Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

[Illustration: For a beginner that's the best schedule I ever saw.]

RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER

OR

THE MYSTERY OF THE PAY CAR

BY

ALLEN CHAPMAN

AUTHOR OF "RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE," "RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER,"
"RALPH ON THE ENGINE," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

THE RAILROAD SERIES

By Allen Chapman

Cloth. 12mo. Illustrated

    RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE Or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man
    RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER Or, Clearing the Track
    RALPH ON THE ENGINE Or, The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail
    RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS Or, The Trials and Triumphs of
        a Young Engineer
    RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER Or, The Mystery of the Pay Car

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York

Copyright, 1911 by GROSSET & DUNLAP

Ralph, the Train Dispatcher

CONTENTS
    CHAPTER I--THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
    CHAPTER II--THE WRECK
    CHAPTER III--TROUBLE BREWING
    CHAPTER IV--THE WIRE TAPPERS
    CHAPTER V--IKE SLUMP
    CHAPTER VI--IN THE TUNNEL
    CHAPTER VII--DANGER SIGNALS
    CHAPTER VIII--THE OLD SWITCH SHANTY
    CHAPTER IX--A SUSPICIOUS DISCOVERY
    CHAPTER X--THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
    CHAPTER XI--MAKING A SCHEDULE
    CHAPTER XII--AT THE RELAY STATION
    CHAPTER XIII--"HOLD THE LIMITED MAIL!"
    CHAPTER XIV--OLD 93
    CHAPTER XV--CHASING A RUNAWAY
    CHAPTER XVI--THE WRECK
    CHAPTER XVII--A STRANGE MESSAGE
    CHAPTER XVIII--THE SLUMP "SECRET"
    CHAPTER XIX--ON THE LOOKOUT
    CHAPTER XX--A TRUSTY FRIEND
    CHAPTER XXI--A DASTARDLY PLOT
    CHAPTER XXII--HOLDING THE FORT
    CHAPTER XXIII--ONE MINUTE AFTER TWELVE
    CHAPTER XXIV--THE BATTLE OF WITS
    CHAPTER XXV--A WILD NIGHT
    CHAPTER XXVI--AN AMAZING ANNOUNCEMENT
    CHAPTER XXVII--THE STOLEN PAY CAR
    CHAPTER XXVIII--THE "TEST" SPECIAL
    CHAPTER XXIX--"CRACK THE WHIP!"
    CHAPTER XXX--THE PAY CAR ROBBER
    CHAPTER XXXI--QUICK WORK
    CHAPTER XXXII--CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I

THE OVERLAND EXPRESS

"Those men will bear watching--they are up to some mischief, Fairbanks."

"I thought so myself, Mr. Fogg. I have been watching them for some
time."

"I thought you would notice them--you generally do notice things."

The speaker with these words bestowed a glance of genuine pride and
approbation upon his companion, Ralph Fairbanks.

They were a great pair, these two, a friendly, loyal pair, the grizzled
old veteran fireman, Lemuel Fogg, and the clear-eyed, steady-handed
young fellow who had risen from roundhouse wiper to switchtower service,
then to fireman, then to engineer, and who now pulled the lever on the
crack racer of the Great Northern Railroad, the Overland express.

Ralph sat with his hand on the throttle waiting for the signal to pull
out of Boydsville Tracks. Ahead were clear, as he well knew, and his
eyes were fixed on three men who had just passed down the platform with
a scrutinizing glance at the locomotive and its crew.

Fogg had watched them for some few minutes with an ominous eye. He had
snorted in his characteristic, suspicious way, as the trio lounged
around the end of the little depot.

"Good day," he now said with fine sarcasm in his tone, "hope I see you
again--know I'll see you again. They're up to tricks, Fairbanks, and
don't you forget it."

"Gone, have they?" piped in a new voice, and a brakeman craned his neck
from his position on the reverse step of the locomotive. "Say, who are
they, anyway?"

"Do you know?" inquired the fireman, facing the intruder sharply.

"I'd like to. They got on three stations back. The conductor spotted
them as odd fish from the start. Two of them are disguised, that's
sure--the mustache of one of them went sideways. The old man, the
mild-looking, placid old gentleman they had in tow, is a telegrapher."

"How do you know that?" asked Ralph, becoming interested.

"That's easy. I caught him strumming on the car window sill, and I have
had an apprenticeship in the wire line long enough to guess what he was
tapping out. On his mind, see--force of habit and all that. The two with
him, though, looked like jail birds."

"What struck me," interposed Fogg, "was the way they snooked around the
train at the two last stops. They looked us over as if they were
planning a holdup."

"Yes, and they pumped the train hands dry all about your schedule,"
declared the brakeman. "Cottoned to me, but I cut them short. Seemed
mightily interested in the pay car routine, by the way."

"Did, eh," bristled up Fogg. "Say, tell us about that."

"Why, you see--There goes the starting signal. See you again."

The brakeman dropped back to duty, and the depot and the three men who
had caused a brief ripple in the monotony of a routine run were lost in
the distance. For a few minutes the fireman had his hands full feeding
the fire, and Ralph, eyes, ears and all his senses on the alert, got in
perfect touch with throttle, air gauge and exhaust valve.

Ralph glanced at the clock and took an easy position on his cushioned
seat. Everything was in order for a smooth run to twenty miles away. The
Overland Express was on time, as she usually was, and everything was in
trim for a safe delivery at terminus.

Fogg hustled about. He was a restless, ambitious being, always finding
lots to do about cab and tender. His brows were knitted, however, and
every once in a while he indulged in a fit of undertoned grumbling.
Ralph watched him furtively with a slight smile. He knew that his
companion railroader was stirred up about something. The young engineer
had come to understand the quirks and turns and moods of his eccentric
helper, just as fully as those of his beloved engine.

"I say," broke out Fogg finally, slamming down into his seat. "It's
about time for something to happen, Fairbanks."

"Think so?" queried Ralph lightly.

"Been pretty smooth sailing lately, you see."

"That's the way it ought to be in a well-regulated family, isn't it, Mr.
Fogg?"

"Humph--maybe. All the same, I'm an old bird and know the signs."

"What signs are you talking about, Mr. Fogg?"

"Our machine balked this morning when she took the turntable, didn't
she?"

"That was because the wiper was half asleep."

"Thirteen blew out a cylinder head as we passed her--13, an unlucky
number, see?"

"That's an every-day occurrence since the high pressure system came in."

"White cow crossed the track just back a bit."

"Nonsense," railed Ralph. "I thought you'd got rid of all those old
superstitions since your promotion to the best job on the road."

"That's it, that's just it," declared the fireman with serious
vehemence--"and I don't want to lose it. Just as I say, since we knocked
out the sorehead crew of strikers and made the big record on that famous
snowstorm run on the Mountain Division, we've been like ducks in clear
water, smooth sailing and the best on earth none too good for us. It
isn't natural. Why, old John Griscom, thirty years at the furnace, used
to get scared to death if he ran two weeks without a broken driving
wheel or a derail."

"Well, you see we're on a new order of things, Mr. Fogg," suggested
Ralph brightly. "They've put us at the top-notch with a top-notch
machine and a top-notch crew. We must stay there, and we'll do it if we
keep our heads clear, eyes open and attend strictly to business."

The fireman shook his head fretfully and looked unconvinced. Ralph knew
his stubborn ways and said nothing.

The young engineer of the Overland Express was in the heyday of
satisfaction and contentment. He was proud of his present position, and
was prouder still because he felt that he had earned it through sheer
energy and merit. As Fogg had declared, the appearance of the three men
noted had something sinister about it, but the fireman was always
getting rattled about something or other, fussy as an old woman when the
locomotive was balky. Ralph insisted upon enjoying to the limit the full
measure of prosperity that had come to him.

Both had fought hard to secure the positions they now held, however, and
the mere hint of a break in the pleasant programme set them up in arms
instanter. They had chummed together and had learned to love the
staunch, magnificent locomotive that pulled the Overland Express as if
it was a fellow comrade, and would have had a pitched battle any time
with the meddler or enemy who plotted injury to the prize train of the
Great Northern.

All this had not been accomplished without some pretty hard knocks.
Looking back in retrospect now, Ralph could fancy his progress to date
as veritable steps in the ladder of fortune. It had all rounded out so
beautifully that it seemed like a dream. Now the thought of trouble or
disaster reminded him gravely of the foes he had known in the past, and
the difficult places he had battled through in his steadfast march to
the front rank.

Ralph Fairbanks had taken to railroading as naturally as does a duck to
water. His father had been one of the pioneer builders of the Great
Northern. In the first volume of the present series, entitled "Ralph of
the Roundhouse," the unworthy scheme of Gasper Farrington, a village
magnate, to rob Ralph's widowed mother of her little home was depicted.
That book, too, tells of how Ralph left school to work for a living and
win laurels as the best engine wiper in the service.

Ralph's next step up the ladder, as told in the second volume of this
series, called "Ralph in the Switch Tower," led to his promotion to the
post of fireman. The third volume of the series, "Ralph on the Engine,"
showed the routine and adventures of an ambitious boy bound to reach the
top notch in railroad service.

The proudest moment in the life of the young engineer, however, seemed
to have arrived when Ralph was awarded the crack run of the road, as
told in the fourth volume of this series entitled "Ralph on the Overland
Express."

The reader who has followed the upward and onward course of the railroad
boy through these volumes will remember how he made friends everywhere.
They were all the better for his bright ways and good example. It was
Ralph's great forbearance and patience that overcame the grumpiness and
suspicion of the cross-grained Lemuel Fogg and made of him a first-class
fireman. It was Ralph's kindly encouragement that brought out the
inventive genius of a capital young fellow named Archie Graham, and
helped Limpy Joe, a railroad cripple, to acquire a living as an eating
house proprietor.

A poor waif named Van Sherwin owed his rise in life to the influence of
the good-hearted young engineer, and Zeph Dallas, a would-be boy
detective, was toned down and instructed by Ralph until his wild ideas
had some practical coherency to them.

Ralph had his enemies. From time to time along his brisk railroad career
they had bobbed up at inopportune junctures, but never to his final
disaster, for they were in the wrong and right always prevails in the
end. They had tried to upset his plans on many an occasion, they had
tried to disgrace and discredit him, but vainly.

In "Ralph on the Overland Express" the young engineer did some pretty
big things for a new man at the throttle. He carried a train load of
passengers through a snowstorm experience that made old veterans on the
road take notice in an astonished way, and he made some record runs over
the Mountain Division that established the service of the Great Northern
as a standard model.

All this success not only ranked in the minds of his enemies, but roused
the envy and dissatisfaction of rival roads. For some time vague hints
had been rife that these rivals were forming a combination "to put the
Great Northern out of business," if the feat were possible, so both
Ralph and his loyal fireman kept their eyes wide open and felt that they
were on their mettle all of the time.

Ralph's last exploit had won him a high place in the estimation of his
superiors. With every train out of Rockton stalled, he and Fogg had made
a terrifying hairbreadth special run to Shelby Junction, defying floods,
drifts and washouts, landing the president of the road just in the nick
of time to catch a train on a parallel rival line.

The event had enabled that official to close an advantageous
arrangement, in which time was the essence of a contract which gave the
Great Northern the supremacy over every line in the district having
transcontinental connections.

The Great Northern had won the upper hand through this timely but not
tricky operation. Naturally, baffled, rival roads had been upset by the
same. A revengeful feeling had extended to the employees of those lines,
and the warning had been spread broadcast to look out for squalls, as
the other roads had given the quiet tip to its men, it was understood,
to take down the Great Northern a peg or two whenever occasion offered.

Of all this Ralph was thinking as they passed the flag station at Luce,
and shot around the long curve guarded by a line of bluffs just beyond.
The young engineer was thinking of home, and so was Fogg, for they were
due in twenty-three minutes now.

Suddenly Ralph reached out for the lever lightning quick, and then his
hand swept sand and air valves with the rapidity of an expert playing
some instrument.

Crack!

Under the wheels of the big locomotive a detonating clamor rang
out--always a vivid warning to the nerves of every wide-awake railroad
man.

"A torpedo--something ahead," spoke Ralph quickly.

"What did I tell you?" jerked out his fireman excitedly. "I felt it in
my bones, I told you it was about time for something to happen."

The young engineer steadied the locomotive down to a sliding halt like a
trained jockey stopping a horse on the race track. The halt brought the
nose of the locomotive just beyond the bluff line so that Ralph could
sweep the tracks ahead with a clear glance.

"It's a wreck," announced the young engineer of the Overland Express.

CHAPTER II

THE WRECK

"A wreck, eh,--sure, I know it! Our turn next--you'll see," fumed Fogg,
as the locomotive came to a stop.

"It's a freight on the out track," said Ralph, peering ahead. "Two cars
over the embankment and--"

"For land's sake!" interrupted the fireman, "whiff! whoo! what have we
run into, anyway?"

A flying object came slam bang against the lookout window not two inches
from Fogg's nose. A dozen more sailed over the cab roof. With a great
flutter half of these dropped down into the cab direct.

"Chickens!" roared Fogg in excitement and astonishment. "Say, did you
ever see so many at one time? Where do they ever come from?"

"From the wreck. Look ahead," directed Ralph.

It was hard to do this, for a second flock of fowls thronged down upon
them. Of a sudden there seemed to be chickens everywhere. They scampered
down the rails, crouched to the pilot, roosted on the steam chests,
lined up on the coal of the tender, while three fat hens clucked and
skirmished under the very feet of the fireman, who was hopping about to
evade the bewildering inrush.

"I declare!" he ejaculated breathlessly.

Far as Ralph could see ahead, stray fowls were in evidence. Feathers
were flying, and a tremendous clatter and bustle was going on. They came
limping, flying, rolling along the roadbed from the direction of a train
standing stationary on the out track. In its center there was a gap.
Thirty feet down the embankment, split in two, and a mere pile of
kindling wood now, were two cars.

The trucks of one of these and some minor wreckage littered the in
track. Freight hands were clearing it away, and it was this temporary
obstruction that had been the cause of the warning torpedo.

A brakeman from the freight came to the passenger train to report what
was doing.

"Palace chicken car and a gondola loaded with boxes in the ditch
beyond," he said. "We'll be cleaned up for you in a few minutes."

"That's how the chickens come to be in evidence so numerously, it
seems," remarked Ralph.

"Say, see them among the wrecked wire netting, and putting for the
timber!" exclaimed Fogg. "Fairbanks, there's enough poultry running
loose to stock an eating house for a year. I say, they're nobody's
property now. Suppose--here's two fat ones. I reckon I'll take that much
of the spoil while it's going."

With a vast chuckle the fireman grabbed two of the fowls under his feet
and dumped them into his waste box, shutting down the cover. The
conductor of the freight came up penciling a brief report. He handed it
to the conductor of the Overland.

"We'll wire from Luce," he explained, "but we may be delayed reaching
there and you may get this to headquarters at the Junction first. Tell
the claim agent there won't be salvage enough to fill a waybill. She's
clear," with a glance down the track.

The Overland proceeded slowly past the wreck, affording the crew and the
curious passengers a view of the demolished freight lying at the bottom
of the embankment. Once past this, Ralph set full steam to make up for
lost time.

It put Fogg in better humor to arrive on schedule. The thought of home
comforts close by and the captured chickens occupied his mind and
dissipated his superstitious forebodings.

When they reached the roundhouse the fireman started straight for home.
Ralph lingered a few minutes to chat with the foreman, and was about to
leave when Fry, the claim agent of the road, came into the doghouse in
great haste.

"Just the man I want to see, Fairbanks," he said animatedly.

"That so?" smiled Ralph.

"Yes. Your conductor just notified me of the smashup beyond the limits.
It looks clean cut enough, with the tracks cleared, but he says some of
the stuff is perishable."

"If you list chickens in that class," responded Ralph, "I guess that's
right."

"That's the bother of it," observed Fry. "Dead salvage could wait, and
the wrecking crew could take care of it at their leisure, but--live
stock!"

"It looked to me as if most of the chickens had got away," exclaimed
Ralph. "The car was split and twisted from end to end."

"I reckon I had better get on the job instanter," said the claim agent.
"How about getting down to the bluff switch, Forgan?"

"Nothing moving but the regulars," reported the roundhouse foreman. "You
don't need a special?"

"No, any dinky old machine will do."

"Gravel pit dummy just came in."

"Can't you rig her up and give me clear tracks for an hour, till I make
investigations?"

"Crew gone home."

"No extras on hand?"

The foreman consulted his schedule and shook his head negatively.

Ralph thought of his home and mother, but a certain appealing glance
from the claim agent and a natural disposition to be useful and
accommodating influenced him to a kindly impulse.

"See here, Mr. Fry, I'll be glad to help you out, if I can," he said.

"You certainly can, Fairbanks, and I won't forget the favor," declared
the claim agent warmly. "You see, I'm booked for a week's vacation and a
visit to my old invalid father down at Danley, beginning tomorrow. If I
can untie all the red tape from this wreck affair, I'm free to get out,
and my substitute can take up any fresh tangles that come up tomorrow."

"Can you fire?" inquired Ralph.

"I can make a try at it."

"Then I'll see to the rest," promised the young engineer briskly.

With the aid of wiper Ralph soon got the dummy ready for action. It was
a long time since the young engineer had done roundhouse duty. He did it
well now, and thanked the strict training of his early apprentice
experience. The jerky spiteful little engine rolled over the turntable
in a few minutes time, and the claim agent pulled off his coat and
looked to Ralph for orders.

They took a switch and headed down the clear out track. At a crossing a
man came tearing towards them, arms waving, long beard flying, and his
face showing the greatest urgency and excitement.

"Mishter Fry! Mishter Fry!" he panted out, "I haf just heard--"

"Nothing for you, Cohen," shouted the claim agent.

"I hear dere vas some boxes. Sthop! sthop! I've got the retty gash."

"Ready-Cash Cohen," exclaimed Fry to Ralph. "Always on hand when there's
any cheap wreck salvage lying around loose. That fellow seems to scent a
wreck like a vulture."

"I've heard of him," remarked Ralph with a smile.

They had free swing on the out track until they neared the scene of the
wreck. Here they took a siding and left the dummy, to walk to the spot
where the two freight cars had gone over the embankment.

"Hello!" suddenly ejaculated the claim agent with tremendous surprise
and emphasis.

"Excuse me, Mishter Fry, but that salvage--"

Ralph burst out into a hearty peal of laughter. Clinging to the little
bobtail tender of the dummy was Ready-Cash Cohen.

"Well, you're a good one, Cohen."

"If I vas'nt, vould I be Chonny-on-de-spot, Mishter Fry?" chuckled Cohen
cunningly.

He followed them as they walked down the tracks. When they reached the
point where the two freights had gone over the embankment, Fry clambered
down its slant and for some time poked about the tangled mass of
wreckage below.

"Vill dere haf to be an appraisal, my tear friend?" anxiously inquired
Cohen, pressing forward as the claim agent reappeared.

"No," responded Fry shortly. "There's a chicken car with live and dead
mixed up in the tangle. Come, Cohen, how much for the lot?"

"Schickens?" repeated Cohen disgustedly--"not in my line, Mishter Fry.
Schickens are an expense. Dey need feeding."

"Won't bid, eh?"

"Don't vant dem at any price. But de boxes, Mishter Fry--vot's in dose
boxes?"

"See here," observed Fry, "I'm not giving information to the enemy.
There they are, badly shaken up but they look meaty, don't they? If you
want to bid unsight unseen, name your figure."

"Fifty tollars."

"Take them."

The salvage dealer toppled down the embankment with a greedy promptness.
The claim agent winked blandly after him.

"I expected it," said Fry, as a minute later Cohen came toiling up the
embankment his face a void of disappointed misery.

"Mishter Fry, Mishter Fry," he gasped, "dey are looking glasses!"

"Found that out, did you?" grinned the freight agent.

"Dey vos smashed, dey vas proken, every last one of dem. Dey are not
even junk. My tear friend, I cannot take dem."

"A bargain's a bargain, Cohen," voiced Fry smoothly. "You've made enough
out of your deals with the road to stand by your bid. If you don't,
we're no longer your customer."

"I von't have dem. It was a trick," and the man went down the track
tearing at his beard.

"There's kindling wood there for somebody free for the taking," remarked
Fry. "The chicken smashup isn't so easy."

"Many down there?" inquired Ralph.

"Yes, most of them are crushed, but a good many alive are shut in the
wire tangle. The best I can do is to send a section man to pry them
free. It's heartless to leave them to suffer and to die."

"A lot of them got free," observed Ralph.

"They're somewhere around the diggings. It wouldn't be a bad speculation
for some bright genius to round them up. Why, say, Fairbanks, you're an
ambitious kind of a fellow. I'll offer you an investment."

"What's that, Mr. Fry?" inquired the young engineer.

"I'll sell you the whole kit and caboodle in the car and out of it for
twenty-five dollars."

Ralph shook his head with a smile.

"If I had time to spare I'd jump at your offer, Mr. Fry," he said. "As
it is, what could I do with the proposition?"

"Do?" retorted the claim agent. "Hire some boys to gather in the bunch.
There may be five hundred chicks in the round up."

"Really, I couldn't bother with it, Mr. Fry," began Ralph, and then he
turned abruptly.

Some one had pulled at his sleeve, and with a start the young engineer
stared strangely at a boy about his own age.

TROUBLE BREWING

The strange boy appeared upon the scene so suddenly that Ralph decided
he must have reached the roadbed from the other side of the embankment.

The young engineer faced him with a slight start. To his certain
knowledge he had never seen the lad before. However, his face so
strongly resembled that of some one he had met recently it puzzled
Ralph. Whom did those features suggest? Ralph thought hard, but gave it
up.

"Did you wish to see me?" he inquired.

The boy had a striking face. It was pale and thin, his clothes were neat
but shabby. There was a sort of scared look in his eyes that appealed to
Ralph, who was strongly sympathetic.

"I know you," spoke the boy in a hesitating, embarrassed way. "You don't
know me, but I've had you pointed out to me."

"That so?" and Ralph smiled.

"You are Ralph Fairbanks, the engineer of the Overland Express,"
continued the lad in a hushed tone, as if the distinction awed him.

"That's right," nodded Ralph.

"Well, I've heard of you, and you've been a friend to a good many
people. I hope I'm not over bold, but if you would be a friend to me--"

Here the strange boy paused in a pitiful, longing way that appealed to
Ralph.

"Go ahead," he said.

"I heard this gentleman," indicating Mr. Fry, "offer to sell the
chickens down the embankment. I'm a poor boy, Mr. Fairbanks--dreadfully
poor. There's reasons why I can't work in the towns like other boys. You
can give me work, though--you can just set me on my feet."

"How can I do that?" inquired Ralph, getting interested.

"By buying me those chickens. I've got the place for them, I've got the
time to attend to them, and I know just how to handle them. Why,"
continued the speaker excitedly, "there's nearly two hundred in prime
trim gathered in a little thicket over yonder, and there's double that
number among the wreckage, besides those that are hurt that I can nurse
and mend up. If you will buy them for me, I'll solemnly promise to
return you the money in a week and double the amount of interest in
two."

"You talk clear and straight and earnest, my lad," here broke in the
claim agent. "What's your name?"

"Glen Palmer."

"Do you live near here?"

"Yes, sir--in an old abandoned farmhouse, rent free, about a mile north
of here."

"With your folks?"

"No, sir, I have no folks, only an old grandfather. He's past working,
and, well, a--a little queer at times, and I have to keep close watch of
him. That's what's the trouble."

The claim agent took out his note book.

"Look here," he spoke, "if Fairbanks will vouch for you, I'll tab off
the chickens to you at fifteen dollars, due in thirty days."

"O--oh!" gasped the lad, clasping his hands in an ecstacy of hope and
happiness. "I'll be sure to pay you-- Why, with what I know I can do
with those chickens, I could pay you ten times over inside of a month."

"Mr. Fry," said Ralph, studying the boy's face for a moment or two,
"I'll go security for my friend here."

"Say--excuse me, but say, Mr. Fairbanks, I--I--"

The boy broke down, tears chocking his utterance. He could only clasp
and cling to Ralph's hand. The latter patted him on the shoulder with
the encouraging words:

"You go ahead with your chicken farm, Glen, and if it needs more capital
come to me."

"If you only knew what you've done for me--for me and my old
grandfather!" faltered Glen Palmer, the deepest gratitude and feeling
manifested in tone and manner.

Ralph felt sure that the lad had a history. He did not, however,
embarrass him with any questioning. He liked the way that young Palmer
talked and bustled about as soon as the word was given that his
proposition was accepted. With an eager face he announced that he had a
plan for getting the chickens to his home, and darted off at breakneck
speed, waving his hand gratefully back at Ralph a dozen times.

Ralph and the claim agent reached the dummy to find Cohen hanging around
it in great mental distress. Fry invited him to ride in the cab, and
tormented him by talking about his bargain clear back to the roundhouse.
Then he relieved Cohen's distress, which bordered on positive
distraction, by releasing him from his contract.

Mrs. Fairbanks greeted Ralph with her usual loving, kindly welcome when
he reached home. The old family cottage was a veritable nest of comfort,
and the young engineer enjoyed it to the utmost. There was always some
special favorite dainty awaiting Ralph on his return from a trip, and he
had a fine appetizing meal.

"We had a visitor today, Ralph," said Mrs. Fairbanks, as they sat
chatting in the cozy sitting room a little later.

"Who was that, mother?"

Mrs. Fairbanks with a smile handed her son a card that had been lying on
the mantle. Ralph smiled, too, as he looked it over.

"H'm," he said. "Quite dignified, 'Mr. Dallas,' our old friend Zeph, eh?
What's this mysterious monogram, cryptogram, or whatever it is, way down
in the corner of the card?"

"It looks like two S's," suggested Mrs. Fairbanks.

"Oh, I can solve the enigma now," said Ralph with a broader smile than
ever. "It is 'S. S.,' by which Zeph means and wants mystified others to
half guess means 'Secret Service.' There's one thing about Zeph, with
all his wild imaginings and ambition along the railroad line, he sticks
to his idea of breaking in somewhere as an active young sleuth."

"We think a lot of Zeph, Ralph, and we mustn't forget that he did some
bright things in helping that poor little orphan, Ernest Gregg, to
health and happiness."

"Yes, Zeph deserves great credit for his patience and cleverness in that
affair," admitted Ralph warmly, "only the line he is so fascinated with
doesn't strike me as a regular business."

"How about Mr. Adair, Ralph?" insinuated his mother.

"That's so, Bob Adair is the finest railroad detective in the world. If
Zeph could line up under his guidance, he might make something practical
of himself."

"I think he has really done just that."

"I am delighted to hear it," said Ralph, and watching the glowing embers
in the grate in a dreamy fashion he mused pleasantly over his experience
with the redoubtable Zeph, while his mother was busy tidying up the
dining room.

It was a good deal of satisfaction for Ralph to recall Zeph Dallas to
mind. Zeph, a raw country youth, had come to Stanley Junction in a whole
peck of trouble. Ralph had always a helping hand for the unlucky or
unfortunate. He became a good friend to Zeph and got him a place in the
roundhouse. Zeph made a miserable failure of the job. The height of his
ambition was to be a detective--like fellows he had read about.

Zeph finally landed, as he expressed it, with both feet. The son of a
prominent railroad official became interested in hunting up the
relatives of a forlorn little fellow named Gregg. He had plenty of
money, and he hired Zeph to assist him. The latter showed that he had
something in him, for his wit and energy not only located the wealthy
relative of the orphan outcast, but upset the plots of a wicked schemer
who was planning to rob the friendless lad of his rights.

"What did Zeph say about Mr. Adair, mother?" inquired Ralph, as Mrs.
Fairbanks again entered the sitting room.

"Nothing clear," she explained. "You know how Zeph delights in cuddling
up his ideas to himself and looking and acting mysterious. He was very
important as he hinted that Mr. Adair depended on him to 'save the day
in a big case,' and he said a great deal about a 'rival railroad.'"

"Oh, did he, indeed?" murmured Ralph thoughtfully.

"Zeph told me to advise you, very secretly he put it, to look out for
trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Particularly, he said, in the train dispatcher's department."

"Hm!" commented the young engineer simply, but his brow became furrowed
with thought, and he reflected by spells quite seriously over the
subject during the evening.

Fogg had forgotten all about his fears of the day previous when he
reported at the roundhouse the next morning. He grinned at his young
comrade with a particularly satisfied smirk on his face, and made the
remark:

"You see before you, young man, a person full of the best chicken stew
ever cooked in Stanley Junction. I say, Fairbanks, if you'd kind of slow
up going past Bluff Point we might grab off enough more of those
chickens to do for Sunday dinner."

"We? Don't include me in your disreputable pilferings, Mr. Fogg,"
declared Ralph, "you may get a bill for the two fowls you so boastingly
allude to."

"Hey."

"Yes, indeed. In fact," continued Ralph with mock seriousness, "I don't
know but what I may have a certain interest in enforcing its
collection."

The young engineer recited the episode of the salvage sale of the
chickens to Glen Palmer.

"Quite a windfall, that," commented Fogg. "Another fellow to thank his
lucky stars that he ran up against Ralph Fairbanks. Sort of interested
in this proposition myself. I can hardly imagine a finer prospect than
running a chicken farm. Some day--"

The rhapsody of Fireman Fogg was cut short by the arrival of the
schedule minute for getting up steam on the Overland racer. The bustle
and energy of starting out on their regular trip made engineer and
helper forget everything except the duties of the occasion. As they
cleared the limits, however, and approached Bluff Point, Ralph watched
out with natural curiosity, and Fogg remarked:

"Hope a few more chickens drop into the cab this morning."

Ralph slowed up slightly, they struck the bluff curve, and as they
neared the scene of the freight wreck of the previous day he had a good
view of the embankment where the two abandoned cars lay.

"Some one there," commented Fogg, his keen glance fixed on the spot.

"Yes, our young friend Glen Palmer and an old man. That must be the
grandfather he talked about. They are very industriously at work."

The two persons whom Ralph designated were in the midst of the wreckage.
The old man was prying apart the netted compartment of the car and into
this the boy was reaching. Near at hand was an old hand cart. It carried
a great coop made of laths, and was half filled with fowls.

As the train circled the spot the boy below suspended his work and
looked up. He seemed to recognize Ralph--or at least he knew his
locomotive.

Ralph nodded and smiled and sounded three quick low toots from the
whistle. This attracted the attention of the old man, who, standing
upright, stared up at the train, posed like some heroic figure in plain
view.

"I say!" ejaculated Fogg with a great start.

The young engineer was similarly moved. In a flash he now traced the
source of the puzzling suggestiveness of something familiar in the face
of Glen Palmer the day before.

"Did you see him?" demanded Fogg.

"Yes," nodded Ralph.

"The old man--he's the one we saw with those two suspicious
jailbird-looking fellows down the line yesterday."

CHAPTER IV

THE WIRE TAPPERS

"I don't like it," spoke Fogg with emphasis.

"Neither do I," concurred Ralph, "but I fancy the sensible thing to do
is to make the best of it."

"While somebody else is making the worst of it!" grumbled the old
fireman. "What brought up the confab with the old man at the terminus,
anyway?"

"He just called me into the office and gave me the warning I have told
you about."

"Queer--and pestiferous," said Fogg with vehemence. "I don't mind a fair
and square fight with any man, but this stabbing in the back, tumbling
into man traps in the dark and the like, roils me."

The Overland Express was on its return trip to Stanley Junction. Outside
of the incident of the recognition of the old grandfather of Glen Palmer
at the bluff curve, nothing had occurred to disturb a smooth,
satisfactory run. Ralph and Fogg had discussed the first incident for
quite some time after it had come up.

"I don't like the lineup," Fogg had asserted. "Here one day you run
across that old man in the company of two fellows we'd put in jail on
mere suspicion. The next day we find the same old man cleaning up a
wreck. Is that part of some villanious programme? Did some fine play
send that chicken car down into the ditch, say?"

"Decidedly not," answered Ralph. "It doesn't look that way at all. Even
if it did, I would vouch for young Palmer. He had no hand in it. I'll
look this business up, though, when we get back home."

"H'm, you'd better," growled Fogg, and the fireman was back in his old
surly suspicious mood all of the rest of the run.

Now, on the return trip, Fogg was brought up to a positive pitch of
frenzy. It was just after their layover at Rockton when a messenger had
come from the assistant superintendent to the roundhouse. The waiting
hands there knew him. He approached Ralph, addressed him in a low
confidential tone, and the two proceeded to headquarters together. It
was the sentiment of the majority that the young engineer of the
Overland Express was "on the carpet for a call down."

Ralph came back from the interview with the railway official with a
serious but by no means downcast face. He parried the good natured
raillery of his fellow workmen. It was not until he and his fireman were
well out of Rockton on their return trip that he told Fogg what had
taken place in the private office of the assistant superintendent.

There was not much to tell, but there was lots left to surmise, and
worry over, according to Fogg's way of thinking. The railroad official
had pledged Ralph to treat the interview as strictly confidential,
except so far as his fireman was concerned. There was trouble brewing
unmistakably, he told Ralph. The latter had weathered some pretty hard
experiences with personal enemies and strikers in the past. The official
wished to prepare him to battle some more of it in the future.

Bluntly he informed Ralph that two rival roads were "after the scalp" of
the Great Northern. They could not reach the Overland schedule of the
latter line by fair means, and they might try to break it by foul ones.
The official gravely announced that he felt sure of this. He would have
later specific information for Ralph. In the meantime, he wished him to
exercise unusual vigilance and efficiency in overcoming obstacles that
might arise to delay or cripple the Overland Express.

Two things rather startled the young engineer, for they seemed to
confirm hints and suspicions already in the wind. In a guarded way the
official had referred to "harmony in the train dispatcher's office." He
had next made an allusion to the fact that if competitive rivalry grew
fierce, it might attract under cover a lot of disreputable criminals,
and he spoke of extra precaution when the pay trips of the line were
made, tallying precisely with suspicions already entertained by Ralph.

It was a very cold night when the train started out on its return trip.
It was clear starlight, however, and once on the free swing down the
glistening rails, the exhilarating swirl of progress drove away all
shadows of care and fear. The magnificent locomotive did her duty well
and puffed down to the regular stop beyond The Barrens an hour after
daylight fresh as a daisy, and just as pretty as one, Fogg declared.

"They're going to miss us this time, I reckon," spoke the fireman with
hilarity and relief, as they later covered the first fifty miles beyond
the Mountain Division.

"If any one was laying for us, yes, it seems so," joined in Ralph. "We
are pretty well on our way, it's daytime, and likely we'll get through
safe this trip."

Both were congratulating themselves on the outlook as they struck the
first series of curves that led through the long stretch of bluffs at
the end of which they had encountered the torpedo warning just
seventy-two hours previous. There was no indication of any obstruction
ahead, and the locomotive was going at good speed.

It was almost a zigzag progress on a six per cent. grade for a stretch
of over ten miles, and five of the distance it was a blind swift whiz,
shut in by great towering bluffs without a break.

Suddenly at a sharp turn Fogg uttered a shout and Ralph grasped the
lever with a quick clutch.

"What was that?" gasped Fogg.

"Maybe a flying rock," suggested Ralph. He spoke calmly enough, but
every nerve was on the jump. The crisis of the vigilance since the run
commenced had reached its climax of excitement and strain.

"Something busted," added Fogg a trifle hoarsely, "something struck the
headlight and splintered it. See here," and he picked up and showed to
Ralph a splinter of glass that had blown in through the open window on
his side of the cab.

"Whatever it was it's past now and no damage done," declared Ralph.
"There's something twisted around the steam chest, Mr. Fogg."

"So there is," assented Fogg, peering ahead. "Guess I'll see what it
means."

Ralph did not have to let down speed to accommodate his expert helper.
Fogg was as much at home on the running board with the train going a
mile a minute pace as a house painter on a first-floor scaffold. He
crept out through his window.

Ralph lost sight of him beyond the bulge of the boiler and while
watching ahead from his own side of the cab. Fogg was nearly three
minutes on his tour of investigation.

"There's something to think about," he declared emphatically as he
dropped two objects on the floor of the cab.

"What is it?" inquired Ralph with a curious stare.

"Wait till I mend the fire and I'll show you something," said the
fireman. Then, this duty attended to, he took from the floor a long
piece of wire wound around a part of a device that resembled a telegraph
instrument.

"See here," explained the fireman excitedly, "I've got it in a word."

"And what is that, Mr. Fogg?"

"Wire tappers."

"Or line repairers," suggested Ralph.

"I said wire tappers," insisted Fogg convincedly, "and I stick to it.
They were at work back there in the cut. Their line must have sagged
where they strung it too low. Our smokestack struck it, whipped the
outfit free, stand and all, and that metal jigger there swung around and
struck the headlight."

"What stand--was there a stand, then?" inquired Ralph.

"Must have been, for pieces of it are out on the pilot. Say, something
else, too! The whole business came that way. Look at that."

Fogg lifted a small strap satchel from the floor of the cab as he spoke.
This was pretty well riddled. In the general swing of the outfit its
side must have come in contact with some sharp edged projection of the
locomotive. Then, one side torn open from which there protruded some
article of wearing apparel, it had landed on the pilot where Fogg had
found it.

"Line repairers do not carry little dinky reticules like that,"
scornfully declaimed the fireman. "There's a dress shirt, a fancy vest
and a pair of kid gloves in it. The old man at terminus was right. Some
one is trying to do up the Great Northern."

"Put these things away carefully," directed Ralph, his face thoughtful,
and as they ran on it grew anxious and serious.

When they passed the scene of the freight wreck three days previous,
they found the debris cleared away and no sign of the boy and old man
who had interested them. A wrecking crew had men at work and only a
litter of kindling wood marked the scene of the tumble down the
embankment.

When they reached their destination Ralph made a package of the articles
Fogg had found on the pilot and proceeded to the office of the general
superintendent. That functuary he found to be absent. He followed the
promptings of his own mind and proceeded to the office of the road
detective, Bob Adair.

A bright young fellow named Dayton, the stenographer of the road
detective, announced that Mr. Adair was off duty away from Stanley
Junction.

"How soon can you reach him?" inquired Ralph.

"Oh, that's easy," replied Dayton.

Adair was a warm friend of Ralph. The latter knew the official reposed a
good deal of confidence in young Dayton. He decided to tell him about
the supposed discovery of the wire tapping outfit.

"Good for you," commended Dayton. "You've hit a subject of big
importance just at present, Mr. Fairbanks."

"Is that so."

"Very much so. I'll get word to Mr. Adair at once. He happens to be in
call this side of the Mountain Division. This discovery of yours fits
in--that is, Mr. Adair will be glad to get this bit of news."

"I understand," returned Ralph meaningly. He was a trifle surprised to
see Dayton begin a message in cypher to his chief.

"It looks as if Mr. Adair doesn't even trust the wires just now,"
soliloquized Ralph as he started for home.

The first thing he did after supper was to undo the parcel containing
the telegraphic device and the satchel.

The latter, as Fogg had stated, contained a shirt, a fancy vest and a
pair of gloves. These bore no initial or other marks of identification.
They were pretty badly riddled from their forcible collision with some
sharp corner of the locomotive--so much so, that a pocket, ripped clear
out of place, revealed a folded slip of paper. This had suffered in the
mix-up, like the garments. Ralph opened it carefully.

It was tattered and torn, sections were gouged out of it here and there,
but Ralph devoted to its perusal a thorough inspection.

His face was both startled and thoughtful as he looked up from his desk.
For nearly five minutes the young railroader sat staring into space, his
mind wrestling with a mighty problem.

Ralph arose from his chair at last, put on his cap and went to the
kitchen where Mrs. Fairbanks was tidying up things.

"I'm going away for an hour or two, mother," he announced.

"Nothing wrong, I hope, Ralph," spoke Mrs. Fairbanks, the serious manner
of her son arousing her mothering anxiety at once.

"I don't know," answered Ralph. "It's something pretty important. I've
got to see the paymaster of the road."

CHAPTER V

IKE SLUMP

"Things are narrowing down and closing in," said the young engineer to
himself as he left the Fairbanks cottage.

Ralph started away at a brisk pace. As he had told his mother, he was
anxious to see the paymaster of the Great Northern. The general offices
were now closed, and Ralph had the home of the paymaster in view as his
present destination.

A vivid memory of what the torn sheet found in the riddled vest pocket
revealed engrossed his mind. That sheet was a scrawl, a letter, or
rather what was left of it. Enough of it was there to cause the young
railroader to believe that he had made a most important and startling
discovery.

The screed was from one scamp in the city to another scamp on the road.
Judging from the scrawl, a regular set of scamps had been hired to do
some work for high-up, respectable fellows. This work was the securing
of certain secret information, the private property of the Great
Northern, nothing more--for the present at least.

It seemed, however, that "Jem," in the city, had advised "Rivers," on
the road, that now was the great opportunity to work personal graft on
the side--as he designated it. He advised Rivers to keep the regular job
going, as five dollars a day was pretty good picking. He, however, added
that he must keep close tab on the paymaster deal. It meant a big bag of
game. It might not be according to orders, but the other railroad
fellows wouldn't lose any sleep if the Great Northern turned up with an
empty pay car some fine morning.

The hint was given also that the way to do things right was to get close
to the paymaster's system. Such suggestive words as "watching,"
"papers," appeared in the last lines of the riddled sheet of paper.

"The precious set of rascals," commented Ralph indignantly. "The
assistant superintendent knew what he was talking about, it seems. It's
all as plain as day to me. Our rivals have employed an irresponsible
gang to spy on and cripple our service. Their hirelings are plotting to
make a great steal on their own account. Hi, there--mind yourself, will
you!"

Ralph was suddenly nearly knocked off his feet. At the moment he was
passing along the side of a building used as a restaurant. It was a
great lounging place for young loafers, and second class and discharged
railroad men.

Its side door had opened forcibly and the big bouncing proprietor of the
place was wrathfully chasing a lithe young fellow from the place. His
foot barely grazed the latter, who pirouetted on the disturbed Ralph and
went sliding across the pavement to the gutter.

"Get out, I tell you, get out!" roared the irate restaurant man. "We
don't want the likes of you about here."

"I'm out, ain't I?" pertly demanded the intruder.

"And stay out."

"Yah!"

The man slammed the door, muttered something about stolen tableware and
changed eating checks. Ralph did not pause to challenge the ousted
intruder further. One glance he had cast at the ugly, leering face of
the lad. Then, his lips puckered to an inaudible whistle of surprise and
dislike, he hurried his steps.

"Ike Slump!" uttered the young railroader under his breath.

It only needed the presence of the detestable owner of that name to
momentarily cause Ralph to feel that the situation was working down to
one of absolute peril and intense seriousness. Ike Slump had been a name
to conjure by in the past--with the very worst juvenile element in
Stanley Junction.

Way back in his first active railroad work, about the first repellant
and obnoxious element Ralph had come up against was Ike Slump. When
Ralph was given a job in the roundhouse, he had found Ike Slump in the
harness. From the very start the latter had made trouble for the new
hand.

Ike had tried to direct Ralph wrong, to slight work, to aid him in
pulling the wool over the eyes of their superiors in doing poor work.
Ralph had manfully refused to be a party to such deception.

A pitched battle had ensued in which Slump was worsted. Later he was
discharged, still later he was detected in stealing metal fittings from
the roundhouse. After that Ike Slump joined a crowd of regular yard
thieves. As Ralph went up the ladder of fortune, Ike went down. He was
arrested, escaped, made many attempts to "get even," as he called it,
with the boy who had never done him a wrong, and the last Ralph had
heard of him he was serving a term in some jail for train wrecking.

How he had got free was a present mystery to Ralph. That he had been
pardoned or his sentence remitted through some influence or other was
evident, for here was Slump, back in Stanley Junction, where Adair, the
road detective, would pick him up in a jiffy, if he was a fugitive from
justice.

Ralph had no wish to come in contact with the fellow. On the contrary,
so distasteful was Slump and his many ways and his low companions to
Ralph, that he was desirous of strictly evading him. Ralph, however,
could not help experiencing a new distrust at coming upon Slump at a
time when presumptive villainy was in the air.

"Hey!"

Ralph did not pause at the challenge. He realized that Slump had seen
and recognized him. He kept straight on, paying no attention to the
hail, repeated, but at the corner of two streets, under a lamplight, he
halted, for Slump was at his side.

"Well, what do you want?" demanded Ralph bluntly, and with no welcome in
his voice.

"I--want to speak to you," stammered Slump, breathless from his run. "I
suppose it tickled you nearly to death to see me kicked out of the
restaurant back yonder, hey?"

"Why should it?" inquired Ralph.

"That's all right, Fairbanks; natural, too, I suppose, for you never
liked me."

"Did you ever give me a chance to try."

"Eh? Well, let that pass. Don't be huffy now. See here."

As Slump spoke, he extended his hands. They were coarse and grimy. With
a smirk he inquired:

"See them?"

"See what?" demanded Ralph.

"Clean hands."

"Are they--I didn't understand."

"Yes, sir," declared the young rowdy volubly. "They've worked out the
sentence on the stoke pile, and I owe the state nothing. I'm as free in
Stanley Junction as any goody-goody boy in the burg, and I want you to
know it."

"All right, Ike," said Ralph, pleasantly enough, "hope you'll improve
the chance to make good, now you've got the opportunity."

"You bet I will," retorted Slump, with a strangely jubilant chuckle.

"That's good."

"Don't go, I've got something else to say to you."

"I'm pressed for time, Slump--"

"Oh, you can spare me a minute. It may do you some good. Say, you've
managed to climb up some while I've been locked up, haven't you?"

"I've had good steady work, yes."

"I'd give an arm for just one run on that dandy Overland Express of
yours," observed Slump.

"Why don't you work for it, then," questioned Ralph. "It's in any boy
who will attend strictly to business."

"Oh, I don't want the glory," explained Slump.

"What, then?"

"Just one chance to spurt her up till she rattled her old boiler into
smithereens and run the whole train into the ditch. That's how much I
love the Great Northern!"

Ralph was disgusted. He started down the walk, but Slump was persistent.
The latter caught his arm. Ralph allowed himself to be brought to a
halt, but determined to break away very shortly.

"Just a word, Fairbanks, before you go," said Slump. "You're going to
come across me once in a while, and I want a pleasant understanding,
see? You won't see me getting into any more scrapes by holding the bags
for others. I'm after the real velvet now, and I'm going to get it, see?
I know a heap of what's going on, and something is. I'll give you one
tip. I can get you a small fortune to resign your position on the Great
Northern."

The way Ike Slump pronounced these words, looking squarely into the eyes
of Ralph, could not fail to impress the latter with the conviction that
there was some sinister meaning in the proposition. Ralph, however,
laughed lightly.

"Thinking of starting a railroad of your own, Slump?" he asked.

"No, I ain't," dissented Slump. "All the same--you see, do you?"

Slump smartly put out one hand curved up like a cup.

"Yes, you told me before," nodded Ralph--"clean hands this time."

"Now, this is a different deal."

"Well?"

"Hollow of my hand--see?"

"I don't."

"Maybe it holds a big railroad system, maybe it don't. Maybe I know a
turn or two on the programme where the tap of a finger blows things up,
maybe I don't. I only say this: I can fix you right with the right
parties--for a consideration. Think it over, see? When you see me again
have a little chat with me. It will pay you--see?"

Ralph walked on more slowly after a long wondering stare at Ike Slump.
He had never been afraid of the young knave either in a square fight or
in a battle of wits. There was something ominous, however, in this new
attitude of Slump. He had told just enough to show that something
antagonistic to the Great Northern was stirring, and that he was mixed
up with it.

The home of the paymaster was located over near the railroad, quite away
from the business centre of the town. Ralph reached it after a brisk
walk. He found the place dark and apparently untenanted. It looked as if
Mr. Little and his family were away, probably at some neighbor's house.
Then going around to the side of the house and glancing up at the
windows, Ralph discovered something that startled him.

"Hello!" he exclaimed involuntarily, and every sense was on the alert in
an instant.

Two flashes inside the downstairs wing of the house, which Ralph knew
Mr. Little used as a library, had glinted across the panes of an
uncurtained window. Somebody inside the room had scratched a match which
went out, then another which stayed lighted.

Its flickerings for a moment illuminated the apartment and revealed two
men standing near a desk at one side of the room.

"Why," exclaimed the young railroader--"those mysterious men again!"

CHAPTER VI

IN THE TUNNEL

Ralph pressed close to the window pane of Mr. Little's library room but
he did not succeed in seeing much. The last match struck revealed to his
sight the two men who had acted so suspiciously the day he had seen them
hanging around the Overland Express train with Glen Palmer's
grandfather.

If all that he had surmised and discovered was true, it was quite
natural that he should come upon them again. Ralph was less startled
than surprised. He wondered what their motive could be in visiting the
paymaster's house.

"They are not up to burglary," the idea ran through his mind. "It must
be they are searching among the paymaster's papers to find out what they
can about his system and methods. Yes, that is it."

Ralph saw the man who had struck the matches draw from his pocket a
tallow candle, evidently intending to light it. His companion had pulled
up the sliding top of a desk and was reaching out toward some pigeon
holes to inspect their contents. Just then an unexpected climax came.

The foot of the young railroader slipped on a patch of frozen grass as
he pressed too close to the window. Ralph fell up against this with a
slight clatter. The man with the match turned very sharply and suddenly.
He glared hard at the source of the commotion. He must have caught sight
of Ralph's face before the latter had time to draw back, for he uttered
a startled ejaculation.

With a bang the desk top fell back in place, the match went out, and the
man with the candle fired it wildly at the form at the window with
sufficient force to penetrate the pane with a slight crash.

Ralph drew back, some fine splinters of glass striking his face. It was
totally dark now in the room into which he had peered. He could catch
the heavy tramping of feet in flight and a door slammed somewhere in the
house.

"Hey, there--what are you up to," challenged Ralph, sharply, as he stood
in a puzzled way debating what was best to do. He turned about, to face
a powerfully-built man, cane in hand, storming down upon him from the
front of the house.

"It is you, Mr. Little?" inquired Ralph quickly.

"Yes, it's me. Who are you? Oh, young Fairbanks," spoke the paymaster,
peering closely at Ralph.

"Yes, sir."

"I thought I heard a pane of glass smash--"

"You did. Hurry to the rear, Mr. Little."

"What for?"

"I'll cover the front."

"Why--"

"Two men are in your house. They were just at your desk when I
discovered them."

"Two men in the house!"

"I can't explain now, but it is very important that we prevent their
escape."

"Burglars! We were all over to supper at wife's folks--"

"Spies, fits the case better, sir--some rival road spite work, maybe.
It's serious, as I shall explain to you later."

"There they are. Hey, stop!"

Two figures had cut across the lawn from the rear of the house.

"They are the same men," declared Ralph, and both he and the paymaster
put after them.

The fugitives paid no attention to the repeated demands of the paymaster
to halt. They crossed a vacant field and suddenly went clear out of
sight.

"They've dropped over the wall guarding the north tracks," said Ralph.

"And we'll follow!" declared Mr. Little dauntlessly.

At this point the north branch of the road ran down a steep grade and
was walled in for over a thousand feet. Ralph dropped onto the cindered
roadbed. Mr. Little more clumsily followed him.

"Where now?" he puffed, as he scrambled to his feet.

"There they go," said Ralph, pointing towards two forms quite plainly
revealed in the night light.

"I see them," spoke the paymaster. "They're caged in."

"Unless they take to the tunnel."

"Then we'll take to it, too," insisted Mr. Little. "I'm bound to get
those men."

Ralph admired the pluck and persistency of his companion. The paymaster
was a big man and a brave one. He had the reputation of generally
putting through any job he started on. The young railroader did not
entirely share the hopes of his companion, as he saw the two fugitives
reach the mouth of the tunnel, and its gloom and darkness swallowed them
up like a cloud.

"The mischief!" roared the paymaster, going headlong, his cane hurtling
through space as he stumbled over a tie brace. "I've sprained my ankle,
I guess, Fairbanks. Don't stop for me. Run those fellows down. There's
bound to be a guard at the other end of the tunnel. Call in his help."

Ralph grabbed up the cane where it had fallen and put sturdily after the
fugitives. The tunnel slanted quite steeply at its start. It was about
an eighth of a mile in length, and single tracked only. Ralph was not
entirely familiar with running details on this branch of the Great
Northern, but he felt pretty sure that there were no regular trains for
several hours after six o'clock.

The men he was pursuing had quite some start of him, and unless he could
overtake them before they reached the other end of the tunnel they were
as good as lost for the time being. Ralph's thought was that when he had
passed the dip of the tunnel, he would be able to make out the forms of
the fugitives against the glare of the numerous lights in the
switchyards beyond the other entrance.

The young railroader retained possession of the paymaster's cane as a
weapon that might come in handy for attack or defense, as the occasion
might arise.

It was as black as night in the tunnel, once he got beyond the entrance,
and he had to make a blind run of it. The roadbed was none too smooth,
and he had to be careful how he picked his steps. The air was close and
smoky, and he paused as he went down the sharp grade with no indication
whatever through sight or sound of the proximity of the men he was
after.

It had occurred to him more than once that the men in advance, if they
should happen to glance back, would be able to catch the outlines of his
figure against the tunnel outlet. As they did not wish at all to be
overhauled, however, Ralph believed they would plan less to attack him
than to strain every effort to get into hiding as speedily as possible.

Headed forward at quite a brisk pace, the young railroader came suddenly
up against an obstruction. It was human, he felt that. In fact, as he
ran into a yielding object he knew the same to be a barrier composed of
joined hands of the two fugitives. They had noted or guessed his sharp
pursuit of them, had joined each a hand, and spreading out the others
practically barricaded the narrow tunnel roadbed so he could in no
manner get past them.

"Got him!" spoke a harsh voice in the darkness. Ralph receded and struck
out with the cane. He felt that it landed with tremendous force on some
one, for a sharp cry ensued. The next instant one of the fugitives
pinioned one wrist and the other his remaining wrist.

Ralph swayed and swung to and fro, struggling actively to break away
from his captors.

"What now?" rang out at his ear.

"Run him forward."

"He won't run."

"Then give him his quietus."

Ralph felt that a cowardly blow in the dark was pending. He had retained
hold of the cane. He tried to use this as a weapon, but the clasp on
either wrist was like that of steel. He could only sway the walking
stick aimlessly.

A hard fist blow grazed one ear, bringing the blood. Ralph gave an old
training ground twist to his supple body, at the same time deftly
throwing out one foot. He had succeeded in tripping up his captor on the
left, but though the fellow fell he preserved a tenacious grip on the
wrist of the plucky young railroader.

"Keep your clutch!" panted the other man. "I'll have him fixed in a
jiffy. Thunder! what's coming?"

"A train!"

"Break loose--we're lost!"

Ralph was released suddenly. The man on the right, however, had
delivered the blow he had started to deal. It took Ralph across the
temple and for a moment dazed and stunned him. He fell directly between
the rails.

The two men had darted ahead. He heard one of them call out to hug the
wall closely. Then a sharp grinding roar assailed Ralph's ears and he
tried to trace out its cause.

"Something is coming," he murmured. His skilled hearing soon determined
that it was no locomotive or train, but he was certain that some rail
vehicle of light construction was bearing down upon him.

Ralph was so dazed that he could barely collect wit and strength in an
endeavor to crawl out of the roadbed. With a swishing grind the
approaching car, or whatever it was, tore down the sharp incline.

His sheer helplessness of the instant appalled and amazed Ralph. It
seemed minutes instead of seconds before he rolled, crept, crawled over
the outside rail. As he did so, with a whang stinging his nerves like
needles of fire, one end of the descending object met his suspended foot
full force, bending it up under him like a hinge.

Ralph was driven, lifted against the tunnel wall with harsh force. His
head struck the wet slimy masonry, causing his brain to whirl anew.

Something swept by him on seeming wings of fleetness. There was a rush
of wind that almost took his breath away. Then there sounded out upon
the clammy blackness of the tunnel an appalling, unearthly scream.

CHAPTER VII

DANGER SIGNALS

The danger seemed gone, with the passage of the whirling object on
wheels that had so narrowly grazed the young railroader, but mystery and
vagueness remained in its trail.

"What was it?" Ralph heard one of his late assailants ask.

"A hand car," was the prompt reply. "She must have struck somebody. Did
you hear that yell?"

"Yes--run for it. We don't know what may have happened, and we don't
want to be caught here if anybody comes to find out what is up."

Ralph was in no condition to follow the fugitives. For a moment he stood
trying to rally his scattered senses. The situation was a puzzling and
distrustful one. Abruptly he crouched against the wall of the tunnel.

"The hand car," he breathed--"it is coming back!"

As if to emphasize this discovery, a second time and surely nearing him
that alarming cry of fright rang out. Again reversed, the hand car
whizzed by him. Then in less than twenty seconds it shot forward in the
opposite direction once more. Twice it thus passed him, and on each
occasion more slowly, and Ralph was able to reason out what was going
on.

The hand car was unguided. Someone was aboard, however, but helpless or
unable to operate it. Unmistakable demonstrations of its occupancy were
furnished in the repetition of the cries that had at first pierced the
air, though less frenzied and vivid now than at the start.

Finally seeking and finding the dead level at the exact centre of the
tunnel, the hand car appeared to have come to a stop. Ralph shook
himself together and proceeded for some little distance forward. He was
guided by the sound of low wailings and sobs. He landed finally against
the end of the hand car.

"Hello, there!" he challenged.

"O--oh! who is it?" was blubbered out wildly. "O--oh, mister! I did not
do it. Teddy Nolan gave it a shove, and away it went--boo-hoo!"

Ralph read the enigma promptly. Mischievous boys at play beyond the
north end of the tunnel had been responsible for the sensational descent
of the hand car. He groped about it now and discovered a tiny form
clinging to the boxed-up gearing in the centre of the car.

"You stay right still where you are," ordered Ralph, as he located the
handles of the car and began pumping for speed.

"Oh, yes, sir, I will."

"It's probably too late to think of heading off or overtaking those
fellows," decided Ralph, "but I've got to get this hand car out of
harm's way."

It was no easy work, single handed working the car up the slant, but
Ralph made it finally. He found a watchman dozing in the little shanty
near the entrance to the tunnel. The man was oblivious to the fact of
the hand car episode, and of course the same as to the two men who had
doubtless long since escaped from the tunnel and were now safe from
pursuit. Ralph did not waste any time questioning him. As he was
ditching the hand car the ragged urchin who had made a slide for life
into the tunnel took to his heels and scampered away.

The young railroader thought next of the paymaster. Ralph made a sharp
run of it on foot through the tunnel. He did not find Mr. Little where
he had left him, but came across him sitting on a bench at the first
flagman's crossing, evidently patiently waiting for his return.

"Well, what luck," challenged Mr. Little.

"None at all," reported Ralph, and recited the events of the past
fifteen or twenty minutes.

"That's pretty lively going," commented Mr. Little, looking Ralph over
with an approving and interested glance. "I managed to limp this far.
I've wrenched my foot. I don't think it amounts to much, but it is quite
painful. I'll rest here a bit and see if it doesn't mend."

"Shall I help you to the house, Mr. Little?" suggested Ralph.

"Maybe--a little later. I want to know about this business first--the
smashed window and those burglars. Come, sit down here on the bench with
me and tell me all about it, Fairbanks."

"They are not burglars," asserted Ralph.

"What are they, then?"

"What I hurriedly hinted to you some time back--spies."

"Spies?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I had better tell you the whole story, Mr. Little."

"That's it, Fairbanks."

Ralph began with the queer-acting trio who had first attracted his
suspicions several days previous. He did not leave out the details of
his interview with the assistant superintendent at Rockton.

"Why, Fairbanks," exclaimed the paymaster, arising to his feet in
positive excitement, "this is a pretty serious business."

"It strikes me that way, sir."

"If these two men were not incidental burglars, and nothing is missing
at the house, they were after information."

"Instead of booty, exactly," responded Ralph, in a tone of conviction.

"And if that is true," continued the paymaster, still more wrought up,
"they show a system of operation that means some big design in their
mind. Give me the help of your shoulder, Fairbanks. I've got to get to
the house and to my telephone right away."

A detour of the walled-in runway was necessary in order that they might
reach Mr. Little's home. The paymaster limped painfully. Ralph himself
winced under the weight of his hand placed upon his shoulder, but he
made no complaint. His right arm was growing stiff and the fingers of
that hand he had noticed were covered with blood.

By the time they reached the paymaster's home, his family had returned.
Mr. Little led Ralph at once to the library and sank into his armchair
at the desk.

"Why," he exclaimed after a glance at Ralph, "you are hurt, too."

"Oh, a mere trifle," declared the young engineer with apparent
carelessness.

"No, it's something serious--worth attending to right away," insisted
the paymaster, and he called to his wife, introduced Ralph, and Mrs.
Little led him out to the kitchen.

In true motherly fashion she seated him on a splint bottomed chair at
the sink, got a basin of hot water and some towels, some lint and a
bottle of liniment, and proceeded to attend to his needs like an expert
surgeon.

Where Ralph's hand had swept the steel rail when his assailant in the
tunnel had knocked him off his footing, one arm had doubled up under
him, his fingers sweeping a bunch of metal splinters. These had
criss-crossed the entire back of his hand. Once mended up, Ralph was
most solicitous, however, to work his arm freely, fearing a wrench or
injury that might temporarily disable him from road duty.

"I've got the superintendent over the 'phone," said Mr. Little, as Ralph
reëntered the library. "He's due at an important lodge meeting, and
can't get here until after nine o'clock. See here, Fairbanks," with a
glance at the injured hand which Ralph kept to his side in an awkward
way, "you'd better get home and put that arm in a sling."

"I think myself I'd better have a look at it," acknowledged Ralph. "It
feels pretty sore around the shoulder."

"You have a telephone at your house?" inquired the paymaster.

"Yes, sir."

"I may want to call you up. If I don't, I feel pretty sure the
superintendent will, when we have talked over affairs."

Mr. Little insisted on his hired man hitching up the family horse to
drive Ralph home. Mrs. Fairbanks at a glance read pain and discomfort in
her son's face as he entered the sitting room. Ralph set her fears at
rest with a hasty explanation. Then after resting a little he told her
all about his adventures of the evening.

"It seems as if a railroader must take a double risk all the time," she
said in a somewhat regretful tone.

"It's a part of the business to take things as they come, mother,"
observed Ralph. "It's a fight nowadays in every line where there is
progress. The Great Northern is in the right, and will win, and it is my
duty to help in the battle."

When he came to look over his injured arm Ralph found a pretty bad
bruise near the shoulder. His mother declared that it would need
attention for some days to come.

"By which you mean, I suppose," remarked Ralph with a smile, "that you
want to coddle me off duty. Can't be done, mother. I must stay on deck
as long as I can pull a lever. Ouch!"

Ralph winced as he happened to give his arm a twist.

"You may change your mind by morning, my son," observed Mrs. Fairbanks,
with a slight motherly triumph in her tone.

When Ralph arose the next day he remembered those words. His arm was so
stiff he could scarcely bend it at the elbow, and his hand was badly
swollen. He had just finished breakfast when there came a ring at the
telephone, which Ralph answered.

"That you, Fairbanks?" sounded the voice of the paymaster.

"Yes, Mr. Little."

"How is that arm of yours this morning?"

"Not quite as well as I would like it to be."

"I called you up to tell you that you will probably hear from the
general superintendent this forenoon," continued Mr. Little.

"About last night's affair I suppose?"

"In a line with that, yes. He was with me for over three hours last
night, and he's pretty well stirred up. Your injured arm will be a good
excuse for canceling your run for a few days."

"But I have no idea of canceling my run," declared Ralph. "I'll have
that arm in working shape when the Overland pulls out today."

"I'm giving you a hint, that's all," answered the paymaster. "I feel
pretty sure the superintendent intends to schedule you for special
duty."

CHAPTER VIII

THE OLD SWITCH SHANTY

Ralph came out of the house with a thoughtful look on his face. His arm
was in a sling and he quite looked the invalid. His mother followed him
to the door.

"You see, I was the wisest," spoke Mrs. Fairbanks.

"Yes, mother, you predicted that I wouldn't feel quite so spry this
morning as last night. All the same, if it wasn't for the word just sent
me by the general superintendent, you would see me on the regular
Overland trip."

"It wouldn't be right," dissented Mrs. Fairbanks. "Suppose your arm gave
out at a critical moment of your run?"

"I shouldn't let it," declared Ralph. "It puzzles me, though--the word
from headquarters."

"It was rather strange," assented his mother.

"The superintendent simply 'phoned me that I was to remain on the
invalid list for a day or two. He said he was going to Rockton, and
would be back tomorrow morning, and would expect me then at a conference
at ten o'clock. In the meantime all I need to do, he said, was to hang
around town, show myself about the yards and the general offices, but to
be sure to wear my arm in a sling."

"He has some purpose in view in that last direction, believe me, Ralph,"
said Mrs. Fairbanks.

"Yes," replied the son thoughtfully, "I'm beginning to guess out a
certain system in his methods. I shouldn't wonder if something lively
were on the programme. Well, I'll try and put on the enforced vacation
as the superintendent suggests. Hello, there's a fine hullaballoo!"

Ralph walked down the steps and to the street to trace the cause of a
great outcry beyond the cottage grounds. As he passed through the gate
he made out a haggard looking urchin standing on the planking of the
crossing crying as if his heart would break.

"Why, it's Ted Rollins, our little neighbor who lives over near the
flats," said Ralph, recognizing the ragged and begrimed lad.

The latter was half bent over as if squinting through the cracks in the
sidewalk. Then he would let out a yell of distress, dig his fingers into
his eyes, resume his looking, and wind up with a kind of frenzied dance,
bewailing some direful disaster at the top of his voice. Ralph
approached him unobserved.

"Hello, there," he hailed, "what's the trouble here?"

"I've lost it!" wailed the little fellow, without looking up. "It
slipped out of my ha-a-and."

"What did?"

"A nickel."

"A nickel?"

"Yes, I earned it, and it rolled down one of those cracks in the
sidewalk."

"Which one?" inquired Ralph.

"Don't know which one--boo-hoo! and say--it was for you."

For the first time the weeping lad, glancing up through his tears,
recognized Ralph. He instantly dug his hand down into a pocket and began
groping there.

"What was for me?" asked Ralph, "the nickel?"

"No, not the nickel, that was for me. The note was for you, though, that
I got the nickel to fetch--that I don't get the nickel for fetching,
though I fetched it," added Ted Rollins dolefully. "That's it."

The lad brought out a folded creased slip of paper wet with his tears
and grimed with contact with his fingers. He extended this to Ralph.

"For me, eh?" he inquired wonderingly.

"Yes, 'Ralph Fairbanks,' he said. He asked me if I knew Ralph Fairbanks,
and I said you bet I did. 'Why,' says I, 'he's a regular friend of
mine.'"

"That's right, Ted," said Ralph.

"Then he gave me the nickel and the note."

"Who did?"

"The boy."

"What boy?"

"The one I'm telling you about. I never saw him before. He was down near
the elevator tracks where the old switch tower shanty is, you know."

"Why, yes, I know," assented Ralph, "but I can't imagine who the note
can be from. Oh, I understand now," added Ralph, his eye brightening as
he opened the note and caught a glimpse of the signature. "Here, Ted,
there's a dime for your faithfulness, and maybe you can find a chum with
a big axe who will pry up a few of those sidewalk spikes, and if you
find the lost nickel you can have that, too."

"You're a capital fellow, Ralph Fairbanks," cried the delighted little
urchin. "If you ever run for president of the Great Northern, my sister
says the whole town will vote for you."

"Thank you, Ted," laughed the young railroader, "but they don't elect
railroad presidents that way."

"Dad says you'll get there, anyway."

"Thank you again," said Ralph, and as Ted darted away he gave his full
attention to the note. It ran:

  "Ralph Fairbanks:

  "Will you please come to the place where the bearer of this note will
  direct you, and oblige. I have some money for you.

                                                        --Glen Palmer."

"Well, well," said Ralph in a pleased way, "this is pretty quick action
on the part of our young chicken raiser. Of course I'll go. Glen Palmer
is straight, as I thought he would be. I'm curious to know how he came
out with his investment, and doubly curious to learn something about
that mysterious old grandfather of his."

Ralph did not need any guide to reach the elevated tracks and the old
switch tower shanty alluded to by Ted Rollins. The spot had been a busy
one before they straightened out a lot of useless curves and changed the
main line a half mile farther south. The old main tracks, however, were
still used for switching and standing freights, and there were several
grain elevators in the vicinity. It was now a remote and isolated spot
so far as general traffic was concerned.

Ralph crossed over a stretch of bleak prairie, leaped a drainage ditch,
and started down a siding that was used as a repair track. Just as he
reached the end of a freight car he hastened his steps.

Not fifty yards distant two animated figures suddenly filled his range
of vision. They were boys. One was Glen Palmer. The other Ralph was
amazed to recognize as Ike Slump.

Glen had a broken-off broom in one hand and a bag pretty well filled
over his shoulder. He was warding off the approach of Slump, who seemed
bent on pestering him from malice or robbing him for profit. Ralph ran
forward to the rescue of his young protege, who was no match in strength
or size for the bully.

He was not in time to prevent a sharp climax to the scene. Glen swung
the heavy bag he carried around to deal his tormenter a blow. Slump
either drew a knife or had one concealed up his sleeve all along. At any
rate he caught the circling bag on the fly. The knife blade met its
bulging surface and slit it woefully, so that a stream of golden grain
poured out.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" burst out Glen Palmer,
indignantly.

"Strangers pay toll around here, or I know the reason," derided bad Ike
Slump.

"Just drop that, Slump," spoke Ralph, stepping forward.

"Humph!" growled Ike, retreating a step or two and looking rather
embarrassed. "I didn't expect you."

"I see you didn't," observed Ralph. "This petty business doesn't seem to
accord very well with your high pretentions of last evening."

"He has wasted all my grain!" cried Glen, tears starting to his eyes.
"He said I'd have to pay toll to the gang, whatever that is, if I came
around here gathering up chicken feed, and the flagman yonder has given
me permission to sweep out all the cars after they have emptied at the
elevators."

"Don't worry," said Ralph, reassuringly. "I will see to it that you are
not interfered with, that your rights are respected after this."

"Huh!" scoffed Ike, and then with a great start and in a sharp change of
voice he shouted out, "Hello, I say, hello!"

Ike stood staring fixedly at Glen at the moment. The latter in
rearranging his disordered attire for the first time had removed the
broad peaked cap he wore. The instant he caught Ike's piercing glance
fixed upon him, Glen flushed and in great haste replaced the cap, quite
screening his face and turned away.

"Aha!" resumed Ike, continuing to stare at Glen. "Why, when, where--drat
me!" and he struck his head with his hand, as if trying to drive out
some puzzling idea. "Say, I've seen you before. Where? I never forget
faces. Wallop me! but I know you, and--"

Just then Slump was walloped. The flagman at the shanty one hundred feet
away had evidently witnessed the tussle between the two boys. That he
was a friend to Glen was indisputable, for coming upon the scene from
between two lines of freight he pounced on Slump, whacking him smartly
about his legs with his flag stick.

"You pestering loafer, out of here," he shouted, "or I'll break every
bone in your body," and Slump ran down the track precipitately.

He paused only once, at a safe distance from pursuit. It was to shake
his fist at the watchman, then to wave it in a kind of threatening
triumph at Ralph, and then to make a speaking trumpet of his hand and to
yell through it.

"I know that boy, don't you forget it, and I'll see you later."

Ralph wondered a good deal at this demonstration. Then he turned to
Glen.

"Why," he exclaimed, noticing that the face of the latter was as white
as chalk and that he was trembling all over. "What's the matter, Glen?"

"I--that--is that fellow upset me," stammered Glen, failing to meet
Ralph's scrutinizing glance.

"Something more than that, Glen," insisted Ralph. "You act half scared
to death. Do you know Ike Slump?"

"No."

"Did you ever meet him before?"

"Never," declared Glen strenuously.

Ralph had to be satisfied with this. Glen turned from him as if to hide
some emotion or embarrassment. He began tying up his bag so as to cover
the slit made in it by Slump's knife and scooped up the scattered grain.

"Wait till I get this gathered up and I want to talk with you," he said.

A new figure came lounging leisurely down the track as the watchman
proceeded to his shanty. Ralph recognized Dan Lacey, a ne'er-do-well who
had tried about every department of railroad service inside of two years
and had failed signally in every attempt.

He was a good-natured, indolent fellow, perfectly harmless and generally
popular. He halted in front of Ralph with a speculative glance at Glen
Palmer.

"Howdy, Fairbanks," he hailed. "Say, pet of yours yonder, I understand."

"Who--Glen Palmer?"

"Yes, that's his name."

"He seems to be a fine young fellow I helped out a little."

"Always doing that. Know him pretty well?"

"Hardly at all."

"Well," drawled Lacey taking in Glen with a continuous analyzing glance,
"he's a cracker jack."

"What do you mean, Lacey?"

"Telegraphy. I've seen some pretty swell operators in my time, but that
kid--say, believe me, Fairbanks, he's got the last one of them backed
clear off the board."

CHAPTER IX

A SUSPICIOUS DISCOVERY

"Explain yourself, Lacey," directed the young railroader.

"Nothing to explain--it's exactly as I say. That lad's a wonder."

"At telegraphing, you said."

"At telegraphing, I mean."

"How do you know?"

"Heard him, saw him."

"When, where?"

"Just a little bit ago up at the old switch tower. You know they left
one or two broken instruments there when they moved the general outfit.
Wires down, but one or two good sharp keys still in place. I was
snoozing on the bench outside. Suddenly--click! click! Then the regular
call. Then the emergency--say, I thought I was back at Dover with old
Joslyn Drake, the crack operator of the Midland Central. You know I put
in a year at the key. Not much at it myself, but you bet your life I can
tell fine work. Why, that lad ran the roll like a veteran. Then he began
on speed. I crept closer. There he was, thinking no one saw him,
rattling the key till it pounded like a piston on a sixty mile an hour
run."

Ralph was a good deal astonished. Glen was a pretty young fellow to line
up in the way that Dan Lacey described. Then a kind of vague
disagreeable idea came into the mind of the young railroader. He
recalled the old grandfather and his two villainous associates, for such
they had proved themselves to be the evening previous.

"Things are dovetailing in a queer sort of way," reflected Ralph.
"Perhaps a little investigation will give me a clew as to those fellows
who slipped me in the tunnel."

When he had gathered up the scattered grain Glen Palmer glanced uneasily
all about him as if looking for Ike Slump. Then he became his natural
self.

"I'm awfully glad to see you," he said to Ralph, "although it seems as
if there's a fight or a smashup, or some outlandish thing on the books
every time I meet you."

"Well that doesn't matter so long as you come out of it all right, eh,
Glen?" propounded Ralph brightly.

"You're a good champion in the nick of time," declared Glen. "I wanted
to see you, so I took the liberty of sending for you."

"Why didn't you come up to the house?"

"Oh, no! no!----" began Glen with a start. "That is--I don't go to town
much. I've got some money for you. There are ten dollars. I'll have the
balance Saturday."

Ralph accepted the bank bills which Glen extended.

"I'll hand this to Mr. Fry," he said. "You don't need to pay it now,
though, Glen."

"Oh, yes, I want to get out of debt as fast as I can."

"You're starting out the right way to do it. Pretty quick action you got
on your chicken deal, it seems to me."

"Oh, that was luck," explained Glen, brightening up. "There was one
special lot among the chickens, about twenty-four of them. They were in
a tier of the car that wasn't battered in the smash up. We got them all
out safe and sound. They are of a rare breed--they call them Blue
Cochins."

"Valuable?"

"I didn't know till after we got them down to the farm. A man driving by
noticed them. They have black eyes instead of the usual red ones, and he
said they were very scarce. The next day he came down and offered me
five dollars each for two settings of their eggs. Think of it--nearly a
half a dollar an egg. I delivered them yesterday, and the man said there
are any number of people who would buy the eggs if they knew I had them,
and about the choice breed."

"Why, this is interesting," said Ralph.

"Say, can't you come down and see my layout?" inquired Glen eagerly.
"I'd be dreadfully glad."

"Why, I might," replied Ralph thoughtfully, consulting his watch.

"There's our chance, if you will," said Glen, grabbing the arm of his
companion and indicating a short freight train just pulling off from a
side switch. "It's three miles and a half to the farm, and that train
goes within a short distance of it."

They ran for the train. It was composed of empties with a caboose
attached. Aboard of this the boys clambered and sat down on the rear
platform.

"I come down here for the sweepings every morning," said Glen. "To-day
and one other day in the week there isn't much to get. One day I got
over two bushels and a half, though."

"That's pretty fine," commented Ralph.

"It's a big item in my feed bill, I can tell you," declared Glen. "I've
got a new arrangement in view, too--the grain inspector at Stanley
Junction."

"Yes, I know him," nodded Ralph.

"Well, my good friend the flagman here introduced him day before
yesterday, and he told me that all those little bags containing samples
are thrown into a big bin and dumped into the dust heap when they're
past inspection. After this he's going to have them left in the bin, and
I'm going to arrange to have a cartman call once a week and haul the
stuff out to the farm."

"Friends everywhere, eh, Glen," said Ralph encouragingly.

"I'm so glad!" murmured his companion in a low grateful tone.

The young railroader calculated that he could visit the farm and get
back to Stanley Junction by noon time. At the end of a three miles'
jerky run the train slowed down at a crossing and Ralph and Glen left
it.

"There's the place," said the latter, as they reached the end of a
grove, and he pointed to an old, low-built ruin of a house just ahead of
them.

"They call it Desolation Patch around here. It's in litigation somehow,
and no one has lived in it until we came for several years, they tell
me."

"It does look rather ragged, for a fact," said Ralph. "How did you come
to pick it out, Glen?"

"Oh, it was just the place I was looking for. You see," explained the
boy in a slightly embarrassed way, "my grandfather is sort of--queer,"
and Glen pointed soberly to his head.

"Yes, I understand," nodded Ralph.

"I didn't want to take him to a town where he might be noticed and
mightn't feel at home. Then there were reasons which--yes, some
reasons."

Ralph did not ask what they were. The farm embraced some twenty acres.
Its improvements were mostly rickety, broken down barns and sheds. These
seemed to be utilized in the chicken industry to the last foot of
available space, the interested visitor noticed. An enclosure formed of
sections of old wire netting held over a hundred of the feathery brood,
and some of the boxes obtained from the wreck had been made into
brooding pens.

Then Ralph laughed outright as he noticed two, four, half a dozen
chickens limping about cheerfully with a stick taking the place of one
broken or missing foot, and at others with a wing in splints.

"What do you think of it?" inquired Glen eagerly.

"I think you're a rare genius," declared Ralph, slapping his companion
heartily on the shoulder.

"There are some neighbors beyond here who have been awfully kind to us,"
proceeded Glen. "They gave us an old cooking stove and other kitchen
things, and now that we have the chickens and eggs we can trade in the
neighborhood for most everything we want. We have plenty to eat--oh, you
did a big thing the day you went bail for me on this chicken deal."

Glen went into details about his business when they reached the house.
He showed Ralph a book in which he had enumerated his various
belongings. Then he made an estimate of what sixty days' chicken farming
would result in. The exhibit made Ralph dizzy. It was fowls and eggs and
multiples of fowls and eggs in exact but bewildering profusion.

"You're heading right, that's sure," applauded Ralph. "What's that room
for?"

Ralph was glancing into an adjoining apartment with a great deal of
curiosity and interest. He had never seen such a room before. It held
two rudely-constructed tables, and attached to these were some old
telegraph instruments, just like the abandoned ones down at the old
division tower shanty. Pieces of wire ran to the ceiling of the room,
but no farther. On the wall above one of the tables was a great sheet of
paper covered with a skeleton outline system.

Somewhere Ralph had seen a picture of a rude frontier train dispatcher's
office. This was almost a perfect counterpart of it. He fixed his eyes
in questioning wonderment on his companion. Glen looked somewhat
embarrassed and flushed up. Then with an affected laugh he said:

"This is my grandfather's den."

"But--the telegraph instruments, the wires?"

"Why, grandfather was once a telegrapher, a famous----" He checked
himself. "This is his hobby, and I fixed up things to please him."

"How about yourself?" asked Ralph, with a keen glance at his companion,
recalling what Dan Lacey had told him back at the switch shanty.

Glen eyed him steadily for a moment. Then his eyes faltered.

"My grandfather has taught me a lot about telegraphy," he admitted.

Ralph walked over to the chart on the wall. The young engineer had
learned his Morse alphabet early in his railroad career, and knew
something of the system in vogue along the line.

As his eye studied the rude scrawl made with a red pencil, Ralph at once
discerned that its dotted lines denoted three divisions of a railway
system. From separate dots he traced a line of towns. Above each was a
designation, an initial, a double initial, sometimes an additional
numeral.

"The mischief!" muttered the young railroad engineer under his breath,
"this doesn't look much like a plaything outfit. Why, that is a perfect
transcript of the routing chart in the train dispatcher's office at
Stanley Junction."

CHAPTER X

THE TRAIN DISPATCHER

A great flood of dark suspicion crossed Ralph's mind at the discovery of
the road chart. A dozen quick questions arose to his lips. Before he
could speak, however, there was a hail from the outside.

"Hey, there, young fellow!"

Glen ran out to the road where a farm hand on horseback had halted.
Ralph followed him.

"About your old man," spoke the visitor.

"My grandfather, yes," said Glen breathlessly.

"You told us to sort of keep an eye on him. He came down to our place
about an hour ago to get some butter. Scruggins, who lives just beyond
here was going to Centerville. Your old man said he wanted to go there,
too, to see the new swinging signal bridge over the railroad."

"Oh, but you stopped him."

"I was away when it happened, and he would not listen to ma. Scruggins
said he would bring him back all right."

"Oh, I must stop him! I must overtake him!" cried Glen in such poignant
distress that Ralph was surprised. "Grandfather was away nearly two days
before, and pretty near got lost, and I was worried to death. I must go
after him, indeed I must! Excuse me, won't you," he pleaded of Ralph.

"I will see you again soon," answered Ralph.

"Do--sure," said Glen. "I have lots to tell you."

The farm hand rode on his way and Glen ran down the road on foot at
great speed. Ralph went back slowly to the open house. Once more he
inspected the telegraph room. Then with a good deal of thoughtfulness he
started homeward.

"There's something queer about all this business," ruminated the young
railroader. "That boy's grandfather was certainly in with the two men
who escaped from me in the tunnel. He is an expert telegrapher. So is
Glen. Ike Slump had something up his sleeve about Glen. That chart of
the road has the regular telegraph signal on it. What does this all
mean?"

Ralph could not believe that Glen was a schemer or anything of that
sort. For all that, there was a decided mystery about him. He seemed to
be afraid of Slump, appeared to shun the town and its people. Why was he
wandering all about the country with a helpless old man? Why had he
flushed up and acted embarrassed when Ralph had asked him several
pointed questions?

"Glen must certainly be questioned about the two men who had his
grandfather in tow," decided Ralph, "for those fellows must be located
and watched. I wish Bob Adair was here. He would soon let light in on
the whole affair. I'd rather he would do it, for I feel very friendly
towards Glen and I don't like hurting his feelings by seeming to pry
into his private business."

Ralph rested a few minutes on the porch when he reached home and then
started down town. He was in a certain state of suspense, for the orders
of the general superintendent were vague and unsatisfactory. Something
was working, Ralph felt, in which he was to take an active part. The
paymaster had indicated that affairs were being stirred up. Idleness and
suspense worried the young railroader, however, and he anxiously awaited
the coming interview with his superior officer.

Ralph went down to the roundhouse and met many of his friends. Old
Forgan, the fireman, described the disgust and dejection of Fogg at
having a new running mate. Everybody had heard that Ralph had a layoff
on account of a fall disabling him, and his arm in the sling won him a
good deal of friendly sympathy. He made a tour of the general offices to
learn that Mr. Little was laid up at home with a lame foot, and that the
general superintendent was out of town.

Ralph had the free run of the general offices, as the saying went. He
was ambitious, energetic and popular, and the busiest man in the service
had a pleasant nod and a kindly word for him as he went around the
different departments. When he arrived at the train dispatcher's office,
the young railroader went in and sat down.

Ralph was in one of the most inviting places a man can get into,
especially if he is interested in the workings of a big railway system.

The thought came to him, as he sat watching the men who held in their
keeping the lives of thousands of passengers, that not all the credit
for a good swift run was due to the engineer and train crew. He smiled
as he recalled how the newspapers told every day of the President or
some big functionary out on a trip, and how at the end of the run he
stopped beside the panting engine, and reaching up to shake the hand of
the faithful, grimy engineer, would say:

"Thank you so much for giving us a good run. I don't know when I have
ridden so fast before," or words to that effect.

The reader of such items never thinks the engineer and crew are mere
mechanical agents, small cogs in a huge machine. They do their part
well, but the little office of the train dispatcher is a red-hot place
where they have a red-hot time, where one tap of the sounder may cover
the fate of numberless extras, specials and delayed trains.

The young engineer took particular notice of the dispatcher's office on
the present occasion. This was because so much of pending trouble seemed
to involve the wire system of the Great Northern. The wire tapping
episode, the prototype routing chart at the chicken farm, had aroused
suspicion in his mind. Then, too, Ralph had often had a fondness and an
admiration for this branch of the service. At one time, in fact, he had
studied telegraphy with the purpose in view of following it up, and old
John Glidden, a fast friend of his, had invited him to the dispatcher's
office and had taught him a great many useful things in his line.

Glidden was the first trick dispatcher and was not on duty just now.
Ralph nodded to two subordinates at their tables, and snuggled back into
his comfortable seat with the time and interest to look over things.

The interior of the dispatcher's office was not very sumptuous. There
was a big counter at one side of the room. This contained the train
register, car record books, message blanks and forms for various
reports. Against the wall on one of the other sides was a big blackboard
known as the call board. Ralph read here the record of the probable
arrival and departure of trains and the names of their crews. Also the
time certain crews were to be called.

About the middle of the room in the recess of a bay window was the
dispatcher's table. Ralph only casually knew the man in charge. His name
was Thorpe, a newcomer, and an expert in his line, but gruff and uncivil
in the extreme, and he had few friends. In front of him was the train
sheet containing information exact and absolute in its nature of each
train on the division. On the sheet was also a space set apart for the
expected arrival of trains from the other end and one for delays.
Glidden had once gone over one of these sheets with Ralph with its
loads, empties and miscellaneous details, and Ralph knew that the grim,
silent man at the table must know the precise location of every train at
a given moment, how her engine was working, how she had done along the
road, and all about her engineer and conductor.

Ralph spent nearly a half an hour in the dispatcher's room. Then he went
down to the depot. An extra was just leaving for the west. He paused to
have a cheery word with the engineer and fireman, whom he knew quite
well. They were getting ready for the orders to pull out, when the three
of them stared hard at a flying form coming down the track.

"Hello," observed the engineer, "it's Bates."

"Yes, the second trick man in the dispatcher's office," nodded the
fireman. "Wonder what's up with him?"

"Something is," declared Ralph, "according to his looks and actions."

Bates came puffing up white and breathless. Evidently he had just got
out of bed, half dressed himself, put on a pair of slippers, no coat, no
hat, and he seemed to ignore the cold and snow amid some frantic urgency
of reaching the departing train.

"Say!" he panted, approaching the fireman who was giving No. 341 the
last touch of oil before they pulled out, "thank heaven you haven't
gone!"

"Hey?" stared the engineer.

"Don't pull out for a minute."

"Why not?"

"I think there's a mistake in your orders."

"What's the matter with you?" snapped back the fireman with affected
gruffness. "I hain't got no orders. Come here, till I oil the wheels in
your head."

"You must come up to the dispatcher's office," insisted Bates urgently,
and the engineer followed him wonderingly. Ralph, tracing something
unusual in the episode of the moment, kept them company.

The chief dispatcher was standing by the counter. He glanced sharply at
Bates with the words:

"What's up, kid? Seen a ghost? You look almost pale enough yourself to
be one."

"No," quavered Bates in a shaky tone. "I haven't seen any ghosts, but I
am afraid I forgot to notify that track gang just west of here about
this extra."

The chief went to the order book and glanced at the train sheet.

"Oh, bosh!" he said. "Of course you notified them. Here it is as big as
life. Look out for extra west engine 341 leaving Stanley Junction at
1:21 P. M. What do you want to get a case of rattles and scare us all
that way for. Say, I'd ought to run down your spinal column with a rake.
Don't you know there are other dispatchers in this office besides
yourself--men who know more in a minute about the business than you do
in a month? Don't you suppose that order book would be verified and the
train sheet consulted before sending out the extra. Say, don't you ever
show up with such a case of rattles again."

Bates expressed an enormous sigh of relief. As he came down to the
platform, however, Ralph noticed that he was shaking from head to foot.

"Did you ever work up there?" inquired Bates in a solemn tone.

"No," answered Ralph.

"Then don't. Just wake up once after you've left the key, and get
thinking you've forgotten something, and--nightmare? Fairbanks, it's
worse than the horrors!"

CHAPTER XI

MAKING A SCHEDULE

"You understand me, Fairbanks?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Drake."

"You have helped us out of trouble before this and I believe you can be
of inestimable service in the present instance. We are sorry to lose a
first-class engineer, but we need you somewhere else, and need you
badly."

They were seated in the private office of the superintendent of the
Great Northern, that august official and the young engineer of the
Overland Express, and a long, earnest and serious colloquy had just
ended.

"From what I have told you and from what you have personally discovered,
it is more than apparent that a plot is on foot among our train
dispatchers to cripple the running time of the road for the benefit of
the opposition."

"There is little doubt of that, I think," said Ralph.

"There is a leak somewhere, and it must be stopped."

"It is my opinion that investigations should begin at the fountain
head," submitted Ralph.

"That is just where we shall begin. It may be a hard, even a dangerous
task. We look to you, Fairbanks, for results."

It was the third day after Ralph's adventure in the tunnel. Not much had
happened of active importance during that time. Ralph had met the
superintendent on three different occasions. The present one was a
definite culmination of a series.

The young railroader felt very much pleased at the confidence placed in
him by the railroad head. It stirred his pride because it had all come
about naturally. The superintendent had told him that after a little
preliminary work he was to be made chief dispatcher of the Western
division of the road. It was a grand promotion, both in importance and
salary, enough to satisfy the most ambitious person working for a rapid
rise.

Ralph had been sent to the home of the paymaster by the superintendent,
and there was a colloquy there. Bob Adair, the road detective, was
called in from the other end of the line, and Ralph told him the story
of Glen Palmer and his grandfather, leaving the officer to work out
himself whatever mystery might surround the two.

In plain words, somebody was tampering with the train dispatching
service of the road. Some one on the inside was giving out important
information. Cross orders had gone over the wires in a mysterious way
and could not be traced. There had been two bad freight wrecks, and
twice the Overland Express had been caught in a tangle brought about by
vague contradictory orders and had come in many hours late.

As to those who were suspected of being responsible for this state of
affairs Ralph was apprized in his talks with the superintendent. The
plans to trap them and fasten the proofs of conspiracy upon them were
all outlined to the young railroader. Ralph had blocked out just what he
was expected to do, but that day as he was led to the office of the
train dispatcher by the superintendent he knew that he had no easy task
before him.

Glidden was in charge as they came into the place. The two trick men
under him and the copy operators were busy at their tables. Mounted on a
roll in front of Glidden was the current official time card of the
division. From the information contained thereon he had evidently just
finished his calculation for time orders, meeting points and work
trains.

"Good morning, Glidden," said the superintendent. "I spoke to you
yesterday about our friend, Fairbanks here."

The gruff dispatcher nodded brusquely. He liked Ralph and the latter
knew it. Ralph also knew that Glidden was one of the "true blues" of the
office.

"His arm is not strong enough to pull a lever, but he's in shape to
tackle a key, and knows how to do it."

"Glad," vouchsafed Glidden tersely.

"All right. Set him at work."

"Come on," said Glidden, and he opened the little office gate and Ralph
stood within the charmed precincts of the train dispatching circle.

"You've had some experience, I understand," resumed Glidden, after some
bustling about. "I suppose you know what an O. S. report is?"

"The one sent in by operators of the various stations as trains arrive
and depart."

"Exactly, and the 'Consists'?"

"The conductors' messages giving the exact composition and destination
of every car in the train."

"You'll do," nodded Glidden. "Now, then, I have an inkling you and I are
booked for something special at the relay station to-night, so you
needn't work yourself out. Just for practice, though, and to prove how
smart you are, show the kind of stuff you are made of by tackling that."

Glidden threw down a train sheet before Ralph, and following it a copied
telegram. Then he strode away, with the words:

"Make out a schedule for this special, giving her a clean sweep from end
to end with the exception of No. 8."

"Very well, Mr. Glidden," said Ralph quietly. "How soon do you want it?"

"Take your time," was the short reply, while a chuckle sounded deep down
in the throat of the dispatcher.

Ralph set his lips grimly. He realized that for a green hand he had been
given an arduous task. He knew much about the service, however, and had
not watched, studied and absorbed during the past two days for nothing.
He was fully determined that this special should have "a run for her
money." If she ran on his schedule, no train load was going away with
the idea that the Great Northern was not the swiftest road of the bunch
if he could help it, and Ralph had a big idea that he could.

Glidden sent over a copy operator, a young fellow who agreed to do the
copying while Ralph made the schedule. There was a whimsical twinkle in
his eye, but Ralph dauntlessly started in at his work.

The special in question was to be whooped through that afternoon, the
run was one hundred and two miles, with plenty of sidings and passing
tracks, and besides, old Dan Lacey, with engine No. 86, was on, so he
could be sure of a run that was a hummer.

The superintendent came into the office for a moment to see what Ralph
was at, and said carelessly:

"Tear things loose, Fairbanks. There's a Congressional Railroad
Committee aboard of that special. Make 'em all car sick."

Ralph took the train sheet and familiarized himself with its every
detail. Down its centre was printed the names of all the stations on the
division and the distances between them. On either side of the main
column were ruled smaller columns, each one of which represented a
train. The number of each train was at the head of the appropriate
column, and under it the names of the conductor and engineer and the
number of loads and empties on the train.

All trains on the division were arranged in three classes, and as Ralph
knew had certain rights. Trains of the first class were passengers. The
through freight and combination freight and passenger made up the second
class. All other trains, such as local freights, work trains and
construction trains, composed the third class.

Ralph began his calculating on the basis of the invariable rule in force
on all railroads, that trains running one way have the exclusive right
over trains of their own and inferior classes running in the opposite
direction. Ralph began his work by framing up the initial order:

                "Order number 29
                To G. N. E.--all trains
                   G. N. R. R. (Western Division)
                Dispatcher's office

  D. S.

  Special east engine No. 86 will run from Rockton to Dover,
  having right of track over all trains except No. 8 on the
  following schedule:

                Leave Rockton 3:12 P. M.

There Ralph paused.

"Stuck," insinuated his copy operator with a grin.

"No, only thinking," declared Ralph.

Here was where the figuring came in, along with the knowledge of the
road, grades and the like, in which Ralph was by no means lacking, for
he knew familiarly nearly every foot of the way out of Rockton. He
studied and used up lots of gray matter and even chewed up a pencil or
two. Ralph read his schedule carefully and handed it to the second trick
operator. The latter knitted his brows for a moment and then slowly
said:

"For a beginner that's the best schedule I ever saw."

"Thank you," bowed Ralph modestly.

"It's a hummer, without a doubt. To prevent the lives of the
Congressional Committee being placed in peril, though, I think you had
better make another."

"Think so?" questioned Ralph blankly.

"You see," went on the operator solemnly, "you have only allowed seven
minutes between Lisle and Hull, while the time card shows the distance
to be six miles. Dan Lacey and his engine 86 are capable of great bursts
of speed, but they can't fly. Then there's the through. She's an hour
late from the south today. What are you going to do about her. Pass them
on one track, I suppose?"

"He's guying you, Fairbanks," spoke a gruff but pleased voice at Ralph's
shoulder. "Lacey can make the spurt without a quiver, and as you
probably noticed the late through is cancelled for transfer at
Blakeville. You'll do."

Ralph picked up a good deal of general information that day. He
perfected himself in the double-order system. This covered the giving of
an order to all trains concerned at the same time. A case came up where
the dispatcher desired to make a meeting point for two trains. The order
was sent simultaneously to both of them. Ralph had a case in point where
a train was leaving his end of the division and wherein it was necessary
to make a meeting point with a train coming in. Before giving his order
to his conductor and engineer he telegraphed to a station at which the
incoming train would soon arrive. From there the operator repeated the
message back word for word, giving a signal that his red board was
turned. By this means both trains received the same order and there
would be no doubt about the point at which they were to meet.

Time orders, slow orders, extra orders, annulment orders, clearance
orders--Ralph found that any one gifted with a reasonable amount of
common sense and having practical knowledge of the rudiments of
mathematics could do the work successfully. Beneath all the simplicity
of the system, however, the young railroader realized that there ran a
deep undercurrent of complications that only long time and a cool head
could master.

All of a sudden sometimes some train out on the road that had been
running all right would bob up with a hot box or a broken draw head, and
then all the calculations for a new train would be knocked awry.

About four o'clock in the afternoon the superintendent came into the
office and made a gesture towards Ralph which the latter understood
perfectly. He nudged Glidden as he passed him, who blinked up at him
intelligently. Then Ralph went home.

It was just after dusk that the young dispatcher left the cottage. It
had set in a cold tempestuous night with blinding snow eddies, and Ralph
wore a protecting storm coat, and carried a good lunch in one of its
capacious pockets.

He walked about a mile across town until he came to the limits crossing,
and stood in the shelter of a flagman's shanty for a few minutes. Then a
sharp whistle greeted his ears. He strained his vision and made out a
dim form loitering near a big heap of ties.

"Mr. Glidden?" spoke Ralph, advancing to meet this man.

"That's what," responded Glidden, in his usually snappy way. "All
ready?"

"Yes."

"It's all arranged. The regular men have been called off for the night.
You take the relay station, and I'll be on duty at the tower station
beyond, catching the messages that fly over the wires, and see if we
can't nail the people who are making the Great Northern all this
trouble."

CHAPTER XII

AT THE RELAY STATION

The relay station was located just beyond the limits of Stanley
Junction, and was practically the feeder through which ran all the
railroad and commercial wires focussing at headquarters. It stood in a
wide triangle formed by the tracks of the three divisions of the road,
which here branched out north, south and west.

The station was the top of a sort of wareroom for all kinds of railroad
junk. Stairs led up to it both inside and outside. Over the tower roof,
reached by a trap door, was the great enclosed network of wires covering
all the lines of the Great Northern.

Ralph had talked affairs over so closely with the superintendent and
later with Glidden, that as he left the latter he knew just what he was
expected to do and how he was to do it. His mission was one of great
importance and of secrecy as well, for the relay station and the first
switch tower on the southern branch less than a quarter of a mile beyond
it, were suspected points in the train dispatching service just now.

Ralph left Glidden after a brief whispered conversation. He gained the
immediate vicinity of the relay station through slow, cautious progress.
He had visited the place the day previous and had studied his ground
well. When he at length entered the open doorway, he felt sure that he
had reached his goal without attracting the attention of the two
occupants of the operating room whom he had made out as he approached.

Ralph did not go up the stairs outside or inside. About twelve feet
aloft and gained by a ladder of cleats nailed across two supports was a
platform. It abutted the operating room, and it seemed to be a catch-all
for half reels of wire, insulators and other material used in the
telegraphic line. Ralph reached this, and taking great care not to
disturb anything that might make a racket, he crept directly up to a
window looking into the operating room.

This window was used for ventilation in summer. Just now it was crusted
with dust and cob-webbed so that while he could look beyond its grimy
panes, there was little danger of his being seen from within. Better
than that, he noted that a broken upper pane had one corner gone, and he
could distinctly hear every sound made in the operating room.

There were two men in the place. One of them was the night operator.
Against this fellow Ralph had been warned. He had a face that would
naturally excite suspicion, and he was familiarly known as Grizzly. He
was seated at the operating table ready for duty.

The man beside him had no business there, so far as Ralph could figure
out. He looked like a rough workman, but his easy bearing showed that he
was on an equality with the operator. His companion addressed him as
Mason. This fellow, lounging lazily near the little stove that heated
the place and smoking a short stump of a pipe, opened the conversation
with the words:

"Cozy for the night, Grizzly."

"Looks it. The split trick man gave his D. S. good night, and is gone."

"Who is he?"

"New man."

"Isn't that suspicious--so many new men lately?"

"Oh, I'm posted and watching out for squalls. Think he's a new one from
another road. Works like a ham factory hand. When he turned out his
first message I asked which foot he did it with. The way he looked at
the time cards where the calls are printed and kept the key open, I knew
he was an innocent greenhorn. Didn't know what 30 meant when it came,
got rattled when headquarters was on the quad, and stumbled over the
pink almost scared to death."

A week previous all this would have been Greek to Ralph. At present he
quickly understood that 30 was the end of a long message, the quad was
where they sent four messages at a time, and a pink was a rush telegram.

"Then you think you're not being watched?" inquired Mason.

"Sure of it," responded Grizzly with confidence.

"What's the cross orders from our friends?"

"Nothing on the general mix up plan," reported the operator. "They
struck the right man when they hit me to help them. I've got a big hunch
for the far west, and wouldn't have cared if the Great Northern had let
me out, since, with the chance to carry a big wad of money away with me,
why of course I'm in trim for whatever blows along."

"What's special to-night?"

"A side trick, and that's why I sent for you. We made a bad mix up two
nights ago with cross orders and tappings. I think it aroused the
suspicions of the superintendent, so we're going slow on that tack for a
few days. The gang working for the rival road, though, have let me in on
some of their side games. One of them is due to-night."

"What is it?"

"You'll know when the time comes. Got your tools with you?"

Mason lazily touched a bag at his feet with his toe, and it jangled as
he replied.

"All of them."

"Good, enjoy yourself till about eleven o'clock. If anyone comes duck
behind the box yonder, though I don't think there's any chance of a
visit a night like this. The bosses are paying too much attention to the
stock end of traffic deals to take a flight at a little disruption of
the service. There's a nine--Train orders, I've got to go at my
routine."

Ralph settled down as comfortably as he could in his secure hiding
place. What he had just heard confirmed forever suspicions that crooked
work was being done by crooked operators, and that this fellow Grizzly
was one of them.

He listened to the monotonous grind out of the operator: "O.S. O.S. X.N.
No. 21 a. 7:39, d. 7:41," and knew that the Limited Mail had reached
Tipton, and had gone on. The night schedule for the Mountain Division
west ran the wires, then miscellaneous messages. All this was like
reading a book to Ralph, while his mind formed a mental map, a picture
of conditions all along the line.

It grew dreadfully monotonous by nine o'clock, however. Grizzly grumbled
while getting a heap of work out of the way, Mason went to sleep and
snored in his chair by the stove. A sudden diversion, however, aroused
him. There was the sound of the lower outside door slamming shut. Ralph
could look down at the stairway. Someone had appeared ascending it.
Grizzly heard the footsteps, warning him of an intruder, and rushed at
Mason shaking him vigorously with the sharp mandate:

"Bolt!"

A minute later, peering within the operating room, Ralph saw the
intruder enter. Mason had got to cover and Grizzly back to his
instrument. The intruder suggested some half tipsy ranchman, who
staggered into the room shaking the snow from his garments.

"Hi, there, young man," he hailed familiarly to Grizzly. "I want to send
a message to Wayne."

"Sorry, but it's too late."

"Too late for what?" growled the intruder, looking skeptical and ugly.

"All the instruments cut out that way and we won't have Wayne till six
o'clock in the morning."

"Won't, eh? Well, you've got to, that's all," observed the man, coming
nearer to the operating table.

"Come around in the morning and some of the day force will send the
message for you."

"No. I've got twenty-six cars of cattle out here that are going there
tomorrow, and I want to notify my agents."

Grizzly shook his head and turned to his table. The stranger bolted up
against him with a savage face.

"Say," he said, "you send this message or there is going to be trouble."

"Not much, I won't send your confounded old message; get out of this
office."

There was a swift movement on the part of the ranchman, then an ominous
click, and Grizzly was looking down the barrel of a revolver.

"Give me your blamed old message and I'll send it for you," growled the
scared operator, though there was not a wire anywhere near Wayne at the
time, but Grizzly had a scheme to stave the fellow off. He took the
paper from the man, went over to the switchboard, fumbled at a local
instrument, and, as Ralph discerned, went through the form of sending a
message.

The stranger watched him furtively, pistol in hand, swaying to and fro
like a reed in the wind and grinning like a monkey.

"There, I hope you're satisfied now," muttered Grizzly.

"Of course I am," chuckled the ranchman; "only I rushed a dodge on you,
for the pistol isn't loaded. You bit like a fish."

It was the turn of Grizzly to chuckle, however. As the fellow
disappeared Mason came into sight again, and the twain chuckled over the
deluded ranchman whose message would not go over the wires for many
hours to come.

Towards ten o'clock things quieted down. Few messages went over the
wires. It was only occasionally that the clicking told off some
important train report from big centers. Grizzly looked and acted
uneasy. He arose and strode about the room, looking out at the stormy
night, stopping dead short in reflective halts, and glancing frequently
at the clock, as though he was expecting somebody or something.

"You act as if you was watching for something to happen," suggested
Mason, after a long spell of silence.

"I am," replied the operator. "See here, Mason; you know those wires
overhead, I'm thinking?"

"Like a book."

"On the tap of eleven I send the man on the north branch home for a good
stop."

"Officially, eh?" grinned Mason.

"He'll think so, and that answers."

"And then?"

"Get aloft and cut out."

Mason started and looked serious.

"See here, Grizzly," he objected.

"Did you think I sent for you at twenty dollars a night for fun?"

"No, but----"

"It's this serious: It's a wreck, and a bad one, but if it goes through
it's a thousand dollars apiece for us."

CHAPTER XIII

"HOLD THE LIMITED MAIL!"

Ralph pressed closer to his loophole of observation at the amazing
announcement of Grizzly, the traitorous train dispatcher.

"A wreck, you say?" observed Mason, in a dubious and faint-hearted tone
of voice.

"Oh, nobody will get hurt," declared Grizzly lightly. "What's the matter
with you? Haven't you got any nerve? I said there was a thousand apiece
in this, didn't I?"

"I know you did."

"So, don't weaken about the knees when I give the word, but do just as I
tell you. This affair to-night is a mere flyspeck to what's coming along
in a week."

"Suppose--suppose we're found out?" suggested Mason.

"We get out, isn't that all? And we get out with good friends to take
care of us, don't we?"

"I suppose that's so," admitted Mason, but he shifted about in his seat
as if he was a good deal disturbed.

Grizzly glanced again at the clock. Then he returned to his instrument.
In a minute or two his fingers worked the key. Ralph watched and
listened with all his might. What the operator did was to notify the
dispatcher at Wellsville that he might go off duty, signing
headquarters. Before he did this he spoke a few quick words that Ralph
did not catch. Mason had selected some tools from his bag, and at once
went nimbly aloft among the cable wires.

Ralph heard Mason fussing among the wires. He could only surmise what
the two men were up to. The way he figured it out was that Mason had cut
the wires running from the north branch through the relay into
headquarters. He had thus completely blocked all messages from or to the
north branch.

Mason came back to the operating room looking flustered and nervous.

"Nothing open north?" inquired Grizzly.

"Not on the Preston branch."

"That's right. We can splice 'em up again after two o'clock. Things will
do their happening between now and then, and we leave no trace."

"See here, Grizzly," pleaded Mason in a spasmodic outburst of agitation;
"what's the deal?"

"What good will it do you to know?"

"Well, I want to."

"All right; there's to be a runaway. There's an old junk engine down
beyond Wellsville doing some dredging work, with a construction crew.
She's to be fired along."

"What for?" inquired Mason, his eyes as big as saucers.

"For instance," jeered Grizzly, with a disagreeable laugh.

"Where's she to run to?"

The operator went to a map tacked to the wall. He ran his finger so
rapidly over it that, the intent Mason standing between, Ralph could not
clearly make out the route indicated.

"Nobody hurt, you see," remarked Grizzly, in an offhanded way. "There
isn't another wheel running on that branch this side of Preston."

"No, but the feeders and cut-ins? Along near Preston the Limited mail
runs twenty miles since they've been bridging the main at Finley Gap."

"She must take her chances, then," observed Grizzly coolly. "Don't get
worried, son. The men working this deal know their business, and don't
want to get in jail."

"What--what is there for me to do." inquired Mason, acting like a man
who had been persuaded to a course that had unnerved and distressed him.

"Set those wires back just as they were, when I give you the word."

"Say, if you don't mind, I'll go somewhere and get a bracer. I'm feeling
sort of squeamish."

Grizzly regarded the speaker with a contemptuous look in his
manifestation of weakness, but he made no remark, and Mason left the
room. Ralph from his point of observation watched him descend the stairs
and close the door after him as he went out into the storm, faced in the
direction of the town.

The young railroader started down the cleat ladder, when Grizzly came
out of the operating room. He looked thoughtful, as if he was uneasy at
his comrade wandering off. As the lower door closed after him, Ralph