Ralph on the Engine: or, The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail

CHAPTER XIII
THE SHORT LINE RAILWAY

Ralph attracted a good deal of attention when he arrived at Dover, and fully realized the honor of being treated as a companion by the president of the great railroad of which he was an employe. Mr. Grant was pleasant and friendly. He learned Ralph’s story, and discussed railroad experience in a way that was enlightening and encouraging to the young fireman.

“About these kidnappers,” he said, “I will never give them a dollar, but I will spend all I have to rescue my nephew. It is needless to say that you shall be richly rewarded if you assist me successfully.”

“I will do my best, sir,” pledged Ralph.

At Dover they were met by Adair. They went into the depot and sat down on a bench in a remote corner.

“I have not discovered the kidnappers nor the faintest clew to them, Mr. Grant,” said Adair.

The railroad president sighed deeply. He showed in his face and manner the care and anxiety he was suffering.

“Can you suggest anything, Fairbanks?” continued Adair. “You know the district fairly well. What is your idea about these men?”

Ralph astonished his companions by suddenly arising to his feet and hurrying towards a boy who had just entered the depot and had taken up a pen and a telegraph pad on the counter outside the ticket office.

It was Van Sherwin, the old-time friend of Ralph, and pleasure at recognizing him had caused the young fireman to act on an impulse.

“Why, Van!” he cried, “I am glad to see you.”

“Eh?” spoke the other. “Ralph! well, the gladness is mutual,” and the pair shook hands cordially.

“What brought you here?” asked Ralph.

“Came down from headquarters in the timber on important business,” replied Van. “Just sending a telegram.”

“Why!” almost shouted Ralph, glancing at the blank upon which his friend had just written a name, “to Mr. Grant, to the president of the Great Northern!”

“Yes,” answered Van. “Does that startle you?”

“It does. What are you wiring him for?”

“About his nephew, Dudley Trevor.”

Ralph was fairly taken off his feet, as the saying goes. He grasped Van’s arm excitedly.

“See here, Van Sherwin,” he cried. “What do you know of Mr. Trevor?”

“Only that he is at our headquarters with a broken arm, and he sent me here to wire his uncle the fact.”

Ralph was delighted. He could scarcely credit the glad news. He led Van up to the railroad president and the road detective with the words:

“Gentlemen, I am very happy to tell you that Mr. Trevor is in safe hands, and my friend here will explain. Van Sherwin, this is Mr. Grant, the president of the Great Northern.”

Van nodded in his crisp, off-hand way to Adair, whom he knew, and took off his cap to his dignified companion.

His story was to his auditors most remarkable and exciting, but to Van only the narration of a perfectly natural occurrence. Early that morning there had come into “headquarters,” as Van termed it, a young man in an almost exhausted condition. His attire was all torn with brambles and bushes and one arm was broken.

“He told us his name, and said that he had escaped from kidnappers. Mr. Gibson attended to his arm, and sent me to Dover here to telegraph to you, sir,” explained Van to the railroad president.

Mr. Grant was so glad and excited he could not sit still.

“Take me to him at once!” he cried. “My dear lad, you have brought happy news to me.”

“I don’t know about going to see him,” said Van. “It is over twenty miles away in the woods.”

“Allow me to explain, Mr. Grant,” said Adair. “Between here and Wilmer is a wild, wooded stretch of land known as The Barrens.”

“I know of it,” nodded Mr. Grant. “The Great Northern once surveyed two miles into the section, but abandoned the route as impracticable. There are only about twenty houses in the district, and the difficulties of clearing and grading were discouraging.”

“Well,” said Adair, “it appears that a man named Farwell Gibson secured a charter to build a short line through The Barrens from Wilmer across the desolate tract to connect with the Midland Central.”

“I heard of that, too,” nodded the railroad president.

“This Gibson is an odd genius. He has been working for two years on his scheme, terming the road the Dover & Springfield Short Line. Just half way across The Barrens he has a house, which he calls ‘headquarters.’ He is an erratic hermit, and adopted this boy here, Van Sherwin, who has been helping him. Every day, the law requires, he must do some grading work on the prospective railroad line. This he has done, and you would be surprised to know the progress they have made.”

“Especially lately,” said Van, with sparkling eyes. “Even you, Ralph, would be astonished. Mrs. Gibson got some money recently – five thousand dollars from old Gasper Farrington – and we have hired a lot of men. Oh, that railroad is going through, and don’t you forget it.”

“We realized our mistake after this Gibson got hold of the franchise,” said Mr. Grant. “Once the road is built, it practically dominates passenger and freight business north and south.”

“That is right,” said Van, “for it becomes a bee-line, saving twenty to thirty miles distance, besides opening up a new district. Well, sir, your nephew is now at our headquarters. To reach the place you will have to get a very heavy wagon and go pretty slow and sure, for there are no roads.”

“I must go at all hazards,” cried the railroad president insistently, “and you, my friends, must accompany me,” he added to Adair and Ralph. “Why, those villains from whom my nephew escaped may undertake to recapture him.”

A little later the party, in charge of a sturdy fellow driving a strong team of horses attached to a heavy wagon, started out under the direction of Van Sherwin.

The district was a wild jungle, interspersed with sweeps of hill and dales, and numerous creeks. Finally they reached a hill surmounted by a dense grove of trees. A road led up here to a rambling log house.

Here and on the other side of the hill a ten-foot avenue was visible, neat and clean. The brush had been cleared away, the ground leveled, here and there some rudely cut ties set in place, and for an extended stretch there was a presentable graded roadbed.

As they drove up to the cabin the railroad president almost forgot his nephew from interest in his surroundings. Across the front of the building was a sign reading: “Headquarters of the Dover & Springfield Short Line Railroad.” To the south there was a singular sight presented. Some twenty men and boys were working on a roadbed, which had been cut for over two miles. A telegraph wire ran from the building over the tops of trees, and Ralph was fairly astonished at the progress made since he had first visited Farwell Gibson in this place.

“Come in,” said Van, as Mr. Grant alighted from the wagon.

“Well, this is decidedly a railroady place,” observed the president of the Great Northern with a faint smile.

One half of the rambling place was a depot and railway offices combined. There were benches for passengers. In one corner was a partitioned off space, labeled: “President’s Office.” On the wall hung a bunch of blank baggage checks, and there was a chart of a zigzag railway line, indicating bridges, water tanks and switch towers.

“Mr. Gibson,” called out Van to a man seated at a desk, “this is Mr. Grant, the president of the Great Northern.”

“Eh? what! My dear sir, I am glad to see you,” said the eccentric hermit. “You came about your nephew, I presume? Take the gentleman to his room, Van,” directed Farwell. “I am something of a doctor and he is resting quite comfortably.”

Mr. Gibson greeted Ralph very cordially. When Van returned, he insisted on the young fireman inspecting the work on the railroad.

“Does that look like business?” he inquired, as they proceeded down the roadbed. “We have ten men and eight boys working for us.”

“Eight boys – where did they come from?” inquired Ralph.

“An orphan asylum burned down and we engaged to care for them,” replied Van.

“But what are they doing in those trees?”

“Stringing a telegraph wire. We expect within a month to have the telegraph through to Springfield, and later to Dover.”

“Why, Van,” said Ralph, “it seems incredible, the progress you have made.”

“That five thousand dollars we made old Farrington pay Mrs. Gibson was a great help,” replied Van. “We have quite a construction crew here now. I help Mrs. Gibson do the cooking, and we get on famously.”

Mr. Grant was with his nephew for over an hour. Then Ralph was sent for, and Trevor welcomed him with a glad smile. The young man described how he had been taken to a lonely building in the woods, how he had escaped from his enemies, breaking his arm in a runaway flight, and telling Ralph that he intended to remain where he was for a month, to which his uncle had agreed.

“Confidentially, Fairbanks,” he said, “I have taken a great interest in this Short Cut Railroad scheme, and as soon as I am well I am coming to see you at Stanley Junction.”

“Regarding this railroad?” inquired Ralph.

“Exactly,” responded Trevor. “I see a great future in it. I shall not go to Europe. There is a practical business chance here, and I intend to help Mr. Gibson get the enterprise through.”

“It will take a lot of money,” suggested Ralph.

“Yes,” assented Trevor, “and I know how to raise it. In fact, I have almost agreed to market one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds of the Dover & Springfield Short Line Railroad, and I want you to help me do it.”

CHAPTER XIV
A RAILROAD STRIKE

“It’s a bad outlook, lad,” said old John Griscom.

The veteran engineer was serious and anxious as he pronounced the words. He and Ralph were proceeding down the tracks beyond the round-house, just returned from their regular run from the city.

“It’s a strike, is it?” inquired Ralph.

“Worse than a strike,” replied Griscom. “The railroad men’s union is in a squabble among themselves and a fight is on. That means trouble and damage all around.”

It was two weeks after the kidnapping of young Trevor, and affairs had subsided to regular routine for the engineer and fireman of the Limited Mail. The president of the Great Northern had sent a check for one hundred dollars to Ralph, which he divided with Griscom, both making up twenty-five dollars for Van Sherwin. From the actions of their superiors they knew that their being in close touch with Mr. Grant had helped them considerably, and both felt secure and contented in their positions, when a new disturbing element appeared.

For several days there had been trouble on both the Great Northern and the Midland Central. As Ralph understood it, the discharge of an irresponsible engineer on the latter line of railroad had led to a demand for his reinstatement. This the railway officials refused. A strike was at once ordered.

Two days later a man named Delmay, a strike agent, came to Stanley Junction. He demanded that the men on the Great Northern engage in a sympathetic strike until the other road was brought to terms. The older, wiser hands laughed at him. Jim Evans had returned to Stanley Junction, and at once joined in a movement to disrupt the local union by favoring the strike in question.

Evans had done a good deal of swaggering and threatening around the roundhouse that day, Ralph had just learned, and had intimidated some of the new hands into joining in the strike movement. He had left word that, as men came in from their runs, they were to report at a hall where the strikers met and announce which side of the contest they favored.

“Here we are, lad,” said the veteran engineer, as they started up the stairs of a building on Railroad Street. “Don’t look very business-like, those pails of beer going into that hall yonder and that cloud of tobacco smoke. I wouldn’t stir a foot, only it’s quite regular according to union rules to call and report in a matter like this.”

“What are you going to do, Mr. Griscom?” asked Ralph.

“Short and sweet, give my sentiments and leave these loafers to fight it out among themselves.”

“Include mine,” said Ralph. “I do not understand these strike complications and I know you do, so I shall follow your guidance.”

When they entered the hall they found a noisy crowd, smoking, playing cards and lounging about. On a platform sat Jim Evans, looking profoundly important. He sat at a table with a heap of papers before him. Griscom approached him, Ralph by his side.

“Who’s in charge here?” demanded the old engineer gruffly.

“I am,” announced Evans, in a somewhat unsteady tone. “Head of the movement.”

“That so?” muttered Griscom. “Movement can’t amount to much, then. Now then, Jim Evans, just one word. We came here out of courtesy to the union. We are members in good standing, and we represent the majority. At the meeting last night we voted you out as seceders. I am authorized to inform you that from now on no attention whatever will be paid to your crowd here.”

“Is that so?” sneered Evans. “I reckon we’ll attract some attention when we get in action. We have started our own union. We are going to break up the old one. Whoever comes in now to help us holds his job. Whoever don’t, will get downed somewhere along the line, and don’t you forget it.”

“Being in the wrong,” predicted Griscom steadily, “you won’t succeed.”

“Will you sign the roll?”

“No.”

“Nor Fairbanks?”

“Let the lad speak for himself,” said Griscom.

“I know little about these complications, Mr. Evans,” said Ralph. “I pay my dues, and we are upheld in our positions by the central union. In the present instance I stand by the regular men.”

Evans angrily picked up a sheet of paper. He scribbled upon it hastily.

“Know what that means?” he demanded.

“We don’t, and are not at all anxious to know,” retorted Griscom, turning to leave the hall.

“It means that you are blacklisted!” shouted Evans, rising to his feet. “As to you, Fairbanks, I owe you one, and the time has come when I am in power. Think twice – join us, or it will be the worse for you.”

“Come on, lad,” directed Griscom.

“Men,” roared Evans to his mob of friends, “those two are on the black list. Notice them particularly, and hit hard when you strike.”

Ralph went home somewhat disturbed by the episode, but not at all alarmed. He knew that such complications were frequent among the unions. His mother, however, was quite worried over the affair.

“That fellow Evans is a bad man, and has a personal hatred for you, Ralph,” she said. “Besides that, as we know, he has been incited to make you trouble by Mr. Farrington. Be careful of yourself, my son, for I fear he may try to do you some mischief.”

“I can only go on in the clear path of duty,” said Ralph sturdily.

The next morning the roundhouse was in quite a tumult. Its vicinity was picketed by the strikers. Ralph entered the place to find Tim Forgan, the foreman, in a state of great excitement and worry. There were not men enough for the regular runs.

“Take out your regular train,” he said to Griscom, “but I believe it will be annulled and new orders issued at the city end of the line. We’re in for trouble, I can tell you. The strikers make some pretty bad threats, and you want to watch every foot of the route until this strike is settled one way or the other.”

“There is no other way except to oppose these loafers boldly,” pronounced Griscom. “The union has expelled them, and they are on the basis of rioters.”

“Well, the railroad company will make some move to protect its property,” said Forgan. “They must give us more men, though, or we will have to annul half the daily trains.”

The Limited Mail got out of the yards with some difficulty. They had a spiked switch to look out for, and a missile from an old building smashed the headlight glass. At the limits a man tossed a folded paper into the locomotive cab. It was a poor scrawl containing direful threats to anyone opposing the new union.

When they reached the terminus Griscom found a committee of men from the central union waiting for him. They held a consultation. Then a messenger from the railway office came after him. It was a busy day for the veteran rail-roader.

“I don’t like the looks of things,” he said to Ralph, as they started on the homeward run. “The central union backs us, and the company is bound to fight the strikers to a finish. A lot of men are going down to take the places of the strikers. We are carrying them on this train, and serious trouble will begin as soon as the new men go to work.”

Two days later the freight traffic of the Great Northern was practically tied up. The situation had become positively alarming. The strikers had gathered strength of numbers through intimidation, and the coming of new workers had aroused animosity.

Car loads of perishable fruits and the like were rotting in the yards, men were beaten, engines crippled, orders mixed up, crown sheets burned and cars smashed on open switches.

The Limited Mail was annulled as a regular train, and Griscom and Ralph and all other passenger employes placed on the irregular list. One day a man would take out the Mail, the next day he would be running freight empties to the city.

Some cars on siding along the route had been set on fire, and Griscom and Ralph were ordered down the line to pick up freight strays and haul them to the yards at Dover. It proved an unpleasant task. Strikers annoyed them in every way possible. Finally with a mixed train of about twenty cars they arrived at Afton, and took the sidings to gather in half-a-dozen gondolas.

The spot was remote from the main tracks. Ralph had to do the coupling. He had run back, bound on this duty in the present instance, when, just as he reached the end of their train, three ill-appearing men stepped into view from a dismantled switch shanty.

“Drop your signaling,” spoke one of the three, advancing menacingly towards Ralph.

“Hardly,” responded Ralph calmly, “seeing we want these cars.”

“You don’t take them,” retorted the man, placing himself between the halted train and the cars beyond.

Ralph calmly gave the signal to the engine. The train backed. The man had to jump quickly out of the way. Ralph set the coupling pin, gave a quick signal and sprang into the first empty car. The man who had spoken to him followed him through the opposite open doorway.

“Fetch him out!” cried his two companions, running along the side of the car. “Maul him, and send him back to Stanley Junction as a lesson to the others.”

The man attempted to seize Ralph and the latter resisted. The fellow called to his companions, and they sprang into the car. Ralph, trying to reach the doorway to leap out, was tripped up, and he fell quite heavily.

“Toss him out!” growled his first assailant, but Ralph recovered himself, managed to gain his feet, and leaped to the ground outside.

The three men followed. Ralph ran behind a pile of railroad ties. His pursuers gained upon him. He stumbled, fell flat, and they pounced upon him.

“Hold on there,” suddenly spoke a new voice. “Get back and stay back, or I’ll know the reason why.”

Something whizzed through the air. It was a heavy cudgel. Whack! whack! whack! the three fellows retreated as their shoulders were assailed good and hard.

Ralph in some surprise regarded his new friend. He was a queer-looking old man, carrying a formidable cudgel, and this he now brandished recklessly in the faces of his adversaries, beating them back step by step.

“Now, you mind your own business,” he warned the men. “Pitching onto a boy – three big loafers that you are!”

The men were cowards and sneaked sullenly away. Ralph’s rescuer went back to the pile of ties and took up a little open memorandum book lying there.

Ralph noticed that its pages bore a list of numbers, as of cars.

“I am very grateful to you,” said the young fireman.

“That’s all right,” responded the stranger, and ran his eye over the cars as they passed by as if looking at their numbers. Ralph concluded that he had some business on the spot.

“Are you in the service of the railroad?” he asked.

“Yes,” nodded the man – “of many railroads. I am a professional car finder.”

CHAPTER XV
THE RUNAWAY TRAINS

Ralph and his companion followed the train till it left the siding, when the young fireman set the switch and they stood by the side of the track until the locomotive backed down to where they were.

“Going into Dover?” inquired the man who had rendered Ralph such signal service.

“Yes,” nodded Griscom, looking the questioner over suspiciously, as was his custom with all strangers recently since the strike began.

“Give me a lift, will you? I am through with my work here,” observed the man. “My name is Drury. I am a car finder.”

“Indeed?” said the old engineer with some interest of manner. “I’ve heard of you fellows. Often thought I’d like the job.”

“You wouldn’t, if you knew its troubles and difficulties,” asserted Drury with a laugh, as he climbed into the tender. “You think it’s just riding around and asking a few questions. Why, say, I have spent a whole month tracing down two strays alone.”

“That so?” said Griscom.

“Yes, it is true. You see, cars get on a line shy of them, and they keep them purposely. Then, again, cars are lost in wrecks, burned up, or thrown on a siding and neglected. You would be surprised to know how many cars disappear and are never heard of again.”

This was a new phase in railroad life to Ralph, and he was greatly interested. He plied the man with questions, and gained a good deal of information from him.

“Switch off here, Fairbanks,” ordered Griscom, as they neared a siding.

“Is your name Fairbanks?” asked the carfinder of Ralph.

“It is.”

“Heard of you,” said Drury, glancing keenly at the young fireman. “It was down at Millville, last week. They seem to think a good deal of you, the railroad men there.”

“I hope I deserve it,” said Ralph modestly.

“Took a meal at a restaurant kept by a friend of yours,” continued the carfinder.

“You mean Limpy Joe?”

“Exactly. Original little fellow – spry, handy and accommodating. Met another genius there – Dallas.”

“Zeph? Yes,” said Ralph. “He has got lots to learn, but he has the making of a man in him.”

“He has. He was greatly interested in my position. Wanted me to hire him right away. Said he knew he could find any car that was ever lost. I gave him a job,” and Drury smiled queerly.

“What kind of a job?” inquired Ralph.

“Oh, you ask him when you see him,” said Drury mysteriously. “I promised to keep it a secret,” and he smiled again. “Good-bye, I leave you here.”

“Now then,” said Griscom to his young assistant, “orders are to run to Ridgeton and start out in the morning picking up strays between there and Stanley Junction.”

When they got to Ridgeton, it had begun to rain. It was a lonely station with a telegraph operator, and a few houses quite a distance away. The operator was not on duty nights since the strike. The engine was sidetracked. They got a meal at the nearest house, and the operator gave them the key to the depot, where he said they could sleep all night on the benches. This Griscom insisted on doing, in order that they might keep an eye on the locomotive.

They sat up until about nine o’clock. Then, tired out with a hard day’s work, both soon sank into profound sleep. It was some time later when both, always vigilant and easily aroused, awoke together.

“Oh,” said the old engineer drowsily, “only the ticker.”

“Yes, some one is telegraphing,” answered Ralph, “but it is a hurry call.”

“Understand the code, do you?”

“Yes,” answered Ralph. “Quiet, please, for a moment. Mr. Griscom, this is urgent,” and Ralph arose and hurried to the next room, where the instrument was located.

He listened to the sharp ticking of the little machine. There was the double-hurry call. Then came some sharp, nervous clicks.

“R-u-n-a-w-a-y,” he spelled out.

“What’s that?” cried Griscom, springing to his feet.

“J-u-s-t p-a-s-s-e-d W-i-l-m-e-r, s-i-x f-r-e-i-g-h-t c-a-r-s. S-t-o-p t-h-e-m a-t R-i-d-g-e-t-o-n, o-r t-h-e-y w-i-l-l m-e-e-t N-o. f-o-r-t-y-e-i-g-h-t.”

Ralph looked up excitedly. Griscom stood by his side. His eyes were wide awake enough now.

“Repeat that message – quick, lad!” he said in a suppressed tone. “Can you signal for repeat?”

Ralph did so, once more spelling out the message as it came over the wire.

“No. 48?” spoke Griscom rapidly. “That is the special passenger they have been sending out from Stanley Junction since the strike. What is the next station north? Act! Wire north to stop the train.”

Ralph got the next station with some difficulty. A depressing reply came. No. 48 had passed that point.

“Then she’s somewhere on the thirty-mile stretch between there and here,” said Griscom. “Lad, it is quick action – wind blowing a hurricane, and those freights thundering down a one per cent. grade. Bring the lantern. Don’t lose a moment. Hurry!”

Ralph took the lead, and they rushed for their locomotive. The young fireman got a red lantern and ran down the track, set the light, and was back to the engine quickly.

“This is bad, very bad,” said Griscom. “Nothing but this siding, ending at a big ravine, the only track besides the main. The runaway must have a fearful momentum on that grade. What can we do?”

Ralph tested the valves. He found sufficient steam on to run the engine.

“I can suggest only one thing, Mr. Griscom,” he said.

“Out with it, lad, there is not a moment to lose,” hurriedly directed the old engineer.

“Get onto the main, back down north, set the switch here to turn the runaways onto the siding.”

“But suppose No. 48 gets here first?”

“Then we must take the risk, start south till she reaches the danger signals, and sacrifice our engine, that is all,” said Ralph plainly.

It was a moment of intense importance and strain. In any event, unless the unexpected happened, No. 48 or their own locomotive would be destroyed. On the coming passenger were men, women and children.

“Duty, lad,” said Griscom, in a kind of desperate gasp. “We must not hesitate. Pile in the black diamonds and hope for the best. If we can reach the creek before the runaways, we can switch them onto a spur. It means a smash into the freights there. But anything to save the precious lives aboard the night passenger from Stanley Junction.”

They ran on slowly, then, gaining speed, got a full head of steam on the cylinders. At a curve the bridge lights came into view.

“What do you see?” demanded Griscom, his band trembling on the throttle, wide open now.

“She’s coming,” cried Ralph. “I caught the glint of the bridge lights. She’s not six hundred yards away.”

It was a desperate situation now. Both engineer and fireman realized this. The backward swing was caught, and down the course they had just come their locomotive sped with frightful velocity.

It was a mad race, but they had the advantage. One mile, two miles, three miles, the depot, down the main, and before the engine had stopped, Ralph was on the ground. He ran to the switch, set it, and then both listened, watched and waited.

“There are the runaways,” said Ralph.

Yes, there they were, speeding like phantoms over the rain-glistening steel. Nearer and nearer they came, passed the siding, struck the switch, ran its length, and then a crash – and the night passenger from Stanley Junction was saved!

“I don’t know what the damage will be,” muttered Griscom in a long-drawn breath of relief, “but we have done our duty as we saw it.”

They got back on the siding and removed the red lights before No. 48 arrived. The night passenger sped tranquilly by, her train crew little dreaming of the peril they had escaped.

The next afternoon, when they arrived at Stanley Junction, the assistant superintendent of the road highly commended their action in regard to the runaway freights.

Ralph went home tired out from strain of work and excitement. As he neared the house he noticed a wagon in the yard and a horse browsing beside it.

“Why,” he said, “that rig belongs to Limpy Joe.”

Ralph hurried into the house. He found both Joe and Zeph in the sitting room. They were conversing with his mother, with whom the cripple boy had always been a great favorite.

“Well, fellows, I am glad to see you,” said Ralph heartily, “but what brought you here?”

“Plainly,” replied Limpy Joe – “Ike Slump.”

“Why, what do you mean?” inquired the young fireman.

“I mean that we have been burned out,” said Joe, “and Ike Slump did it.”