured signalman was the victim of hallucination
and delusions. The loneliness of his post and the tedium of his duties were certainly enough to
derange anyone. But certainly a man of his intelligence could be convinced that it was
only his mind playing tricks on him. Well, how can you say that in the face of what I just told
you? Listen, you were positive when you first saw me that I was the specter you saw at the light,
weren't you? Will you use the same word? Well, now listen carefully. I appeal to the intelligent,
well-read, reasonable man. Three words. Hello below there. I was more than a hundred feet away
at the top of the embankment and you were here below with darkness falling and three words made
you positive you had seen me before. Can't you see? You were trying to fit something to what you
already believe. But then you put your hands to your eyes. Further proof. You have allowed
yourself to believe some disaster is about to befall. When I covered my eyes because of a
childish fear, you fitted that to what you already believe. Well, the telegraph ticker was... You must
hear me out. Would you at any other time or would anyone at any time believe that a telegraph ticker
could sound in a room this small and be heard by one person and not another? And now the most
important proof. You said that when you went to the door a while ago, it was there by the red danger
light. Yes, it was. Will you come to the door with me now and tell me if it is still there? Well,
do you see it? No. No, no, Miss. It ain't there. Of course it isn't. And now I'm going to prove that
it never was there. The post is at least seven feet high. The light is shielded with a hood.
Even if a person stood directly under it or in front of it, they would be in complete shadow in
darkness. You couldn't see that person from this door and you couldn't see that person if you walked
to within a few yards of her or him or it. I'm going to walk up the incline to the light and
prove it to you. I walked up the inclining tracks toward the red light at the mouth of the tunnel.
The chill, dank wind had an edge like a cold knife. When I got to the light post, I stood directly
under it. No portion of the red glow reached me. I was lost completely in the dark. I saw the
signalman silhouetted in the yellow light of the doorway. Hello, can you see me? Hello, below there.
Can you see me? Good. Now start walking toward me and tell me when you can see me. We stepped
between the rails of the northbound track on the line with the red signal light and walked toward me.
Then suddenly the icy hand of my childhood dread gripped me. There was a vague vibration of the
earth and air. Far behind him, down the grade, I could see the glow of the locomotive's light.
Look out! Look out! For God's sake clear the way! Clear the way! He walked as though in a spell.
He didn't hear me or wouldn't hear me. I was rooted to the gravel. I threw my left arm up to
my eyes and waved my right arm frantically. Below there! Look out! Look out! Clear the way! For God's sake clear the way!
Long after it was over they found me still standing there both of my hands up to my eyes to shut out the terrible sight.
Suspense in which Helen Brough starred in William N. Robeson's production of The Signalman by
Charles Dickens adapted for radio by Irving Reese. The Signalman was played by Ben Wright.
Sound patterns by Bill James and Tom Hanley. Listen. Listen again next week when we return
with Miss Marie Wilson in Star Over Hong Kong. Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Following the news listen for Have Gun Will Travel on CBS Radio.