Ralph on the Overland Express: or, The Trials and Triumphs of a Young Engineer

CHAPTER XXIV
THE NEW RUN

The young engineer stood shocked and motionless – only, however, for the minutest fraction of a moment. A railroad man’s life is full of sudden surprises and situations calling for prompt, decisive and effective action. Ralph had learned this from experience.

The master mechanic was in the direct path of the train backing into the depot. The one he had just left and the one proceeding in the same direction shut him in where there was no flagman or switches. The train bearing down upon him was on a rounding bend of rails, the locomotive not in view, and there was no possible chance of signalling the engineer.

As Ralph started forward the engine of the outbound train passed him. He waited for one car only to pass him. How he skimmed its rear platform he never knew. It was a daring, reckless spring, and he landed on the planking beyond the rails on a dizzying slide. The next instant he was at the side of the imperilled railroad official.

“I’m caught!” gasped the master mechanic, with a white but set face, as he recognized Ralph.

“Swing down!” cried the young railroader. “It’s your only chance.”

The master mechanic barely suppressed a groan as he toppled sideways. The twist to his ankle made him wince. Ralph saw that his foot was held as in a vise. No amount of pulling could get him free. The train backing down was less than thirty feet away.

“Hold steady,” breathed Ralph in a shaking tone, and his hand dove for his pocket. He recalled it all afterwards as a remarkable thing that, standing there, a great peril hovering, there seemed to flash through his mind a vivid photograph of Torchy.

The call boy at the roundhouse was a great friend of the young engineer. Ralph had been his model, as was he his friend. He had loaned the little fellow a book on railroading that had delighted Torchy, and observing Ralph sharpening a peg for his bumper with a decidedly blunt-edged knife, he had begged the privilege of getting it sharpened for him.

When he had returned the knife to Ralph the day previous, Torchy declared that it was sharp as a razor and would cut a hair in two. Ralph found this to be no exaggeration. In addition Torchy had oiled the blade hinges. Now the young engineer thought of Torchy and of the knife as he drew it from his pocket, whipped open its big blade and made a dive rather than a swoop beside the body of the master mechanic.

“Pull back your foot!” cried Ralph, and made a swoop. The flanges of the near truck wheels were grinding on the edge of the rails not five feet away. Ralph’s arm described a deft oval movement. In one swift stroke he slit the shoe from vamp to sole. He was conscious that the foot of the master mechanic came free. Then something struck Ralph, and he felt himself tossed aside inert and unconscious by some stunning force.

When he again opened his eyes Ralph caught the vague hum of a lingo of switch pidgin, smut-faced, blear-eyed men near by, himself stretched at full length on sleeping car cushions on the floor of the doghouse. He sat up promptly. There was a momentary blur to his sight, but this quickly passed away.

“Aha – only a bump – I told you so!” cried bluff-hearted Tim Forgan, the foreman, jumping from a bench and approaching Ralph.

“All right, Fairbanks?” questioned John Griscom, coming to his side.

“Right as a trivet,” reported Ralph, getting to his feet. “What hit me?”

“The step of a coach, it seems,” explained Forgan.

Ralph passed his hand over his head until it rested on a lump and a sore spot near one ear. It was wet and greasy where some liniment had been applied.

“The master mechanic?” he asked, with a quick memory of what had happened.

“Ankle wrenched,” said Griscom. “We made him get to a surgeon on a litter. He minded nothing but you, till he was sure that you were all right.”

Ralph uttered a vast sigh of relief and satisfaction. Forgan led him to his own special office armchair. Half-a-dozen crowded about him, curious for details of the accident no one of them had witnessed.

Ralph gave them the particulars as he could remember them. He asked for a drink of water, felt of the bump again with a smiling grimace, and arose to his feet.

“Same schedule, I suppose?” he inquired, starting to go outside the doghouse and inspect the bulletin board on which daily orders were posted.

“You don’t mean that you are going to make your run to-day, Fairbanks?” asked the foreman.

“Why not?”

“Used up.”

“Am I?” queried Ralph with a smile. “Then I don’t know it. I fancy it was a narrow escape, and I am grateful for it.”

“The master mechanic was looking for you when he got frogged,” observed Griscom.

“Yes, I thought he was,” nodded Ralph.

“Here, Fairbanks,” broke in the foreman of the roundhouse, “tack up this flimsy with the rest, will you?”

Ralph took the tissue sheet tendered, stepped through the open doorway into the roundhouse, and set the sheet upon two tacks on the bulletin board. He started to stroll over to No. 999 in her stall.

“Hold on,” challenged Forgan; “that flimsy just came in. It’s an important order. Better read it, Fairbanks.”

“All right,” assented Ralph, and turning, cast his eyes at the sheet. They distended wide, for this is what he read:

“No. 7, new train, Overland Express, Mountain Division, 6.12 p. m., beginning Monday, the 15th. Engineer: Fairbanks – Fireman: Fogg.”

“My!” was all that Ralph could gasp out.

A great hearty hand, that of the old railroad veteran, John Griscom, landed on Ralph’s shoulder with a resounding slap.

“Fairbanks!” he roared in the ear of the bewildered young engineer, “the top rung of the ladder at last!”

CHAPTER XXV
THE MOUNTAIN DIVISION

“Well, lad, you’ve passed muster and got to the head of the class!” proclaimed old John Griscom.

“Oh, no,” dissented Ralph Fairbanks; “I’m just started in to learn what real railroading means.”

“I’d call you a pretty apt student, then,” put in Tim Forgan, foreman of the Stanley Junction roundhouse.

“If there’s any man, boy or child in this doghouse who says that young Fairbanks isn’t a crackerjack, let him step right up here and take his medicine!” vaunted Lemuel Fogg, playfully, but with a proud look of admiration at the expert young engineer.

“It’s the best part of it to know that you fellows mean every word you say and believe in me,” observed Ralph. “Your encouragement and influence have boosted me up to the Overland Express all right – I’ll try and never make you ashamed of having backed me.”

Ralph Fairbanks felt good and showed it. His friends shared in his emotions and sentiments, and that made the present occasion doubly glad and welcome. It was one of those rare moments, coming only once in a while, when Ralph and his comrades had an idle half hour to chat and compliment each other in the doghouse.

The Overland Express had become an established feature of the Great Northern – as little Torchy had phrased it, “a howling success.” A week had gone by, and now, seated in the midst of his loyal friends, Ralph felt that he had made good on a promotion that placed him at the top notch of engineering service.

It was a big thing for a youth to gain that high distinction – engineer of the Overland Express. Looking back over the active, energetic career that had led up to this, however, Ralph realized that the climax had been reached a step at a time through patience, perseverance and genuine hard work. It was a proof to him that any person following discipline and having as a motto precision and finality, was bound to succeed. It was a most enjoyable breathing spell to realize that all the anxiety, dash and novelty of the experimental trips over the Mountain Division were past, and he now felt that he knew the route and all its details perfectly.

Ralph had found time to do some thinking about his friends the past day or two. He had seen two of them, for Van Sherwin and little Limpy Joe had come down from the Short Line, and had spent a pleasant day at the Fairbanks home. Archie Graham, too, had put in an appearance. The young inventor looked shamefaced and distressed when he admitted all that Ralph had guessed concerning the patent bellows – draft improvement for locomotives.

“It only worked the wrong way,” explained Archie; “next time–”

“Next time try it on some other railroad, Archie,” advised Ralph. “They’re watching for you with rifles down at the Great Northern roundhouse.”

“Huh!” snorted Archie contemptuously; “they’ll be sorry when I strike some real big thing and another line gets it. Now then, I’ve got something brand new – the rocket danger signal.”

“Go right ahead experimenting with it, only choose a spot where you won’t hurt any one,” advised Ralph. “You’re all right, Archie,” declared the young railroader, slapping his comrade appreciatively on the shoulder, “only you are too ambitious. I have no doubt that you will some day hit something tangible. It’s a long, patient road, though – this inventing things.”

“You bet it is,” assented Archie with force.

“And you attempt too grand beginnings. Take something more simple and easy than trying to revolutionize railroad service all at once, and gradually work up to bigger things.”

“Say, there’s sense in that, an old inventor told me the same thing,” said Archie; “but you see this rocket danger signal of mine is a new thing. I’m going to Bridgeport to-morrow to get some fixings I have in my workshop there. You’ll hear from me later, Fairbanks.”

Concerning Zeph, Fred Porter and Marvin Clark the young railroader had heard nothing since the last visit of Zeph to Stanley Junction. Many a time he wondered what had become of them. He had all kinds of theories as to their continued mysterious absence, but no solution offered as time wore on.

The Overland Express had not become an old thing with Ralph. He felt that the charm and novelty of running the crack train of the road could never wear out. With each trip, however, there came a feeling of growing strength and self-reliance. Ralph had learned to handle the proposition aptly, and he took a great pride in the time record so far.

“It’s a lively run, and no mistake,” he remarked to Fogg, as they started out from the depot that evening. “We haven’t had any of the direful mishaps, though, that those old doghouse croakers predicted.”

“No,” admitted the fireman, but he accompanied the word with a serious shake of the head; “that’s to come. I’m trained enough to guess that another frost or two will end in the season that every railroad man dreads. Wait till the whiskers get on the rails, lad, and a freshet or two strikes 999. There’s some of those culverts make me quake when I think of the big ice gorges likely to form along Dolliver’s Creek. Oh, we’ll get them – storms, snowslides and blockades. The only way is to remember the usual winter warning, ‘extra caution,’ keep cool, and stick to the cab to the last.”

Summer had faded into autumn, and one or two sharp frosts had announced the near approach of winter. The day before there had been a slight snow flurry. A typical fall day and a moonlit night had followed, however, and Ralph experienced the usual pleasure as they rolled back the miles under flying wheels. They took the sharp curves as they ran up into the hills with a scream of triumph from the locomotive whistle every time they made a new grade.

“Waste of steam, lad, that,” observed Fogg, as they rounded a curve and struck down into a cut beyond which lay the town of Fordham.

“Better to be safe,” responded Ralph. “There’s a crossing right ahead where the old spur cuts in.”

“Yes, but who ever crosses it?” demanded the fireman.

“Some one did two nights ago,” insisted Ralph. “I’m positive that we just grazed a light wagon crossing the roadway leading into the cut.”

“Then it was some stray farmer lost off his route,” declared Fogg. “Why, that old spur has been rusting away for over five years, to my recollection. As to the old road beyond being a highway, that’s nonsense. There’s no thoroughfare beyond the end of the spur. The road ends at a dismantled, abandoned old factory, and nobody lives anywhere in this section.”

“Is that so?” Toot! toot! toot!

The whistle screeched out sharply. The fireman stuck his head out of the window. Ralph had already looked ahead.

“I declare!” shouted Fogg, staring hard. “Swish – gone! But what was it we passed?”

Ralph did not speak. He sat still in a queer kind of realization of what they both had just seen, and in the retrospect. While he and his fireman had been conversing, just ahead in the white moonlight he had seen two human figures against the sky. It was a flashing glimpse only, for the train was making a forty mile clip, but, dangling from a tree overhanging the side of the cliff lining the tracks on one side, he had made out two boys.

“The Canaries!” he murmured to himself, in profound surprise and deep interest. “I even heard them whistle.”

Ralph was so sure that the little swinging figures he had seen were the lithe, strange creatures who had been brought to Stanley Junction by Zeph Dallas, that he thought about it all the rest of the trip. He said nothing further to Fogg about the circumstance, but he resolved to investigate later on.

The young engineer tried to calculate ahead how some day soon he could arrange to visit the vicinity of the old Fordham spur. He was positive that he had seen the two Canaries. Their presence at the spur indicated that they must be denizens of its neighborhood. This being true, their presence might indicate the proximity of Zeph Dallas. At least the strange young foreigners might know what had become of the ardent young “detective.”

Ralph made a good many inquiries of his fireman as to the Fordham spur. Fogg simply knew that it ran to an old ruined factory long since abandoned. On the return trip Ralph kept a sharp lookout as they neared the cut. There was no second appearance of the Canaries, however, nor the next night, nor that following. The young engineer found no opportunity of visiting the place, but he kept his plan to do so constantly in mind.

It was two days later as he made the short cut to the roundhouse about noon, that Ralph was greeted by a new discovery that fairly took his breath away. He had stepped aside to wait till a locomotive with one car attached passed the crossing. The peculiar oddness of the car at once attracted his attention.

It was an old tourist car, used only on far western railroads. He had seen its like only once or twice before. Its inside shades were all drawn. There was no sight of life about it. The locomotive belonged to the northern branch of the Great Northern, and had the right of way and was tracked for the Mountain Division.

“That’s a queer layout,” soliloquized Ralph, as the strange outfit flashed by. “Hello!”

The young engineer uttered a great shout. As the car passed him he naturally glanced at its rear platform.

Upon its step in solitary possession of the car sat his long-lost friend – Zeph Dallas.

CHAPTER XXVI
MYSTERY

Ralph Fairbanks saw Zeph Dallas distinctly and recognized him. The latter looked up as the young engineer uttered an irrepressible shout. He started to wave his hand. Then he shrank down on the car step as if seeking to hide himself.

Ralph stood gazing after the coach until it had disappeared from view. From the look of things he decided that Zeph was not casually stealing a ride. Something about him suggested a sense of proprietorship – a certain official aspect as if he had a right to be where Ralph had seen him, was, in fact, in charge of the car.

“A queer car – the queerest old relic I ever saw,” mused Ralph. “I’m going to look into this affair.”

“Say, Mr. Fairbanks,” spoke little Torchy as the young engineer entered the roundhouse; “just saw an old friend of ours.”

“Did you?” spoke Ralph. “You don’t mean Zeph Dallas, do you?”

“That’s who,” nodded Torchy. “Big as life on a single car run – and, say, such a car!”

“Do you know where it came from, or where it was bound for?” inquired Ralph.

“No, but I heard one of the fellows here say it must have come over the north branch.”

“I thought so, too,” said Ralph, and after a stroll about the place he went down to the dispatcher’s office. Ralph knew the railroad routine well, and he soon had a good friend working in his interest. He was one of the assistants in the office of the chief dispatcher. Ralph had loaned him a little sum of money once when he was off on the sick list. It had been paid back promptly, but the man was a grateful fellow, and, under the influence of a sense of obligation, was glad to return the favor in any way he could.

“I’ll fix you out, Fairbanks,” he promised, and he kept his word, for as Ralph sat in the doghouse two mornings later the man came to its doorway, peered in, and beckoned to his friend to come outside.

“All right, Fairbanks,” he reported, holding a card in his hand bearing some memoranda; “I’ve got the tracer.”

“Good!” applauded Ralph.

“Here’s the dope – that engine and old tourist car was a kind of a special – the craziest special, though, that either you or I ever heard of.”

“Is that so?” inquired Ralph.

“Listen, and see. She started on extra orders from Brampton, the yards up on the north division. Was chartered for a run via the Junction to Fordham spur.”

“Indeed?” murmured Ralph thoughtfully.

“It was a plain twenty-four hours’ charter, same as a picnic or an excursion special, but there was only one passenger, conductor, or whatever you might call him – a kid.”

“Yes,” nodded Ralph, “Zeph Dallas.”

“You could have knocked me down with a feather when I found that out,” went on the man from the dispatcher’s office, “although I didn’t find it out until later. Yes, the train had been rented and paid for by our old extra wiper here, that dreamer, kicker and would-be detective, Dallas. A pretty penny it must have cost. Where did he get the money? Skylarking around the country like a millionaire, and what did he pick out that antiquated curiosity of a relic car for? Well, it was the ‘Dallas Special,’ sure enough, and it made its run just the same as if he was a railroad president inspecting the lines.”

“I’m interested,” explained Ralph.

“I’m jiggergasted,” added the dispatcher; “I got the line on their route by wire to Brampton. I found that the contract was to run to Fordham spur and back to Brampton.”

“But what for?” inquired Ralph.

“To deliver some special freight presumably,” said the dispatcher. “At first I wondered if things mightn’t be stirring up in a new business way at the old factory. Thought maybe they were going to do some blasting, and Dallas had been hired to run through a load of giant powder. Well, I was off in my guess.”

“How did you find that out?” asked Ralph.

“I caught the Brampton outfit on the return trip. She had to switch here for an hour to get the right of way north. I went over to the siding and happened to know the engineer.”

“And where was Zeph?”

“They left him up at the spur.”

“H’m,” commented Ralph, feeling that Zeph was indeed enveloping himself in a dense mist of mystery.

“The engineer just grinned and haw-hawed when I asked him about his run. He said that Dallas had acted like a fellow on the most serious business, the whole run through. When they got to the spur he had them run in about two hundred feet. Then he sat down by the side of the track, watch in hand, solemnly waited for an hour to pass by, and then told the engineer the trip was ended and he was satisfied.”

“He didn’t explain–” began Ralph in wonderment.

“Not a word. He just waved his hand grandly good-by to the engineer, and passed out of sight. It was a queer go – wasn’t it, now? The engineer and fireman were dumfounded. They looked into the car out of sheer curiosity.”

“And found?” pressed Ralph.

“Nothing.”

“What!”

“No – empty.”

Ralph was bewildered, and said so. The dispatcher acknowledged the same sentiment, so had the engineer and the fireman, he said.

“There you have it,” he remarked. “Queer go, eh?”

“The strangest I ever heard of,” confessed Ralph.

“You see, there’s no motive to trace,” observed the dispatcher in a puzzled, baffled way. “Think of the cost of it! Think of the mystery about the whole affair! What is Dallas up to, and why the spur?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the young engineer, equally perplexed, “but I’m going to find out, make sure of that.”

Things were certainly focusing around Fordham spur, there was no doubt of it. That point of the road was a decided point of interest to Ralph every time the Overland Express neared the spur on succeeding trips. He could only conjecture that Zeph and the Canaries and others in whom Zeph was interested, were located somewhere in the vicinity. However, he caught no sight of any person in the neighborhood of the spur as he passed it. The thing was getting to be a worry to the young engineer, but although he daily promised himself he would manage some way to visit the place, no favorable opportunity presented.

The run to Rockton and back had become harder as cold weather came on. There was a call for extra vigilance and close attention to routine. A snowstorm caught them one night on the out run, and Ralph found out that it was no trifle running with blurred signals among the deep mountain cuts. A great rain followed, then a freeze up, then another heavy fall of snow, and the crew of the Overland Express had a rigorous week of it.

They had made the run to Rockton four hours late on account of a broken bridge, and the next evening when they reported at the roundhouse, engineer and fireman found a cancelled trip instead of readiness for their regular return run to Stanley Junction. The foreman was busy in his office at the telephone, receiving continual instructions from the dispatcher. He was sending men and messengers in every direction. The exigencies of the hour required blockade and wrecking crews. The foreman looked bothered and worried, and nodded to Ralph and Fogg in a serious way as there was a lull at the ’phone.

“No run to-night, boys,” he announced. “You’d better get back to your warm beds.”

“Blockade on the Mountain Division?” inquired the fireman.

“Worse than that. The whole division is annulled this Side of Fordham, and that’s over half the run. Two bridges down, a freight wreck at Wayne, and the mountain cuts are choked with drifts. I doubt if you will break through for a couple of nights.”

“H’m,” observed Fogg. “I fancied to-day’s storm would shut up things.”

“It has. We’re half clear south, but west and north there isn’t a wheel moving within fifty miles.”

“We may as well make the best of it then, Fairbanks,” said the fireman, “and get back to our boarding house.”

The speaker started for the door and Ralph followed him. Just then with a sudden roar of the tempest outside the door was swept open. Two snow-covered forms came in.

They were men closely muffled up, and they paused for a moment to shake the snow from their heavy enveloping overcoats. The foreman stared curiously at the intruders. One of them threw his overcoat open. Fogg grasped Ralph’s arm with a start as he seemed to recognize the man.

“Hello!” he ejaculated in a sharp half whisper. “What does this mean, Fairbanks? It’s the president of the Great Northern.”