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

CHAPTER XXVII
THE RAILROAD PRESIDENT

As the person Fogg designated pushed back his storm cap and came under the light of a bracket lamp, Ralph observed that the fireman had been correct in his surmise – it was Mr. Robert Grant, president of the road. He busied himself removing the snow from his garments and taking in the warmth of the place, while his companion came forward to the doghouse.

Ralph and Fogg drew to one side, curious and interested. They now recognized the man who had entered the roundhouse with the president as Lane, superintendent of the Mountain Division of the Great Northern. His manner was hurried, worried and serious. A big load of responsibility rested on his official shoulders, and he realized it and showed it. He nodded brusquely to Ralph and Fogg, and then went up to the desk where the foreman sat.

“Get the dispatcher’s office, Jones, and get it quick,” he spoke tersely, and he added something in an undertone. The foreman gave a slight start. From the way he turned and stared at the companion of the superintendent, Ralph could trace that he had just been informed of his identity.

“Here you are,” said the foreman, after a minute at the ’phone and handing the receiver to the superintendent. The latter, without seating himself, instantly called over the wire:

“This is Superintendent Lane. I want the chief dispatcher.” A pause. “That you, Martin? – Yes? – Hold the wire. The president of the road wants to talk with you. Mr. Grant.”

Ralph knew the railroad president quite well. It was a long time since he had seen him. That was at headquarters, after Ralph and some of his railroad friends had succeeded in rescuing a relative of the official from a band of blackmailers. Ralph did not believe that the president would remember him. He was both surprised and pleased when the official, glancing about in his keen, quick way, smiled and mentioned his name in greeting, nodded to Fogg, and then went up to the foreman’s table.

Spread out upon this was an outline map of the great Northern and all its branches. The foreman had been utilizing it as an exigency chart. He had three pencils beside it – red, green and blue, and these he had used to designate by a sort of railroad signal system the condition of the lines running out of Rockton. Red signified a wreck or stalled train, green snow blockades, blue bridges down and culverts under water. The map was criss-crossed with other special marks, indicating obstructions, flood damage and the location of wrecking crews.

“As bad as that!” commented the president in a grave tone, with a comprehensive glance over the chart. Then he picked up the receiver.

“Martin, chief dispatcher,” he spoke through the ’phone. “Give me the situation over the Mountain Division in a nutshell.”

What followed took barely sixty seconds. The information must have been as distressing as it was definite, for Ralph noticed a deeper concern than ever come over the serious face of the official.

“How’s the South Branch?” he inquired next.

“It’s useless, Mr. Grant,” put in the superintendent, as the president dropped the receiver with a disappointed and anxious sigh. After receiving some further information he again swept his eye over the map on the table. His fingers mechanically followed the various divisions outlined there. The foreman came to his side.

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant,” he spoke respectfully, “but I’m in pretty close touch with conditions along the lines. If I can explain anything–”

“You can. That is the old Shelby division?” inquired the official, his finger point resting on a line on the chart running due southeast between the Mountain Division and the South Branch out of Rockton.

“Yes, sir,” assented the foreman proudly. “You know it has been practically abandoned except for coal freight, since the south line was completed. It’s used as a belt line now – transfer at Shelby Junction.”

“What’s the condition.”

“Risky. We sent a freight over this morning. It got through four hours late.”

“But it got through, you say?” spoke the official earnestly. “Get the dispatcher again. Ask for details on that division. Don’t lose any time.”

The foreman was busy at the ’phone for some minutes. As he held the receiver suspended in his hand, he reported to the railroad president:

“Snow and drifting wind reported between here and Dunwood.”

“What else?”

“Look out for washouts and culverts and bridges damaged by running ice and water between Dunwood and Kingston.”

“That’s half the forty-five miles – go head.”

“Between Kingston and Shelby Junction water out over the bottoms and flood coming down the valley.”

“What’s on the schedule?”

“All schedules cancelled, not a wheel running except on instructions from this end.”

“Give them,” spoke the official sharply. “Tell the dispatcher to keep the line clear from end to end. Wire to the stations that a special is coming through, no stops.”

“Yes, sir,” assented the foreman in wonderment, and executed the order. The official stood by his side until he had completed the message. Then he said:

“Tell the dispatcher to get Clay City, and find out if the Midland Express over the Midland Central left on time.”

“On time, sir, and their road is not much hampered,” reported the foreman a few minutes later.

“All right,” nodded the official briskly. “Now then, get out your best locomotive. Give her a shallow caboose, and get her ready as speedily as you can.”

The foreman ran out into the roundhouse. The president took out his watch. To the infinite surprise of Ralph he called out:

“This way, Fairbanks.”

He placed a hand on the shoulder of the young engineer and looked him earnestly in the eye.

“I know you and your record,” he said. “Is that your regular fireman?” indicating Fogg.

“Yes, sir, Lemuel Fogg. We’re on No. 999, Overland Express.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” spoke Mr. Grant hurriedly. “Mr. Fogg!”

The fireman approached promptly.

“My friends,” continued the official rapidly to both. “I have got to reach Shelby station by 10.15. I must catch the Night Express on the Midland Central at that point – without fail,” added Mr. Grant with emphasis.

“Yes, sir,” nodded Fogg coolly.

“One minute late means the loss of a great big fortune to the Great Northern. The minute on time means anything in reason you two may ask, if you make the run.”

“We are here to make the run, Mr. Grant, if you say so,” observed Ralph.

“Sure,” supplemented Fogg, taking off his coat. “Is that the order, sir?”

“I haven’t the heart to order any man on a run a night like this,” responded the official, “but if you mean it–”

“Fairbanks,” shot out the fireman, all fire and energy, “I’ll get 999 ready for your orders,” and he was out into the roundhouse after the foreman in a flash.

“Mr. Grant, you’re taking a long chance,” suggested the division superintendent, coming up to where the president and Ralph stood.

“Yes, and it must be any chances, Fairbanks,” said the official. He was becoming more and more excited each succeeding minute. “I’m too old a railroader not to know what the run means. If you start, no flinching. It’s life or death to the Mountain Division, what you do this night.”

“The Mountain Division?” repeated Ralph, mystified.

“Yes. It’s an official secret, but I trusted you once. I can trust you now.” Mr. Grant drew a folded paper from his pocket. “The president of the Midland Central is on the Night Express, returning from the west. The document I show you must be signed before he reaches the city, before midnight, or we lose the right to run over the Mountain Division. If he once reaches the city, interests adverse to the Great Northern will influence him to repudiate the contract, which only awaits his signature to make it valid. He will sign it if I can intercept him. Can you make Shelby Junction, ninety miles away, in two hours and fifteen minutes?”

“I will make Shelby Junction ahead of the Night Express,” replied Ralph calmly, but with his heart beating like a triphammer, “or I’ll go down with 999.”

CHAPTER XXVIII
A RACE AGAINST TIME

There was a thrill and fervor to the present situation that appealed to Ralph mightily. The brisk, animated procedure of the president of the Great Northern had been one of excitement and interest, and at its climax the young engineer found himself stirred up strongly.

Mr. Grant smiled slightly at Ralph’s valiant declaration. He drew the division superintendent aside in confidential discourse, and Ralph went to the bulletin board and began studying the routeing of the Shelby division. Then he hurried out into the roundhouse.

No. 999 was steamed up quickly. Ralph put the cab in rapid order for a hard run. The foreman hurried back to his office and telephoned to the yards. When No. 999 ran out on the turntable it was the foreman himself who opened the ponderous outside doors.

“It’s some weather,” observed Fogg, as the giant locomotive swung out into the heart of a driving tempest.

The foreman directed their movements to a track where a plug engine had just backed in with a light caboose car. There was no air brake attachment and the coupling was done quickly.

“All ready,” reported Ralph, as Mr. Grant came up with the division superintendent.

The railroad president stepped to the platform of the caboose, spoke a few words to his recent companion in parting, and waved his hand signal-like for the start.

Fogg had been over the Shelby division several times, only once, however, on duty. He knew its “bad spots,” and he tried to tell his engineer about them as they steamed off the main track.

“There’s just three stations the whole stretch,” he reported, “and the tracks are clear – that’s one good point.”

“Yes, it is only obstruction and breakdowns we have to look out for,” said Ralph. “Give us plenty of steam, Mr. Fogg.”

“There’s heaps of fuel – a good six tons,” spoke the fireman. “My! but the stack pulls like a blast furnace.”

The cab curtains were closely fastened. It was a terrible night. The snow came in sheets like birdshot, a half-sleet that stung like hail as it cut the face. The rails were crusted with ice and the sounds and shocks at curves and splits were ominous. At times when they breasted the wind full front it seemed as if a tornado was tugging at the forlorn messenger of the night, to blow the little train from the rails.

Fogg stoked the fire continuously, giving a superabundant power that made the exhaust pop off in a deafening hiss. They ran the first ten miles in twelve minutes and a half. Then as they rounded to the first station on the run, they were surprised to receive the stop signal.

“That’s bad,” muttered the fireman, as they slowed down. “Orders were for no stops, so this must mean some kind of trouble ahead.”

“What’s this?” spoke Mr. Grant sharply, appearing on the platform from the lighted caboose. He held his watch in his hand, and his pale face showed his anxiety and how he was evidently counting the minutes.

An operator ran out from the station and handed a tissue sheet to Ralph. The latter read it by the light of the cab lantern. Mr. Grant stepped down from the platform of the caboose.

“What is it, Fairbanks?” he asked somewhat impatiently.

“There’s a great jam at the dam near Westbrook,” reported Ralph. “Driftwood has crossed the tracks near there, and the operator beyond says it will be a blockade if the dam breaks.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” inquired the official.

“That’s what we are here for,” asserted Ralph.

“Then don’t delay.”

“It’s getting worse and worse!” exclaimed Fogg, after a half-hour’s further running.

Ralph never forgot that vital hour in his young railroad experience. They were facing peril, they were grazing death, and both knew it. The wind was a hurricane. The snow came in great sheets that at times enveloped them in a whirling cloud. The wheels crunched and slid, and the pilot threw up ice and snow in a regular cascade.

There was a sickening slew to the great locomotive as they neared Westbrook. The track dropped here to take the bridge grade, and as they struck the trestle Fogg uttered a sharp yell and peered ahead.

“We can’t stop now!” he shouted; “put on every pound of steam, Fairbanks.”

Ralph was cool and collected. He gripped the lever, his nerves set like iron, but an awed look came into his eyes as they swept the expanse that the valley opened up.

The trestle was fully half a foot under water already, and the volume was increasing every moment. Fogg piled on the coal, which seemed to burn like tinder. Twice a great jar sent him sprawling back among the coal of the tender. The shocks were caused by great cakes of ice or stray timbers shooting down stream with the gathering flood, and sliding the rails.

“She’s broke!” he panted in a hushed, hoarse whisper, as they caught sight of the dam. There was a hole in its center, and through this came pouring a vast towering mass fully fifteen feet high, crashing down on the bridge side of the obstruction, shooting mammoth bergs of ice into the air. As the sides of the dam gave way, they were fairly half-way over the trestle. It seemed that the roaring, swooping mass would overtake them before they could clear the bridge.

The light caboose was swinging after its groaning pilot like the tail of a kite. A whiplash sway and quiver caused Ralph to turn his head.

The door of the caboose was open, and the light streaming from within showed the railroad president clinging to the platform railing, swaying from side to side. He evidently realized the peril of the moment, and stood ready to jump if a crash came.

A sudden shock sent the fireman reeling back, and Ralph was nearly thrown from his seat. The locomotive was bumping over a floating piece of timber of unusual size, and toppling dangerously. Then there came a snap. The monster engine made a leap as if freed from some incubus.

“The caboose!” screamed Fogg, and Ralph felt a shudder cross his frame. He could only risk a flashing glance backward – the caboose was gone! It had broken couplings, and had made a dive down through the flood rack clear to the bottom of the river, out of sight. Then No. 999 struck the edge of the up grade in safety, past the danger line, gliding along on clear tracks now.

Fogg stood panting for breath, clinging to his seat, a wild horror in his eyes. Ralph uttered a groan. His hand gripped to pull to stop, a sharp shout thrilled through every nerve a message of gladness and joy.

“Good for you – we’ve made it!”

The railroad president came sliding down the diminished coal heap at the rear of the tender. He had grasped its rear end, and had climbed over it just as the caboose went hurtling to destruction. The glad delight and relief in the eyes of the young engineer revealed to the official fully his loyal friendship. Fogg, catching sight of him, helped him to his feet with a wild hurrah. The fireman’s face shone with new life as he swung to his work at the coal heap.

“If we can only make it – oh, we’ve got to make it now!” he shouted at Ralph.

There was a sharp run of nearly an hour. It was along the lee side of a series of cuts, and the snow was mainly massed on the opposite set of rails. Ralph glanced at the clock.

“We’re ahead of calculations,” he spoke to Fogg.

“We’re in for another struggle, though,” announced the fireman. “When we strike the lowlands just beyond Lisle, we’ll catch it harder than ever.”

Ralph was reeking with perspiration, his eyes cinder-filled and glazed with the strain of continually watching ahead. There had not been a single minute of relief from duty all the way from Westbrook. They struck the lowlands. It was a ten-mile run. First it was a great snowdrift, then a dive across a trembling culvert. At one point the water and slush pounded up clear across the floor of the cab and nearly put out the fire. As No. 999 rounded to higher grade, a tree half blown down from the top of an embankment grazed the locomotive, smashing the headlight and cutting off half the smokestack clean as a knife stroke.

Ralph made no stop for either inspection or repairs. A few minutes later an incident occurred which made the occasion fairly bristle with new animation and excitement.

Mr. Grant had sat quietly in the fireman’s seat. Now he leaned over towards Ralph, pointing eagerly through the side window.

“I see,” said Ralph above the deafening roar of the wind and the grinding wheels, “the Night Express.”

They could see the lights of the train ever and anon across an open space where, about a mile distant, the tracks of the Midland Central paralleled those of the Shelby division of the Great Northern. The young engineer again glanced at the clock. His eye brightened, into his face came the most extravagant soul of hope. It was dashed somewhat as Fogg, feeding the furnace and closing the door, leaned towards him with the words:

“The last shovel full.”

“You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Ralph.

The fireman swept his hand towards the empty tender.

“Eight miles,” said Ralph in an anxious tone. “With full steam we could have reached the Junction ten minutes ahead of the Express. Will the fire last out?”

“I’ll mend it some,” declared the fireman. “Fairbanks, we might lighten the load,” he added.

“You mean–”

“The tender.”

“Yes,” said Ralph, “cut it loose,” and a minute later the railroad president uttered a sudden cry as the tender shot into the distance, uncoupled. Then he understood, and smiled excitedly. And then, as Fogg reached under his seat, pulled out a great bundle of waste and two oil cans, and flung them into the furnace, he realized the desperate straits at which they had arrived and their forlorn plight.

Conserving every ounce of steam, all of his nerves on edge, the young engineer drove No. 999 forward like some trained steed. As they rounded a hill just outside of Shelby Junction, they could see the Night Express steaming down its tracks, one mile away.

“We’ve made it!” declared Ralph, as they came within whistling distance of the tower at the interlocking rails where the two lines crossed.

“Say,” yelled Fogg suddenly, “they’ve given the Express the right of way.”

This was true. Out flashed the stop signal for No. 999, and the white gave the “come on” to the Night Express. There was no time to get to the tower and try to influence the towerman to cancel system at the behest of a railroad president.

“You must stop that train!” rang out the tones of the official sharply.

“I’m going to,” replied Fairbanks grimly.

He never eased up on No. 999. Past the tower she slid. Then a glowing let up, and then, disregarding the lowered gates, she crashed straight through them, reducing them to kindling wood.

Squarely across the tracks of the incoming train the giant engine, battered, ice-coated, the semblance of a brave wreck, was halted. There she stood, a barrier to the oncoming Express.

Ralph jumped from his seat, reached under it, pulled out a whole bunch of red fuses, lit them, and leaning out from the cab flared them towards the oncoming train, Roman-candle fashion.

The astonished towerman quickly changed the semaphore signals. Her nose almost touching No. 999, the Express locomotive panted down to a halt.

“You shall hear from me, my men,” spoke the railroad president simply, but with a great quiver in his voice, as he leaped from the cab, ran to the first car of the halted express and climbed to its platform.

Ralph drove No. 999 across the switches. The Express started on its way again. In what was the proudest moment of his young life, the loyal engineer of staunch, faithful No. 999 saw the president of the Great Northern take off his hat and wave it towards himself and Fogg, as if with an enthusiastic cheer.

CHAPTER XXIX
ZEPH DALLAS AGAIN

“Say – Engineer Ralph – Mr. Fairbanks!”

A spluttering, breathless voice halted Ralph on his way from the depot to the roundhouse. It was the call boy, Torchy, the young engineer ascertained, as he waited till the excited juvenile came up to him.

“What’s the trouble, Torchy?” he inquired.

Torchy caught his breath, but the excited flare in his eyes did not diminish.

“Say!” he spluttered out; “I was looking for you. That car, the one they use out west in Calfrancisco, Francifornia, no, I mean Calfris – rot! out west, anyway – tourist car.”

“I know, yes,” nodded Ralph.

“Well, you remember the queer old fossil’s special to Fordham spur? That fellow Zeph Dallas was on it.”

“I remember distinctly; go ahead.”

“There’s another car just like that one in the yards now, right this minute.”

“You don’t say so? I didn’t suppose that more than one antiquated relic of that kind was in existence,” said Ralph.

“Come on and see,” invited Torchy. “This last car must have come from the north this morning, just like the other one did. It’s bunched up with a lot more of the blockade runners, delayed freight, you know, and they’ve made up a train of it and others for the Mountain Division.”

Besides being intensely interested, Ralph had time to spare. It was nearly a week after the Shelby Junction incident. The great storm had crippled some of the lines of the great Northern to a fairly alarming extent. The Mountain Division had felt the full force of the blizzard and had suffered the most extensively. There were parts of the division where it took several days to repair culverts, strengthen trestles and replace weakened patches of track. The Overland Express missed several runs, but had got back on fair schedule two days before. A new storm had set in that very morning, and as Ralph followed Torchy there were places where the drifts were up to their knees.

“There you are,” announced his companion, pausing and pointing over at a train on a siding. “Isn’t that last car the very picture of the one that Dallas was on?”

“Remarkably so,” assented Ralph.

“I’ve got to get to the roundhouse,” explained the little fellow, turning back in his tracks. “Thought you’d want to know about that car, though.”

“I do, most emphatically,” declared Ralph, “and greatly obliged to you for thinking of it.”

Ralph approached the train on the siding. It was one of the queerest he had ever seen. There was a motley gathering of every class of freight cars on the line. As he passed along he noted the destination of some of the cars. No two were marked for the same point of delivery. It was easy to surmise that they were victims of the recent blockade.

Ralph came up to the rear car of the incongruous train with a good deal of curiosity. It was not the car that had made that mysterious run to Fordham Spur with Zeph Dallas, although it looked exactly like it. The present car was newer and more staunch. A fresh discovery made Ralph think hard. The car was classified as “fast freight,” and across one end was chalked its presumable destination.

“Fordham Spur,” read the young engineer. “Queer – the same as the other car. I wonder what’s aboard?”

Just like the other car, the curtains were closely drawn in this one. There was no sign of life about the present car, however. Smoke curled from a pipe coming up through its roof. No one was visible in the immediate vicinity except a flagman and some loiterers about a near switch shanty. Ralph stepped to the rear platform of the car. He placed his hand on the door knob, turned it, and to his surprise and satisfaction the door opened unresistingly.

He stepped inside, to find himself in a queer situation. Ralph stood in the rear partitioned-off end of the car. It resembled a homelike kitchen. An oil stove stood on a stand, and around two sides of the car were shelves full of canisters, boxes and cans, a goodly array of convenient eatables. Lying asleep across a bench was a young colored man, who wore the cap and apron of a dining-car cook.

Ralph felt that he was intruding, but his curiosity overcame him. He stepped to the door of the partition. Near its top was a small pane of glass, and through this Ralph peered.

“I declare!” he exclaimed under his breath, and with a great start.

A strange, vivid picture greeted the astonished vision of the young railroader. If the rear part of the tourist car had suggested a modern kitchen, the front portion was a well-appointed living room. It had a stove in its center, and surrounding this were all the comforts of a home. There was a bed, several couches, easy chairs, two illuminated lamps suspended from side brackets, and the floor was covered with soft, heavy rugs.

Upon one of the couches lay a second colored man, apparently a special car porter, and he, like the cook, was fast asleep. All that Ralph had so far seen, however, was nothing to what greeted his sight as his eyes rested on the extreme front of the car.

There, lying back in a great luxurious armchair, was a preternaturally thin and sallow-faced man. His pose and appearance suggested the invalid or the convalescent. He lay as if half dozing, and from his lips ran a heavy tube, connected with a great glass tank at his side.

Such a picture the mystified Ralph had never seen before. He could not take in its full meaning all in a minute. His puzzled mind went groping for some reasonable solution of the enigma. Before he could think things out, however, there was a sound at the rear door of the car. Some one on the platform outside had turned the knob and held the door about an inch ajar, and Ralph glided towards it. Through the crack he could see three persons plainly. Ralph viewed them with wonderment.

He had half anticipated running across Zeph Dallas somewhere about the train, but never this trio – Ike Slump, Jim Evans and the man he had known as Lord Montague. The two latter were standing in the snow. Ike was on the platform. He was asking a question of the man who had posed as a member of the English nobility:

“Be quick, Morris; what am I to do?”

Lord Montague, alias Morris, with a keen glance about him, drew a heavy coupling pin from under his coat.

“Take it,” he said hastily, “and get inside that car.”

“Suppose there’s somebody hinders me?”

“Didn’t I tell you they were all asleep?” demanded Morris. “You’ll find a man near a big glass tank.”

“See here,” demurred Ike; “I don’t want to get into any more trouble. When it comes to striking a man with that murderous weapon–”

“Murderous fiddlesticks!” interrupted Morris. “You are to hurt nobody. Smash the tank, that’s all – run out, join us, and it’s a hundred dollars cash on the spot, and a thousand when I get my fortune.”

“Here goes, then,” announced Ike Slump, pushing open the door, “but what you want to go to all this risk and trouble for to smash an old glass tank, I can’t imagine.”

“You’ll know later,” muttered Morris grimly.

Ralph did not know what the three rascals were up to, but he realized that it must be something bad. Putting two and two together, thinking back a bit of all that had occurred concerning Zeph, the Clark boy, and the Slump crowd, he began to fancy that tourist cars played a big part in the programme, whatever that programme was. The smashing of the glass tank, Morris had announced, was worth a hundred dollars to Ike – might lead to a fortune, he had intimated.

“There’s some wicked plot afoot,” decided Ralph, “so – back you go, Ike Slump!”

As Ike stepped across the threshold of the car the young engineer acted. He had grabbed the coupling pin from Ike’s hand, dropped it, grasped Ike next with both hands and pressed him backwards to the platform. Ike struggled and himself got a grip on Ralph. The latter kept forcing his opponent backwards. Ike slipped and went through the break in the platform railing where the guard chain was unset, and both toppled to the ground submerged in three feet of snow.

Ralph had landed on top of Ike and he held him down, but the cries of his adversary had brought Evans and Morris to his rescue. The former was pouncing down upon Ralph with vicious design in his evil face, when a new actor appeared on the scene.

It was Zeph Dallas. He came running to the spot with his arms full of packages, apparently some supplies for the tourist car which he had just purchased of some store on Railroad Street. These he dropped and his hand went to his coat pocket. The amateur detective was quite as practical and businesslike as did he appear heroic, as he drew out a weapon.

“Leave that fellow alone, stand still, or you’re goners, both of you,” panted Zeph. “Hi! hello! stop those men! They’re conspirers, they’re villains!”

Zeph’s fierce shouts rang out like clarion notes. They attracted the attention of the crowd around the switch shanty, and as Evans and Morris started on a run three or four of the railroad loiterers started to check their flight. As Zeph helped Ralph yank Ike Slump to his feet and drag him along, the young engineer observed that Evans and Morris were in the custody of the switch shanty crowd.

Two men coming down the track hastened over to the crowd. Ralph was glad to recognize them as Bob Adair, the road detective, and one of the yards watchmen.

“What’s the trouble here, Fairbanks?” inquired Adair, with whom the young engineer was a prime favorite and an old-time friend.

“Dallas will tell you,” intimated Ralph.

“Yes,” burst out Zeph excitedly; “I want these three fellows arrested, Mr. Adair. They must be locked up safe and sound, or they’ll do great harm.”

“Ah – Evans? Slump?” observed Adair, recognizing the twain who had caused the Great Northern a great deal of trouble in the past. “They’ll do on general principles. Who’s this other fellow?”

“He’s the worst of the lot, the leader. He’s an awful criminal,” declared Zeph with bolting eyes and intense earnestness. “Mr. Adair, if you let that crowd go free, you’ll do an awful wrong.”

“But what’s the charge?”

“Conspiracy. They’re trying to–”

“Well, come up to the police station and give me something tangible to go on, and I’ll see that they get what’s coming to them,” promised the road detective.

“I can’t – say, see! my train. I’ve got to go with that train, Ralph,” cried Zeph in frantic agitation. “Try and explain, don’t let those fellows get loose for a few hours – vast fortune – Marvin Clark – Fred Porter – Fordham Cut – big plot!”

In a whirl of incoherency, Zeph dashed down the tracks, for the train with the tourist car had started up. He had just time enough to gather up his scattered bundles and reach the platform of the last car, as the mixed train moved out on the main line and out of sight, leaving his astonished auditors in a vast maze of mystery.