"Always the same dear, faithful mother," he murmured gratefully, as he approached the cheerful looking cottage all alight down stairs, and hurried his steps to greet her waiting for him on the porch.

"Ralph," she spoke anxiously, "you are not hurt?"

"Hurt!" cried Ralph, "not a bit of it. Why," as he noticed his mother trembling all over, "what put that into your head?"

"The fear that what Zeph heard downtown at the roundhouse might be true," replied Mrs. Fairbanks. "There was a rumor that there had been a collision. Besides, I knew that some of your enemies were watching your movements."

"You must stop worrying over these foolish notions," said Ralph reassuringly. "We made a successful run, and as to the enemies, they generally get the worst of it. Men in the wrong always do."

Ralph was glad to get back to his comfortable home. As he passed through the hallway he noticed Zeph Dallas, asleep on the couch. Ralph did not hail or disturb him. Young Dallas had been at work for the friends of Ralph who operated the Short Line Railroad up near Wilmer, but about two weeks previous to the present time had got tired of the dull route through the woods and had come to Stanley Junction. The young engineer had gotten him a job "subbing" as a helper on a yards switch engine. Zeph had been made welcome at the Fairbanks home, as were all friends of Ralph, by his devoted mother.

"You are the best mother and the best cook in the world," declared Ralph, as he sat down at the table in the cozy little dining room, before a warm meal quickly brought from the kitchen. "Really, mother, you are simply spoiling me, and as to your sitting up for me this way and missing your sleep, it is a positive imposition on you."

His mother only smiled sweetly and proudly upon him. Then she asked:

"Was it a hard trip, Ralph?"

"In a way," responded Ralph. "But what made it harder was some unpleasant developments entirely outside of railroad routine."

"That so? It never rains but it pours!" proclaimed an intruder abruptly, and, awakened from his sleep by the sound of voices, Zeph Dallas came into the dining room yawning and stretching himself.

"Why!" exclaimed Ralph, giving the intruder a quick stare, "what have you ever been doing to yourself?"

"Me?" grinned Zeph—"you mean that black eye and that battered cheek?"

"Yes—accident?"

"No—incident," corrected Zeph, with a chuckle. "A lively one, too, I can tell you."

"Fell off the engine?"

"No, fell against a couple of good hard human fists. We had been sorting stray freights all the afternoon on old dinky 97, and had sided to let a passenger go by, when I noticed a man with a bag and a stick picking up coal along the tracks. Just then, a poor, ragged little fellow with a basket came around the end of the freight doing the same. The man thought he had a monopoly in his line, because he was big. He jumped on the little fellow, kicked him, hit him with his stick, and—I was in the mix-up in just two seconds."

"You should keep out of trouble, Zeph," advised Mrs. Fairbanks, gently.

"How could I, ma'am, when that little midget was getting the worst of it?" demurred Zeph. "Well, I pitched into the big, overgrown bully, tooth and nail. I'm a sight, maybe. You ought to see him! He cut for it after a good sound drubbing, leaving his bag of coal behind him. I gave the little fellow all the loose change I had, filled his basket from the bag, and sent him home happy. When I got back to the engine, Griggs, the assistant master mechanic, was in the cab. He said a few sharp words about discipline and the rules of the road, and told me to get off the engine."

"Discharged, eh?"

"And to stay off. I'm slated, sure. Don't worry about it, Fairbanks; I'd got sick to death of the job, anyway."

"But what are you going to do?" inquired Ralph gravely.

"Get another one, of course. I'm going to try to get Bob Adair, the road detective, to give me a show. That's the line of work I like. If he won't, I'll try some other town. I'm sorry, Fairbanks, for my wages will only settle what board I owe you, and there's that last suit of clothes you got for me, not paid for yet——"

"Don't trouble yourself about that, Zeph," interrupted Ralph kindly. "You're honest, and you'll pay when you can. You may keep what money you have for a new start until you get to work again."

Zeph looked grateful. Then Ralph gave some details of the record run to Bridgeport, there was some general conversation, and he went to bed.

Ralph had asked his mother to call him at nine o'clock in the morning, but an hour before that time there was a tap at the door of the bedroom.

"Ralph, dear," spoke up his mother, "I dislike to disturb you, but a messenger boy has just brought a telegram, and I thought that maybe it was something of importance and might need immediate attention."

"That's right, mother. I will be down stairs in a minute," answered the young railroader, and he dressed rapidly and hurried down to the sitting room, where his mother stood holding out to him a sealed yellow envelope. Ralph tore it open. He looked for a signature, but there was none. It was a night message dated at Bridgeport, the evening previous, and it ran:

"Clark—Porter—whatever you know don't speak of it, or great trouble may result. Will see you within two days."

"I wonder what the next development will be?" murmured Ralph. "'Great trouble may result.' I don't understand it at all. 'Will see you in two days'—then there is some explanation coming. Clark, or whatever his real name is, must suspect or know that his cousin, Dave Bissell, has told me something. Well, I certainly won't make any move about this strange affair until Clark has had an opportunity to straighten things out. In the meantime, I've got a good deal of personal business on my hands."

Ralph was a good deal in doubt and anxious as to his railroad career, immediate and prospective. As has been told, his trip to Bridgeport had been a record run. The fact that the China & Japan Mail could be delivered on time, indicated a possibility that the Great Northern might make a feature of new train service. It would not, however, be done in a day. No. 999 might be put on the Dover branch of the Great Northern, or accomodation service to other points, and the Overland Express connection canceled.

There had been all kinds of speculation and gossip at the dog house as to the new system of business expansion adopted by the Great Northern. That road had acquired new branches during the past year, and was becoming a big system of itself. There was talk about a consolidation with another line, which might enable the road to arrange for traffic clear to the Pacific. New splendid train service was talked of everywhere, among the workmen, and every ambitious railroader was looking for a handsome and substantial promotion.

Ralph could not tell until he reported at the roundhouse after twelve o'clock when and how he would start out again. On the Bridgeport run he was not due until the next morning. All he was sure of was that he and Fogg were regulars for No. 999 wherever that locomotive was assigned, until further orders interfered. Despite the successful record run to Bridgeport, somebody was listed for at least a "call-down" on account of the accident on the siding at Plympton. Every time Ralph thought of that, he recollected his "find" in Lemuel Fogg's bunker, and his face became grave and distressed.

"It's bound to come out," he reflected, as he strolled into the neat, attractive garden after breakfast. "Why, Mr. Griscom—I'm glad to see you."

His old railroad friend was passing the house on his way to the roundhouse to report for duty. His brisk step showed that he was limited as to time, but he paused for a moment.

"You got there, Fairbanks, didn't you?" he commented heartily. "Good. I knew you would, but say, what about this mix-up on the signals at Plympton?"

"Oh, that wasn't much," declared Ralph.

"Enough to put the master mechanic on his mettle," objected the veteran engineer. "He's going to call all hands on the carpet. Had me in yesterday afternoon. He showed me your conductor's report wired from Bridgeport. It throws all the blame on Adams, the new station man at Plympton. The conductor declares it was all his fault—'color blind,' see? Master mechanic had Adams down there yesterday."

"Surely no action is taken yet?" inquired Ralph anxiously.

"No, but I fancy Adams will go. It's a plain case, I think. Your signals were special and clear right of way, that's sure. Danforth is ready to swear to that. Adams quite as positively swears that the green signals on the locomotive were set on a call for the siding. He broke down and cried like a child when it was hinted that a discharge from the service was likely."

"Poor fellow, I must see the master mechanic at once," said Ralph.

"You'll have to, for your explanation goes with him and will settle the affair. You see, it seems that Adams had broken up his old home and gone to the trouble and expense of moving his family to Plympton. Now, to be let out would be a pretty hard blow to him. Of course, though, if he is color blind——"

"He is not color blind!" cried Ralph, with so much earnestness that Griscom stared at him strangely.

"Aha! so you say that, do you?" observed the old engineer, squinting his eyes suspiciously. "Then—Fogg. Tricks, I'll bet!"

"I'll talk to you later, Mr. Griscom," said Ralph.

"Good, I want to know, and I see you have something to tell."

The young engineer had, indeed, considerable to tell when the time came to justify the disclosures. He was worried as to how he should tell it, and to whom. Ralph sat down in the little vine-embowered summer-house in the garden, and had a good hard spell of thought. Then, as his hand went into his pocket and rested on the piece of cloth with its enclosure which he had found in Fogg's bunker on No. 999, he started from his seat, a certain firm, purposeful expression on his face.

"I've got to do it," he said to himself, as he went along in the direction of the home of Lemuel Fogg. "Somebody has got to take the responsibility of the collision. Adams, the new station man at Plympton, is innocent of any blame. It would be a terrible misfortune for him to lose his job. Fogg has sickness in his family. The truth coming out, might spoil all the future of that bright daughter of his. As to myself—why, if worse comes to worse, I can find a place with my good friends on the Short Line Railway down near Dover. I'm young, I'm doing right in making the sacrifice, and I'm not afraid of the future. Yes, it is a hard way for a fellow with all the bright dreams I've had, but—I'm going to do it!"

The young engineer had made a grand, a mighty resolve. It was a severe struggle, a hard, bitter sacrifice of self interest, but Ralph felt that a great duty presented, and he faced its exactions manfully.

The home of Lemuel Fogg the fireman was about four blocks distant. As Ralph reached it, he found a great roaring fire of brush and rubbish burning in the side yard.

"A good sign, if that is a spurt of home industry with Fogg," decided the young railroader. "He's tidying up the place. It needs it bad enough," and Ralph glanced critically at the disordered yard.

Nobody was astir about the place. Ralph knew that Mrs. Fogg had been very ill of late, and that there was an infant in the house. He decided to wait until Fogg appeared, when he noticed the fireman way down the rear alley. His back was to Ralph and he was carrying a rake. Fogg turned into a yard, and Ralph started after him calculating that the fireman was returning the implement to a neighbor. Just as Ralph came to the yard, the fireman came out of it.

At a glance the young engineer noted a change in the face of Fogg that both surprised and pleased him. The fireman looked fresh, bright and happy. He was humming a little tune, and he swung along as if on cheerful business bent, and as if all things were coming swimmingly with him.

"How are you, Mr. Fogg?" hailed Ralph.

The fireman changed color, a half-shamed, half-defiant look came into his face, but he clasped the extended hand of the young railroader and responded heartily to its friendly pressure.

"I've got something to tell you, Fairbanks," he said, straightening up as if under some striving sense of manliness.

"That's all right," nodded Ralph with a smile. "I'm going back to the house with you, and will be glad to have a chat with you. First, though, I want to say something to you, so we'll pause here for a moment."

"I've—I've made a new start," stammered Fogg. "I've buried the past."

"Good!" cried Ralph, giving his companion a hearty slap on the shoulder, "that's just what I was going to say to you. Bury the past—yes, deep, fathoms deep, without another word, never to be resurrected. To prove it, let's first bury this. Kick it under that ash heap yonder, Mr. Fogg, and forget all about it. Here's something that belongs to you. Put it out of sight, and never speak of it or think of it again."

And Ralph handed to the fireman the package done up in the oiling cloth that he had unearthed from Fogg's bunker in the cab of No. 999.



CHAPTER X

FIRE!

Lemuel Fogg gave a violent start as he received the parcel from Ralph's hand. His face fell and the color deserted it. The package unrolled in his grasp, and he let it drop to the ground. Two square sheets of green colored mica rolled out from the bundle.

"Fairbanks!" spoke the fireman hoarsely, his lips quivering—"you know?"

"I surmise a great deal," replied Ralph promptly, "and I want to say nothing more about it."

"But—"

"I have figured it all out. Adams, the station man at Plympton, has a family. You are going to turn over a leaf, I have decided to take all the blame for the collision on the siding. I shall see the master mechanic within an hour and settle everything. I am going to resign my position with the Great Northern road."

The fireman's jaws dropped at this amazing declaration of the young railroader. It seemed as if for a moment he was fairly petrified at the unexpected disclosure of the noble self-sacrifice involved. He did not have to explain what those two sheets of green mica signified—Ralph knew too well. Inspired by jealousy, Lemuel Fogg had slipped them over the white signal lights of No. 999 as the locomotive approached Plympton, getting the siding semaphore, and removing them before the smash-up had come about.

"Never!" shouted Fogg suddenly. "Let me tell you, Fairbanks—"

Before the speaker could finish the sentence Ralph seized his arm with the startling words:

"Mr. Fogg, look—fire!"

Facing about, Lemuel Fogg uttered a frightful cry as he discerned what had just attracted the notice of the young engineer. The Fogg house was in flames.

When Ralph had first noticed the fiercely-burning heap of rubbish on the Fogg premises, he had observed that it was dangerously near to the house. It had ignited the dry light timber of the dwelling, the whole rear part of which was now a mass of smoke and flames.

"My wife—my helpless wife and the little child!" burst from the lips of the frantic fireman in a shrill, ringing scream.

Ralph joined him as he ran down the alley on a mad run. The great sweat stood out on the bloodless face of the agonized husband and father in knobs, his eyes wore a frenzied expression of suspense and alarm.

"Save them! save them!" he shouted, as Ralph kept pace with him.

"Don't get excited, Mr. Fogg," spoke Ralph reassuringly. "We shall be in time."

"But she cannot move—she is in the bedroom directly over the kitchen. Oh, this is a judgment for all my wickedness!"

"Be a man," encouraged Ralph. "Here we are—let me help you."

"Up the back stairs!" cried Fogg. "They are nearest to her."

"No, no—you can never get up them," declared Ralph.

The side door of the house was open, showing a pair of stairs, but they were all ablaze. Smoke and sparks poured up this natural funnel fiercely. Ralph caught at the arm of his companion and tried to detain him, but Fogg broke away from his grasp.

Ralph saw him disappear beyond the blazing barrier. He was about to run around to the front of the house, when he heard a hoarse cry. Driven back by the overpowering smoke, Fogg had stumbled. He fell headlong down a half a dozen steps, his head struck the lower platform, and he rolled out upon the gravel walk, stunned.

Ralph quickly dragged the man out of the range of the fire and upon the grass. He tried to arouse Fogg, but was unsuccessful. There was no time to lose. Seizing a half-filled bucket standing by the well near by, Ralph deluged the head of the insensible fireman with its contents. It did not revive him. Ralph sped to the front of the house, ran up on the stoop and jerked at the knob of the front screen door.

It was locked, but Ralph tore it open in an instant. A woman's frantic screams echoed as the young railroader dashed into the house. He was quickly up the front stairs. At the top landing he paused momentarily, unable to look about him clearly because of the dense smoke that permeated the place.

Those frenzied screams again ringing out guided him down a narrow hallway to the rear upper bedroom. The furniture in it was just commencing to take fire. On the floor was the fireman's wife, a tiny babe held in one arm, while with the other she was trying unsuccessfully to pull herself out of range of the fire.

"Save me! save me!" she shrieked, as Ralph's form was vaguely outlined to her vision.

"Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Fogg," spoke Ralph quickly—"there's no danger."

He ran to the bed, speedily pulled off a blanket lying there, and wrapped it about the woman.

"Hold the child closely," he directed, and bodily lifted mother and babe in his strong, sinewy arms. The young railroader staggered under his great burden as he made for the hallway, but never was he so glad of his early athletic training as at this critical moment in his life.

It was a strenuous and perilous task getting down the front stairs with his load, but Ralph managed it. He carried mother and child clear out into the garden, placed them carefully on a rustic bench there, and then ran towards the well.

By this time people had come to the scene of the fire. There were two buckets at the well. A neighbor and the young railroader soon formed a limited bucket brigade, but it was slow work hauling up the water, and the flames had soon gained a headway that made their efforts to quench them useless.

Ralph organized the excited onlookers to some system in removing what could be saved from the burning house. In the meantime he had directed a boy to hasten to the nearest telephone and call out the fire department. Soon the clanging bell of the hose cart echoed in the near distance. The rear part of the house had been pretty well burned down by this time, and the front of the building began to blaze.

Ralph got a light wagon from the barn of a neighbor. A comfortable couch was made of pillows and blankets, and Mrs. Fogg and her child were placed on this. Ralph found no difficulty in enlisting volunteers to haul the wagon to his home, where his mother soon had the poor lady and her babe in a condition of safety and comfort. As Ralph returned to the dismantled and still smoking Fogg home he met a neighbor.

"Oh, Fairbanks," spoke this person, "you're in great demand up at the Foggs."

"How is that?"

"Fogg has come to. They told him about your saving his wife and child. He cried like a baby at first. Then he insisted on finding you. He's blessing you for your noble heroism, I tell you."

"I don't know about the noble heroism," returned Ralph with a smile. "Go back, will you, and tell him I'll see him in about an hour. Tell him to come down to our house at once. It's all arranged there to make him feel at home until he can make other arrangements."

"You're a mighty good fellow, Fairbanks" declared the man enthusiastically, "and everybody knows it!"

"Thank you," returned Ralph, and proceeded on his way. As he casually looked at his watch the young railroader quickened his steps with the half-murmured words:

"And now for a tussle with the master mechanic."



CHAPTER XI

THE MASTER MECHANIC

"Want to resign, do you?"

"That is what I came here for, sir," said the young engineer of No. 999.

"Well, you're too late," and the master mechanic of the Great Northern seemed to turn his back on Ralph, busying himself with some papers on his desk. He was a great, gruff fellow with the heart of a child, but he showed it rarely. A diamond in the rough, most of the employees of the road were afraid of him. Not so Ralph. The young railroader had won the respect and admiration of the official by his loyalty and close attention to duty. In fact, Ralph felt that the influence of the master mechanic had been considerable of an element in his promotion to No. 999. He stepped nearer to the desk, managing to face the would-be tyro.

"Too late, sir?" he repeated vaguely.

"Didn't I say so? Get out!"

The master mechanic waved his hand, and Ralph was a trifle surprised at what seemed a peremptory dismissal. The moving arm of the old railroader described a swoop, grasped the hand of Ralph in a fervent grip, and pulling the young engineer to almost an embrace, he said:

"Fairbanks, we had in our family a little boy who died. It's a pretty tender memory with us, but every time I look at you I think of the dear little fellow. He'd have been a railroader, too, if he had lived, and the fondest wish of my heart is that he might have been like you."

"Why——" murmured the astonished Ralph.

The master mechanic cleared his throat and his great hand swept the moisture from his eyes. Then in a more practical tone he resumed:

"I said you was too late."

"Too late for what?"

"Resigning. You are too late," observed the official, "because Lemuel Fogg has already been here."

"Then——"

"To tender his resignation, to tell the whole truthful story of the collision on the siding at Plympton. Fairbanks," continued the master mechanic very seriously, "you are a noble young fellow. I know your design to bear the whole brunt of the smash-up, in order that you might save your fireman and the station man down at Plympton. As I said, Fogg was here. I never saw a man so broken. He told me everything. He told me of your patience, of your kindness, your manliness. Lad, your treatment of Fogg under those circumstances shows the mettle in you that will make you a great man, and, what is better still, a good man."

"Thank you, sir," said Ralph in a subdued tone, deeply affected despite himself.

"For the first time in twenty years' service," continued the official, "I am going to take a serious responsibility on myself which should be rightly shouldered by the company. The Plympton incident is dead and buried. The three of us must hold always the secret close. The black mark is rubbed off the slate."

"You have done right—oh, believe me, sir!" declared Ralph earnestly. "I feel sure that Mr. Fogg has learned a lesson that he will never forget, and the blessings of his sick wife, of his ambitious young daughter, will be yours."

"In my desk yonder," continued the master mechanic, "I have his written pledge that drink is a thing of the past with him. I told Fogg that if ever he disappointed me in my belief that he was a changed man, a reformed man, I would leave the service feeling that my mistaken judgment did not do justice to my position with the Great Northern. As to you, ready to sacrifice yourself for the sake of others—you are a young man among thousands. Drop it now—get out!" ordered the master mechanic, with a vast show of authority. "It's all under seal of silence, and I expect to see you and Fogg make a great team."

"Mr. Fogg's house has just burned down," said Ralph. "It would have broken him down completely, if his discharge had been added to that misfortune."

"Burned down?" repeated the master mechanic, in surprise and with interest. "How was that?" and Ralph had to recite the story of the fire. He added that he had heard Fogg had but little insurance.

"Wait a minute," directed the official, and he went into the next office. Ralph heard him dictating something to his stenographer. Then the typewriter clicked, and shortly afterwards the master mechanic came into the office with a sheet of foolscap, which he handed to Ralph. A pleased flush came into the face of the young railroader as he read the typewritten heading of the sheet—it was a subscription list in behalf of Lemuel Fogg, and headed by the signature of the master mechanic, with "$20" after it.

"You are a noble man!" cried Ralph irresistibly. "No wonder it's a joy to work for you."

"Down brakes there!" laughed the big-hearted fellow. "Don't draw it too strong, Fairbanks. Don't be more liberal than you can afford now," he directed, as Ralph placed the paper on the desk, and added to it his subscription for $10. "You can tell Fogg we're rising a few pennies for him. I'll circulate the subscription among the officials, and if any plan to have the roundhouse crowd chip in a trifle comes to your mind, why, start it down the rails. Get out."

"All right," cried Ralph. "You've said that twice, so I guess it's time to go now."

"One minute, though," added the master mechanic. "You and Fogg will run No. 999 on the Tipton accommodation to-morrow. It's a shift berth, though. I don't want you to go dreaming quite yet, Fairbanks, that you're president of the Great Northern, and all that, but, under the hat, I will say that you can expect a boost. We are figuring on some big things, and I shouldn't wonder if a new train is soon to be announced that will wake up some of our rivals. Get out now for good, for I'm swamped with work here."

The young engineer left the office of the master mechanic with a very happy heart. Affairs had turned out to his entire satisfaction, and, too, for the benefit of those whose welfare he had considered beyond his own. Ralph was full of the good news he had to impart to Lemuel Fogg. As he left the vicinity of the depot, he began to formulate a plan in his mind for securing a subscription from his fellow workers to aid Fogg.

"I say," suddenly remarked Ralph to himself with a queer smile, and halting in his progress, "talk about coincidences, here is one for certain. 'The Overland Limited,' why, I've got an idea!"

The "Overland Limited" had been in Ralph's mind ever since leaving the office of the master mechanic. There could be only one solution to the hint that official had given of "new trains that would wake up some of the rivals of the Great Northern." That road had recently bought up two connecting lines of railroad. The China & Japan Mail experiment—could it be a test as to the possibility of establishing an "Overland Special?" At all events, there was a pertinent suggestion in the words that met the gaze of the young engineer and caused him to halt calculatingly.

A newly-painted store front with clouded windows had a placard outside bearing the announcement: "Olympia Theatre, 10-cent show. Will open next Saturday evening with the following special scenes: 1—The Poor Artist. 2—London by Gaslight. 3—A Day on the Overland Limited." At the door of the store just being renovated for a picture show stood a man, tying some printed bills to an awning rod for passers by to take. Ralph approached this individual.

"Going to open a moving picture show?" he inquired in a friendly way.

"I am," responded the show man. "Interested?"

"Yes," answered Ralph.

"I hope the public will be. It's a sort of experiment, with two other shows in town. There's none in this locality, and they tell me I'll do well."

"I should think so," answered Ralph. "Bright, clean pictures will draw a good crowd."

"I'd like to get the railroad men in touch with me. They and their families could give me lots of business. There's that prime 'Overland' scene. It's a new and fine film."

"And it has suggested something to me that you may be glad to follow out," spoke Ralph.

"And what's that, neighbor?" inquired the showman curiously.

"I'll tell you," responded Ralph. "There was a fire in town to-day—one of the best-known firemen on the road was burned out. It's a big blow to him, for he's lost about all he had. There isn't a railroad man in Stanley Junction who would not be glad to help him get on his feet again. The big fellows of the road will subscribe in a good way, but the workers can't spare a great deal."

"I see," nodded the man. "What are you getting at, though?"

"Just this," explained Ralph. "You get out some special dodgers and announce your opening night as a benefit for Lemuel Fogg, fireman. Offer to donate fifty per cent. of the proceeds to Fogg, and I'll guarantee to crowd your house to the doors."

"Say!" enthused the man, slapping Ralph boisterously on the shoulder, "you're a natural showman. Write me the dodger, will you, and I'll have it over the streets inside of twenty-four hours."

"I'm better at filling in time schedules than composing show bills," said Ralph, "but I'll have a try at this one for my friend's sake."

Ralph went inside and was soon busy with blank paper and pencil, which the showman provided. His composition was a very creditable piece of literary work, and the showman chuckled immensely, and told Ralph that he could consider himself on the free list—"with all his family."

Ralph made a start for home again, but his fixed plans were scheduled for frequent changes, it seemed. An engineer friend, on his way to the roundhouse, met him, and Ralph turned and walked that way with him. He broached the subject nearest to his heart, and soon had his companion interested in the subscription for Lemuel Fogg. When he parted with the man at the end of the depot platform the latter had promised to be responsible for great results among his fellow-workmen.

The young engineer now proceeded in the direction of home. The whistle of the western accommodation, however, just arriving, held him stationary for a few moments, and he stood watching the train roll into the depot with the interest ever present with a railroader.

The last coach was a chair car. As the coaches jolted to a halt, there crawled or rather rolled from under the chair car a forlorn figure, weakened, tattered, a stowaway delivered from a perilous stolen ride on the trucks.

It was a boy; Ralph saw that at a glance. As the depot watchman ran forward to nab this juvenile offender against the law, the boy sat up on the board plankway where he had landed, and Ralph caught a sight of his face.

In an instant the young railroader recognized this new arrival. It was "Wheels," otherwise Archie Graham, the boy inventor.



CHAPTER XII

A GOOD FRIEND

RALPH could not repress a smile at a sight of the erratic youth. The young inventor, it seemed, was always coming to light in some original way. His last sensational appearance fitted in naturally to his usual eccentric methods.

"Hey, there! trying to beat the railroad, eh?" shouted the depot official officer, rushing forward to nab the culprit.

"Don't arrest him, Mr. Brooks," spoke Ralph quickly. "I know him; I'm interested in him. He is no professional ride-stealer, and I am perfectly satisfied that he never went to all that risk and discomfort because he didn't have the money to pay his fare."

The watchman was an old-time friend of Ralph. He looked puzzled, but he halted in his original intention of arresting the stowaway. Young Graham paid no attention to anything going on about him. He seemed occupied as usual with his own thoughts solely. First he dug cinders out of his blinking eyes. Then he rubbed the coating of grime and soot from his face, and began groping in his pockets. Very ruefully he turned out one particular inside coat pocket. He shook his head in a doleful way.

"Gone!" he remarked. "Lost my pocket book. Friend—a pencil, quick."

These words he spoke to Ralph, beckoning him earnestly to approach nearer.

"And a card, a piece of paper, anything I can write on. Don't delay—hurry, before I forget it."

Ralph found a stub of a pencil and some railroad blanks in his pocket, and gave them to the young inventor. Then the latter set at work, becoming utterly oblivious of his surroundings. For nearly two minutes he was occupied in making memoranda and drawing small sections of curves and lines.

"All right, got it, good!" he voiced exultantly, as he returned the pencil to Ralph and carefully stowed the slips of paper in his pocket. Then he arose to his feet. He smiled queerly as he gazed down at his tattered garments and grimed and blistered hands.

"Pretty looking sight, ain't I?" he propounded to the young engineer. "Had to do it, though. Glad I did it. Got the actual details, see?"

"What of, may I ask?" inquired Ralph.

"New idea. Save fuel, make the engine go faster. Been figuring on it for months," explained the strange boy. "I live at Bridgeport."

"Yes, I know," nodded Ralph. "I saw you there."

"Did? Glad of that, too. If you feel friendly enough, maybe you'll advise me what to do in my distressing plight. Stranger here, and lost my pocketbook. It fell out of my pocket while I was hanging on to the trucks. Not a cent."

"That can be fixed all right, I think," said Ralph.

"Clothes all riddled—need a bath."

"You had better come with me to the hotel, Mr. Graham," spoke Ralph. "I know enough about you to be interested in you. I will vouch for you to the hotel keeper, who will take care of you until you hear from home."

"Yes. Got money in the bank at Bridgeport," said Archie Graham. "As I was telling you, I've struck a new idea. You know I've been trying to invent something for a number of years."

"Yes, I've heard about that, and sincerely hope you will figure out a success."

"Stick at it, anyway," declared Archie. "Well, at Bridgeport they take me as a joke, see? That's all right; I'll show them, some day. They voted me a nuisance at the shops and shut me out. Wouldn't let me come near their engines. I had to find out some things necessary to my inventions, so I came on to Stanley Junction. Rode in a coach like any other civilized being until I got about ten miles from here—last stop."

"Yes," nodded Ralph.

"Well, there I stepped out of the coach and under it. Whew! but it was an experience I'll never try again. All the same, I got what I was after. I wanted to learn how many revolutions an axle made in so many minutes. I wanted to know, too, how a belt could be attached under a coach. I've got the outlines of the facts, how to work out my invention: 'Graham's Automatic Bellows Gearing.'"

Ralph did not ask for further details as to the device his companion had in mind. He led a pleasant conversation the way from the depot, and when they reached the hotel introduced Archie to its proprietor.

"This friend of mine will be all right for what he orders, Mr. Lane," said Ralph.

"Yes, I'm going to stay here some days, perhaps a week or two," explained the young inventor, "so, if you'll give me a blank check I'll fill it for what cash I may need. You put it through your bank and the funds will be here to-morrow."

Everything was arranged in a satisfactory way, even to Archie ordering a new suit of clothes. The youth came out temporarily from his usual profundity, and had a real, natural boyish talk with Ralph. The latter recited the incident of the adventure with Billy Bouncer's crowd at Bridgeport.

"Oh, that Jim Scroggins fellow," said Archie, with a smile. "Yes, I remember—'kick him Scroggins.' You see, he had broken into my workshop, destroyed some devices I was working on and stole a lot of my tools. So you're Mr. Fairbanks? I've heard of you."

"Ralph, you mean, Mr. Graham," observed the young railroader pleasantly.

"Then Archie, you mean," added his eccentric companion. "I'd like to be friends with you, for I can see you are the right sort. You've done a good deal for me."

"Oh, don't notice that."

"And you can do a good deal more."

"Indeed? How?"

"By getting me free range of your roundhouse here. Can you?"

"I will be glad to do it," answered Ralph.

"I hope you will," said Archie gratefully. "They don't know me here, and they won't poke fun at me or hinder me. I'm not going to steal any of their locomotives. I just want to study them."

"That's all right," said Ralph, "I'll see you to-morrow and fix things for you, so you will be welcome among my railroad friends."

"You're a royal good fellow, Mr. Ralph," declared the young inventor with enthusiasm, "and I don't know how to thank you enough."

"Well, I've tried to do something for humanity to-day," reflected the young engineer brightly, as he wended his way homewards. "It comes easy and natural, too, when a fellow's trying to do his level best."

Ralph found his mother bustling about at a great rate when he reached home. The excitement over the fire had died down. Fogg was up at the ruins getting his rescued household belongings to a neighborly shelter. The string of excited friends to condole with Mrs. Fogg had dwindled away, and the poor lady lay in comfort and peace in the best bedroom of the house.

"She seems so grateful to you for having saved her life," Mrs. Fairbanks told Ralph, "and so glad, she told me, that her husband had signed the pledge, that she takes the fire quite reasonably."

"Yes," remarked Ralph, "I heard about the pledge, and it is a blessed thing. I have other grand news, too. There's a lot of good fellows in Stanley Junction, and the Foggs won't be long without a shelter over their heads," and Ralph told his mother all about the subscription list and the moving picture show benefit.

"You are a grand manager, Ralph," said the fond mother. "I am only too glad to do my share in making these people welcome and comfortable."

"You know how to do it, mother," declared Ralph, "that's sure."

"It seems as if things came about just right to take in the Foggs," spoke Mrs. Fairbanks. "Limpy Joe went back to his restaurant on the Short Line yesterday, and Zeph Dallas has left, looking for a new job, he says, so we have plenty of spare rooms for our guests."

Ralph started for the ruined Fogg homestead to see if he could be of any use there. He came upon Fogg moving some furniture to the barn of a neighbor on a hand-cart. The fireman dropped the handles as he saw Ralph. His face worked with vivid emotion as he grasped the hand of the young railroader.

"Fairbanks," he said, "what can I say to you except that you have been the best friend I have ever known!"

"Nothing, except to make up your mind that the friendship will last if you want to suit me."

"Honest—honest?" urged Fogg, the tears in his eyes, earnestly regarding Ralph's face. "You don't despise me?"

"Oh, yes, we all dislike you, Mr. Fogg!" railed Ralph, with a hearty laugh. "The master mechanic has such bitter animosity for you, that he's taking his revenge by circulating a subscription list to help build you a new home."

"Never!" gasped Fogg, overcome.

"What's more," proceeded Ralph, in the same ironical tone, "the men down at the roundhouse have such a deep grudge against you, that they are following his example."

"I don't deserve it—I don't deserve it!" murmured the fireman.

"Why, even the new moving picture showman is so anxious to throw you down, that he's going to give you a benefit Saturday evening."

"I guess I'm the wickedest and happiest man in the world," said Fogg, in a subdued tone.

"You ought to be the happiest, after that little memoranda you gave to the master mechanic," suggested Ralph.

"The pledge? Yes!" cried the fireman, "and I mean to keep it, too. He told you about it?"

"And everything else necessary to tell," replied Ralph. "It's all settled. He says you and I ought to make a strong team. Let's try, hard, Mr. Fogg."

"Lad, I'll show you!" declared Fogg solemnly.

"All right, then say no more about it, and let us get these traps under cover, and get home to enjoy a famous meal my mother is preparing for all hands."

Activity and excitement around the Fairbanks home did not die down until long after dark. All the afternoon and evening people came to the house to see Fogg, to offer sympathy and practical assistance. If the fireman needed encouragement, he got plenty of it. He seemed to have grown into a new man under the chastening, and yet hopeful influences of that eventful day in his life. Before his very eyes Ralph fancied he saw his fireman grow in new manliness, courage and earnestness of purpose.

All hands were tired enough to sleep soundly that night. When Ralph came down stairs in the morning, his mother told him that Fogg was up and about already. She believed he had gone up to the ruins to look over things in a general way. Ralph went out to hunt up the stroller for breakfast.

Scarcely started from the house, he halted abruptly, for the object of his quest was in view. Ralph saw the fireman about half a block away. He was facing two men whom Ralph recognized as Hall and Wilson, two blacklisters who had been prominent in the railroad strike.

One of them was gesticulating vigorously and telling something to Fogg, while his companion chipped in a word now and then. Suddenly something appeared to be said that roused up the fireman. His hand went up in the air with an angry menacing motion. He shouted out some words that Ralph could not hear at the distance he was from the scene.

The two men seemed to remonstrate. One of them raised his own fist menacingly. The other crowded towards Fogg in a stealthy, suspicious way.

In a flash the climax came. Swinging out his giant hand, the fireman of No. 999 seized his nearest opponent and gave him a fling into the ditch. He then sprang at the other, and sent him whirling head over heels to join his companion.



CHAPTER XIII

THE "BLACK HAND"

Lemuel Fogg's opponents scrambled to their feet and sneaked off immediately. The fireman turned his back upon them, and strode down the sidewalk in the direction of the Fairbanks' home with a stormy and disturbed expression on his face.

"Trouble, Mr. Fogg?" intimated the young railroader, as the fireman approached him.

"No," dissented Fogg vigorously, "the end of trouble. I'm sorry to lose my temper, lad, but those ruffians were the limit. They know my sentiments now."

"They were Hall and Wilson, I noticed," suggested Ralph.

"Yes," returned the fireman, "and two worse unhung rascals never walked. They came about you. Say, Mr. Fairbanks," continued Fogg excitedly, "It wasn't so bad tackling me as a sort of comrade, considering that I had been foolish enough to train with them once, but when they mentioned you—I went wild. You—after what you've done for me and mine! Say——"

"Hold on—close the brakes," ordered Ralph, as his companion seemed inclined to run after his recent adversaries and seek them out for a further castigation. "You've made the brake with them—forget them."

"They had a new plot to get a black mark against you," went on the fireman. "I heard them half through their plans. Then I sailed into them."

"Well, breakfast is ready," said Ralph, "and after that, work, so we'd better get down to schedule."

The run to which No. 999 had been apportioned covered the Muddy Creek branch of the Great Northern to Riverton. The train was an accommodation and ran sixty miles. It was to leave Stanley Junction at 9:15 A. M., arrive at terminus at about noon, and start back for the Junction at two o'clock.

Ralph left the house about eight o'clock, after arranging to meet his fireman at the roundhouse. He went to the hotel to see Archie Graham, and found that youthful genius in his room figuring out some mathematical problem at a table.

"Well, how are you this morning?" inquired Ralph cheerily.

"First-rate, except that I'm a trifle sleepy," replied the young inventor. "Say, I was riding under the coaches all night long. It was dream after dream. I believe it tired me out more than the real thing."

"You haven't got your new clothes yet, I see," observed Ralph, with a glance at the tattered attire of his new acquaintance.

"They are ordered," explained Archie, "but they won't be here until late this afternoon."

"When they do," said Ralph, taking a card from his pocket and writing a few lines on it, "if you don't want to wait till I have some leisure, take this to Mr. Forgan, down at the roundhouse."

"Thank you," said Archie.

"He'll extend all the civilities to you. I hope you may discover something of advantage."

"I'll try," promised Archie.

Seeing the young inventor, reminded Ralph of Bridgeport, and naturally he thought of the boy he had known as Marvin Clark.

"He telegraphed that he would see me," ruminated Ralph. "I shall miss him if he comes to Stanley Junction to-day, but he will probably wait around for me—that is, if he comes at all. If he doesn't, in a day or two I shall start some kind of an investigation as to this strange case of double identity."

When Ralph got to the roundhouse he found Fogg in the doghouse chatting with his friends. He had to tell the story of the fire over and over again, it seemed, at each new arrival of an interested comrade, and Ralph's heroic share in the incident was fully exploited. The young railroader was overwhelmed by his loyal admirers with congratulations. Ralph felt glad to compare the anticipated trip with the starting out on the first record run of No. 999, when he had a half-mad sullen fireman for a helper.

As the wiper finished his work on the locomotive, engineer and fireman got into the cab.

"Hello!" exclaimed Fogg sharply.

"Hello!" echoed his cabmate.

A little square strip of paper was revealed to both, as they opened their bunkers. It was patent that some one had sneaked into the roundhouse and had pasted the papers there. Each slip bore a crude outline of a human hand, drawn in pencil.

"Bah!" spoke Fogg, with a brush of a chisel scraping the portraiture on his own box out of all semblance, and then doing the same with the picture on the reverse cover of Ralph's bunker.

"What is it, Fogg?" inquired the young railroader, to whom the ominous sketches were a new wrinkle.

"Black Hand," explained Fogg.

"Whose—why?" inquired Ralph.

"The outcast gang. It's one of their scare tricks. Humph! I'd like to get sight of the fellow who thought he was doing a smart trick. The Black Hands are supposed to warn us that we're doomed by the gang, see? It's a notification that the trouncing I gave those fellows Hall and Wilson is a declaration of war to the knife."

"Well, let it come. Aren't we equal to it, Mr. Fogg?"

"You are, for they can't hit you hard. You've made your mark," said the fireman, somewhat gloomily. "I'm not in the same class. I've had my weak spots. Besides, it's me they'll be after. Dunno, Fairbanks, maybe I'd better not be the cause of getting you into any more trouble. Perhaps I'd better slide for a bit into some switchyard job."

"What—scared?" cried Ralph.

"No, not scared," responded Fogg soberly, "only worried about you."

"Well," said Ralph, "the master mechanic said we were a strong team?"

"Ye-es."

"Let's prove to him that we are. Good-by to the Black Hands, Mr. Fogg, they aren't worth thinking about."

So the young railroader rallied and cheered his comrade, and they had got beyond the turn table and had quite forgotten the incident of the pasters, when John Griscom mounted the cab step. He nodded genially to both Ralph and the fireman. Griscom knew pretty much what was going on most of the time, and the master mechanic was a close friend of his.

"Just a word, Fairbanks," he began in a confidential tone, and the young engineer bent over towards him. "I don't want to be croaking all the time, but railroading isn't all fun and frolic."

"What's the matter now, Mr. Griscom?" inquired Ralph.

"The old strike gang is the trouble, and will be until they're laid out, ragtail and bobtail, dead cold. I have a friend in a certain department of the service here. He isn't giving away official business any, but he isn't in sympathy with Hall or Wilson. One of them sent a wire to Riverton an hour since. It was to some one the operator never heard of before, evidently a friend of theirs. It mentioned 999, your name, and Fogg. The rest of it was in cipher."

"We've just had a Black Hand warning, here in the cab," said Ralph.

"Oh, you have?" muttered Griscom. "Then there's new mischief afoot. Look out for snags at Riverton."

Ralph realized that it wasn't very pleasant working under the continual menace of enemies plotting in the dark and in a mean, desperate way. There was nothing for it, however, but to exercise patience, vigilance and courage.

"They shall never drive me from my post of duty," firmly decided the young railroader. "I shall neither tire out nor scare out."

Riverton was made on time and with no unpleasant incident to mar a schedule trip. No. 999 was run to a siding, and Ralph and Fogg had over two hours on their hands to spend as they chose. They had brought their lunch, and they dispatched the best part of it in the cab. Mrs. Fairbanks had put it up in a basket, and a two-quart fruit jar held the cold coffee. After the repast Fogg fixed the fire and they strolled down to the depot.

The station agent was an old acquaintance of Ralph. He knew Van Sherwin, Limpy Joe and the people up at the Short Line railroad, kept posted on their progress pretty closely, and he had a good deal of interesting railroad gossip to retail to Ralph.

"Oh, by the way," he observed incidentally, after they had conversed for some time, "there was a spruce young fellow here this morning asking very particularly about 999 and her movements. He mentioned your name too."

"Who was he?" inquired Ralph.

"I never saw him before. He was curious all about your run, hung around a while and then disappeared. I haven't seen him since."

"Describe him, won't you?" and the station agent did so. Ralph was sure that the stranger was the youth he had known as Marvin Clark. From that time on until the train got ready for the return trip, the young railroader kept his eyes open for a glimpse of his acquaintance with the double identity. The latter, however, up to the time No. 999 steamed out from Riverton, did not put in an appearance.

"Well, nobody tackled us at Riverton," observed Ralph, as he and Fogg settled down comfortably to their respective tasks.

"Better not," retorted the fireman keenly. "I just made a little purchase this morning, and I'm going to stand no fooling," and he touched his hip pocket meaningly. "Have a swig?" he inquired additionally, as he reached for the jar of coffee and took a drink.

"Oh, I could feast on my mother's coffee all day," observed Ralph as the jar was passed to him. "Now, then, you finish it up and hand me one of those doughnuts."

The little refection seemed to add to the satisfaction of the moment. Their run was a slow one, and there was little to do besides keeping the machinery in motion. The day was warm, but the air was balmy. The landscape was interesting, and they seemed gliding along as in a pleasing dream.

Later, when he analyzed his sensations, the young railroader, recalling just these impressions, knew that they were caused by artificial conditions. Ralph relapsed into a dream—indeed, he was amazed, he was startled to find himself opening his eyes with difficulty, and of discovering his fireman doubled up in his seat, fast asleep. He tried to shout to Fogg, realizing that something was wrong. He could not utter a word, his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Ralph barely managed to slip to his feet in an effort to arouse his cab mate.

"Something wrong!" ran through his mind. A vague thrill crossed his frame as, whirling by a landmark, a white-painted cattle guard, he realized that he must have gone five miles without noting distance.

The bridge was his next thought. Muddy Creek was less than a mile ahead. If the draw should be open! Wildly reaching towards the lever, the young engineer sank to the floor a senseless heap, while No. 999, without a guide, dashed down the shining rails!



CHAPTER XIV

A SERIOUS PLOT

"Who stopped this train—and why?"

Dreamily returning to consciousness, these were the first words that reached Ralph Fairbanks' rallying consciousness. They were spoken by the conductor of the accommodation train sharply. The locomotive was at a standstill, and, staring wonderingly, the conductor stood by the side of the tender.

"I did," answered a prompt voice, and removing his hand from the lever, the boy whom the young engineer had known as Marvin Clark drifted before his vision.

"Hello!" exclaimed the conductor, "I've seen you before. You're the fellow who caught the train at Riverton just as she left—had a free pass."

"Never mind me, Mr. Conductor," responded the other rapidly. "I'm thinking they need some attention," and he pointed to the fireman, lying doubled up in his seat, and then to Ralph, lying prone on the floor of the cab.

"Fairbanks—Fogg!" fairly shouted the conductor. "Why, what can this mean?"

"Foul play, if I'm a judge," spoke Clark definitely. "Fairbanks! Fairbanks!" he shouted, stooping over and lifting Ralph in his strong arms. "Here, brace him in his seat."

"Water!" gasped the young engineer in a choking tone. "My throat is on fire! What has happened?"

"Nothing alarming," answered Clark reassuringly, "only—I'm glad I happened to be here."

Ralph's mouth and throat seemed burning up. The water he drank only partially allayed his frantic thirst. It was with great difficulty that he could arouse himself from a lethargy that seemed to completely paralyze both body and mind. As the moments passed, however, he succeeded in rallying into something like normal. But as yet he was unable to fully understand just what had happened.

"He needs something to stimulate him," declared the conductor, and stepping into the cab he hastily ransacked the fireman's bunker. "Aha!"

His tones announced a discovery—likewise a suspicion. He had unearthed two flasks of liquor, one only partly filled.

"Not for me," said Ralph, waving back the conductor, who evidently was intent on administering a stimulant. "Liquor!" he cried, suddenly bracing up now. "Fogg never brought it aboard. It's some plot! Why!" he exclaimed, in sudden enlightenment, "I see it all, clear as day."

What Ralph saw, all hands in the cab soon realized within the ensuing ten minutes. When they had aroused Fogg, there followed animated theory, discovery and conviction. Not one of them doubted but that some enemy had sneaked aboard of the locomotive while it was sidetracked at noon at Riverton and had put some drug in the jar of coffee. They found a suspicious dark sediment at the bottom of the jar.

"Black Hands—mark it down," observed Fogg. "Whoever did it, also placed those flasks of liquor in my bunker. See the label on them? They come from a place in Riverton I never was in. The scoundrels aimed to have us found in the cab, just as we have been, and a report go in that the heat and too much liquor had crippled us from making the run."

"You've struck it, Fogg," assented the conductor. "Just stow that jar and those two flasks in a safe place. I'll have our special agent Adair, the road detective, find out who bought that liquor. No need of any blabbing to the general public. Are you able to complete the run, Fairbanks?"

"Certainly," reported Ralph, exercising arms and feet vigorously to restore their circulation. Fogg was still dazed and weak. He had drunk more of the coffee than Ralph. Besides, being the older of the two, he did not shake off the effects of the narcotic so readily as the young engineer.

"I'll help fire—I know how to," declared Clark.

"You know how to stop an engine, too!" commented the conductor. "All right, Fairbanks, when you're ready," and he returned to the coaches. Ralph extended his hand to Clark. The latter met his glance frankly.

"I've been trying to get track of your movements by telegraph," said Clark. "Located your run, and was waiting at Riverton for your train. Got there ahead of time, and came back to the depot just as 999 was pulling out, and caught the last car. First, I thought I'd not show myself until you got through with your trip. Things got dull in those humdrum coaches, though, and I sailed ahead to the tender, saw what was wrong, and checked up the locomotive just beyond the bridge. Say, if the draw had been open, we'd all have had a bath, eh?"

"The miscreants who played this diabolical trick ought to be severely punished," said Ralph.

There was no evidence of strained relations between the two boys. Ralph recognized that Clark had sought him out to make an explanation. He wondered what it would be. The present was not, however, the time to broach the subject. There was something very manly and reassuring in Clark's manner, and the young railroader believed that when he got ready to disclose his secret, the revelation would be an unusual and interesting one.

The train was started up, soon made up the lost time, and at 5:15 rolled into the depot at Stanley Junction. Ralph did not feel quite as well as usual and his fireman was pale and loggy, but the main effects of the drug had passed off.

"You go straight home, Mr. Fogg," directed Ralph. "I will see that 999 is put to bed all right."

"I think I'll take advantage of your kind offer, Fairbanks," responded Fogg. "I'm weak as a cat, and my head is going around like an electric turntable."

Fogg started for home. Clark rode with Ralph on the locomotive to the roundhouse. The big engine was put into her stall. Then the boys left the place.

"I have something to say to you, Fairbanks," began Clark.

"I suppose so," replied Ralph. "It must be quite a long story, though."

"It is," admitted his companion.

"Then suppose we leave its recital till we are rested a bit," suggested Ralph. "I want you to come up to the house and have supper. Then we'll adjourn to the garden and have a quiet, comfortable chat."

"That will be famous," declared Clark. "Say, you don't treat an imposter like myself courteous or anything, do you?"

"Are you really an imposter?" asked Ralph, with a faint smile.

"I am—and a rank one."

"Just one question—you are not the real Marvin Clark?"

"No more than yourself."

"And you are Fred Porter?"

"That's it."

"I thought so," said the young engineer.



CHAPTER XV

"THE SILVANDOS"

"I declare!" exclaimed Ralph Fairbanks.

"For mercy's sake!" echoed Fred Porter.

Both stood spellbound just within the grounds of the Fairbanks' home, where they had arrived. Over towards the dividing lot line of the next door neighbor, their eyes had lit upon an unusual and interesting scene.

Two figures were in action among the branches of the great oak tree. They were boys, and their natural appearance was enough to attract attention. They were leaping, springing, chasing one another from branch to branch, with a remarkable agility that made one think of monkeys and next trained athletes.

"Who are they, anyway?" demanded Fred.

"They are new to me," confessed the young engineer.

The two strangers were about of an age, under sixteen. It would puzzle one to figure out their nationality. Their faces were tawny, but delicate of profile, their forms exquisitely molded. They suggested Japanese boys. Then Ralph decided they more resembled lithe Malay children of whom he had seen photographs. At all events, they were natural tree climbers. They made the most daring leaps from frail branches. They sprung from twigs that broke in their deft grasp, but not until they had secured the purchase they aimed at in the act to send them flying through the air to some other perilous point in view. Their feats were fairly bewildering, and as one landed on the ground like a rubber ball and the other chased him out of sight in the next yard, Ralph conducted his companion into the house with these words:

"That's odd enough to investigate."

He did not announce his arrival to his mother, but led Fred up to his room. As he passed that now occupied by the Foggs, it made his heart glad to hear the fireman crowing at the baby to the accompaniment of a happy laugh from the fireman's wife.

"You can wash up and tidy up, Porter," he said to his friend. "I'll arrange for an extra plate, and take you down later to meet the best mother in the world."

"This is an imposition on you good people," declared Fred, but Ralph would not listen to him. He went downstairs and out the front way, and came around the house looking all about for some trace of the two remarkable creatures he had just seen. They had disappeared, however, as if they were veritable wood elves. Passing the kitchen window, the young engineer halted.

"Hello!" he uttered. "Zeph Dallas is back again," and then he listened casually, for Zeph was speaking to his mother.

"Yes, Mrs. Fairbanks," Ralph caught the words, "I'm the bad penny that turns up regularly, only I've got some good dollars this time. On the mantel is the money I owe Ralph for the clothes he got me."

"But can you spare the money?" spoke Mrs. Fairbanks.

"Sure I can, and the back board, too," declared Zeph, and glancing in through the open window Ralph noted the speaker, his fingers in his vest armholes, strutting around most grandly.

"I can't understand how you came to get so much money in two days," spoke the lady. "You couldn't have earned it in that short space of time, Zeph."

"No, ma'am," admitted Zeph, "but I've got it, haven't I? It's honest money, Mrs. Fairbanks. It's an advance on my wages—expense money and such, don't you see?"

"Then you have secured work, Zeph?"

"Steady work, Mrs. Fairbanks."

"What at, Zeph?"

"Mrs. Fairbanks," answered the lad in a hushed, mysterious tone of voice, "I am hired as a detective."

"You're what?" fairly shouted Ralph through the window.

"Hello! you here, are you?" cried Zeph, and in a twinkling he had joined Ralph outside the house. "Yes, sir," he added, with an important air that somewhat amused Ralph, "I've landed this time. On both feet. Heart's desire at last—I'm a detective."

Ralph had to smile. He recalled the first arrival of honest but blundering Zeph Dallas at Stanley Junction, a raw country bumpkin. Even then the incipient detective fever had been manifested by the crude farmer boy. From the confident, self-assured tone in which Zeph now spoke, the young railroader was forced to believe that he had struck something tangible at last in his favorite line.

"What are you detecting, Zeph?" he inquired.

"That's a secret."

"Indeed—and what agency are you working for—the government?"

"That," observed Zeph gravely, "is also a secret—for the present. See here, Ralph Fairbanks, you're guying me. You needn't. Look at that."

With great pride Zeph threw back his coat. It was to reveal a star pinned to his vest.

"Yes," nodded Ralph, "I see it, but it doesn't tell who you are."

"Don't it say 'Special'?" demanded Zeph, with an offended air.

"Yes, I see the word."

"Well, then, that's me—special secret service, see? Of course, I don't look much like a detective, just common and ordinary now, but I'm going to buy a wig and a false beard, and then you'll see."

"Oh, Zeph!" exclaimed Ralph.

"All right, you keep right on laughing at me," said Zeph. "All the same, I'm hired. What's more, I'm paid. Look at that—I've got the job and I've got the goods. That shows something, I fancy," and Zeph waved a really imposing roll of bank notes before the sight of the young engineer.

"Your employers must think you a pretty good man to pay you in advance," suggested Ralph.

"They do, for a fact," declared Zeph. "They know they can depend upon me. Say, Ralph, it's funny the way I fell into the job. You never in your life heard of the slick and easy way I seemed to go rolling right against it. And the mystery, the deadly secrets, the—the—hold on, though, I'm violating the eth—eth—yes, ethics of the profession."

"No, no—go on and tell us something about it," urged Ralph. "I'm interested."

"Can't. I've gone too far already. Sworn to secrecy. Honestly, I'm not romancing, Ralph, I'm working on a case that reads like a story book. Some of the strange things going on—they fairly stagger me. I can't say another word just now, but just the minute I can, you just bet I'll tell you all about it, Ralph Fairbanks. Say, you haven't seen two boys around here, have you—two tiny fellows? I left them in the garden here. They're in my charge, and I mustn't lose sight of them," and Zeph began looking all around the place.

"Two human monkeys, who make no more of flying through the air than you or I do to run a race?" inquired Ralph.

"That's them," assented Zeph.

"They were here a few minutes ago," advised Ralph, "but I don't see them just now. I wondered who they were. The last I saw of them, they were chasing one another over our neighbors' lot over there."

"I must find them," said Zeph. "They are another of my responsibilities. I hear them."

As Zeph spoke, there proceeded from the alley a mellow and peculiar but very resonant whistle. It was followed by a responsive whistle, clear as a calliope note. Then into view dashed the two boys for whom Zeph was looking. They were still chasing one another, and the foremost of the twain was making for the house. As he passed a tree full tilt, without the least apparent exertion he leaped up lightly, seized a branch, coiled around it like a rubber band, and his pursuer passed under him at full speed.

"This way, Kara—hey, Karo," called out Zeph, and the two strange lads came up to him with a fawn-like docility, in keeping with the mild, timid expression of their faces.

"Sare," spoke one of them with a bow, and his companion repeated the word. They both bowed to Ralph next, and stood like obedient children awaiting orders. Ralph was silent for fully a minute, studying their unfamiliar make-up. At that moment Fred Porter, having come down stairs the front way, strolled around the corner of the house.

"This is my friend, Fred Porter—Zeph—Zeph Dallas, Porter," introduced the young railroader, and the two boys shook hands. Porter became instantly interested in the two strange lads.

"I'm going to show you fellows something," said Zeph, "something mighty remarkable, something you never saw before, and it's going to beat anything you ever heard of. About those two boys. Kara!"

One of the two lads instantly moved to the side of Zeph, who beckoned to him to follow him. He led the boy ten feet away behind a thick large bush, his back to the others.

"Karo," he spoke again, and the other boy allowed him to turn him around where he stood, his back to the other boy.

"See here, Zeph," spoke Ralph with a broad smile, "are you going to give us a detective demonstration of some kind, or a sleight-of-hand demonstration?"

"Quit guying me, Ralph Fairbanks," said Zeph. "You're always at it, but I'm going to give you something this time that will make you sit up and take notice, I'll bet. Those boys came from a good many thousand miles away—from the other side of the world, in fact."

"They look it," observed Fred Porter.

"Gomera," exclaimed Zeph.

"Where's that now?" inquired Fred.

"It is the smallest of the Canary Islands."

"Oh, that's it!"

"And they talk without saying a word," was Zeph's next amazing announcement.

"Whew!" commented Fred dubiously.

"They do. It's that I'm going to show you. Perhaps those boys are the only two of their kind in the United States. They are Silvandos."

"What are Silvandos, Zeph?" inquired Ralph.

"Silvandos," replied Zeph, with manifest enjoyment of the fact that he was making a new and mystifying disclosure, "are persons who carry on a conversation through a whistling language."



CHAPTER XVI

ZEPH DALLAS AND HIS "MYSTERY"

"Whistling language?" repeated Fred Porter. "Is there one?"

"Aha! didn't I say I was going to show you something you never heard of before? You bet there is a whistling language!" chuckled Zeph—"and I'm now about to demonstrate it to you. You see these two boys? Well, they are natives of Gomera, the smallest of the Canary Islands. They were raised in a district where at times there is no living thing within sight, and the vast wilderness in the winding mountains is broken only by the crimson flower of the cactus growing in the clifts of the rock."

"You talk like a literary showman, Zeph Dallas," declared Fred.

"Well, I'm telling the story as I get it, ain't I?" demanded Zeph in an injured tone and with a sharp look at Fred, as if he suspected that he was being guyed. "Anyhow, I want to explain things so you'll understand."

"Go right ahead, Zeph," insisted Ralph encouragingly, "we're interested."

"Well, up among those big stone terraces is the whistling race. They are able to converse with one another at a distance of three miles."

"That's pretty strong," observed Fred. "But make it three miles."

"A Silvando will signal a friend he knows to be in a certain distant locality. He does it by setting his fore fingers together at a right angle in his mouth, just as you'll see these two Canaries do in a minute or two. An arrow of piercing sounds shoots across the ravine."

"Arrow is good—shoots is good!" whispered Fred, nudging Ralph.

"There is a moment's pause—" continued Zeph.

"Oh, he's read all this in some book!" declared Fred.

"Then there comes a thin almost uncanny whistle from far away. Conversation begins, and as the sounds rise and fall, are shrill or drawn, so they are echoed. Then comes the ghostly reply, and then question and answer follows. They talk—all right. Travelers say so, and a lot of scientific fellows are now on the track of this strange tribe to investigate them before civilization makes of their talk a dead language. Kara—ready!" called out Zeph to the boy at the bush. "Karo—attention!"

"Sare," answered the little fellow, his bright twinkling eyes full of intelligence.

"Ask him how many!" said Zeph "—see?" and he touched himself, the boy and Ralph and Fred with his forefinger in turn.

Out rang a series of rising interrogatory sounds. There was a pause. Then from the boy stationed at the bush came quick responsive toots—one, two, three, four.

"Tell Kara to bring you this—see, this?" and Zeph stooped down and touched the sodded yard with his hand. Karo whistled again. Immediately Kara wheeled, stooped also, and was at their side in an instant, tendering a handful of grass.

"Say, this is odd all right," confessed Fred thoughtfully.

"Tell Kara to climb a tree next," spoke Zeph. More "whistle talk," and agile as a monkey Kara was aloft, making dizzying whirls among the branches of an oak nearby. "I tell you, it would stun you to watch these little fellows at play. It's like a piccolo or a calliope to hear them talk—yes, sir, talking just as knowingly as we do."

"Who are they, anyway?" spoke Fred curiously?

"I've told you—Canaries."

"Yes, but where did you pick them up?"

"That's a secret. You see," responded Zeph, looking duly wise and mysterious, "those boys were imported to this country by a peculiar old man, who wanted servants around him who weren't gabbing about his affairs and asking him questions all the time. Well, he's got them, hasn't he? I'm working for that man, or rather for a friend of his. Detective work," continued Zeph, rather proudly. "I've told Ralph. These two boys have been shut up in the house for two months. They just pined for fresh air, and trees—oh! trees are their stronghold. When I started out with them they made for the first tree like birds for a roost. I have taken them out for an airing, and I ran down here to report to Ralph how I was getting on, and brought them along with me for the novelty of the thing."

"Do they live near here?" inquired Ralph.

"No," answered Zeph, "we had to come by rail. I can't tell you where they live, but it's on a branch of the Great Northern. I've got to get back to-night. We've had our supper, Ralph. I just wanted to settle up the bills I owed you. I'll say good-bye to your mother and get to the depot."

Zeph and his charges trooped to the kitchen door. Zeph spoke a few words to Mrs. Fairbanks. His companions bowed her a polite and graceful adieu, and Ralph accompanied their former boarder to the street.

"See here, Ralph," said Zeph to the young engineer in parting, "I don't want you to think I wouldn't tell you everything."

"That's all right, Zeph."

"But honestly, I've solemnly agreed not to lisp a word about what I am really about or the people concerned in it."

"That's all right, too," declared Ralph.

"I'll say this, though," resumed Zeph: "I'm working on a strange and serious case. It's no play or fooling. I'm getting big pay. I may do a big thing in the end, and when I do, if I do, I'm coming straight to tell you all about it."

Ralph watched Zeph and his charges disappear down the street with a great deal of curiosity and wonderment in his mind. A great many lively and unusual incidents were coming to the front recently, but this one was certainly enough out of the ordinary to give him food for profound thought.

Ralph rejoined Fred in the garden, and took him into the house and introduced him to his mother. Mrs. Fairbanks won the heart of the manly young fellow, as she did the love of all of her son's friends.

It was a pleasant, happy little coterie, that which sat down at the table soon afterwards to enjoy one of Mrs. Fairbanks' famous meals.

"I'm ashamed!" declared Fred, after his seventh hot biscuit with freshly churned butter that made his mouth water, "but eating houses and hotels, Mrs. Fairbanks, make a roving, homeless fellow like me desperate, and if a third helping of that exquisite apple sauce isn't out of order, I'll have another small fish."

"I'm spoiled for regular cooking, Bessie," declared Fogg to his wife. "Mrs. Fairbanks is fattening us till we'll be of no use at all."

"You are all flatterers," said Mrs. Fairbanks warningly, but with a pleased smile.

"I'll take another piece of cake, ma'am, providing you'll promise me the little exercise of helping you wash the dishes afterwards," spoke Fred.

He interested the widow with his animated, interested talk as he bustled around the kitchen, wearing a big apron while drying the dishes. Then when this task was completed, he and Ralph went out to the little summer house and comfortably seated themselves.

"Now then," remarked the young railroader with a pleasant smile, "now for your confession, Fred."

"No, sir," objected his comrade vociferously, "I've done nothing that's wrong to confess. It will be an explanation."

"All right," agreed Ralph, "open the throttle and start the train."

At that moment there was an interruption. A chubby, undersized boy came swiftly through the gateway. He was advancing up the steps of the house when Ralph halted him.

"Hi, there, Davis!" he challenged. "What's wanted?"

"Oh, you there, Fairbanks!" responded Ned Davis, the red-headed call boy for the roundhouse of the Great Northern, familiarly known as "Torchy." "Extra orders for you and Fogg—you're to take out a special to-night."



CHAPTER XVII

IN WIDENER'S GAP

There was always a spice of novelty and excitement for the young engineer in running a special. Besides that, extra orders meant pay and a half, sometimes double pay, with twenty-four hours' rest after it, if the special run came after midnight.

Ralph arose from his seat in the summer-house, telling Ned Davis that Fogg and himself would report at the roundhouse at once.

"You'll have to excuse me, Porter," he said to his guest. "We'll have to postpone our talk until to-morrow."

"Duty call, I see," returned Fred. "Well, there's no urgency, now that I've found out you don't consider me some hideous impostor of the old story book kind. I'll go as far with you as a hotel, and tell you what I have to say after this trip."

"You'll camp right here at the Fairbanks cottage until I return," peremptorily declared Ralph. "My mother would be lonesome if there wasn't a boy somewhere about the house. Zeph is gone and my other friends, and you will be good company."

"I'm only too willing, if it's entirely agreeable," said Fred, and so it was settled.

Fogg grumbled a good deal when Ralph told him of the extra call. He declared that he had just succeeded in teaching the baby to say "All aboard!" looked at the sky and predicted the biggest storm of the season, and was cross generally until he climbed aboard No. 999. Then Ralph heard him talking to the well-groomed steel steed as if it was some pet racer, and he anxious and glad to put it through its paces.

"What's the run, Fairbanks?" asked the fireman, as Ralph returned from the roundhouse office.

"Nothing very interesting. Special sleeper, some convention crowd for Bridgeport, came in on the north branch. We've got to pick our way on our own schedule."

"Huh! thought it must be a treasure train, or the pay car at the least!" snorted Fogg contemptuously, but thoroughly good-natured under the surface.

When they backed down to the depot, Ralph was handed his flimsy orders. No. 999 was given standard special lights, with the usual markers at the rear of the sleeping car, but no one on platform charge. The coach had a conductor, but he barely showed himself, and went inside, where all the curtains were drawn and passengers evidently gone to sleep.

"I told you it was going to rain," spoke Fogg, as they cleared the limits and got ready for a spurt. "All schedule cancelled where we can get clear tracks, I suppose? All right, let's see what 999 can do on slippery rails."

No. 999 did famously, as she always did under the guidance of the vigilant young engineer. Ralph was learning a good deal lately, and his mind was always strictly on the business of the moment when at the throttle. He was learning that there was a science in running a locomotive a good deal deeper than merely operating throttle, brake and lever automatically. There was a way to conserve the steam energy and reserve wide-open tactics for full pressure that he had found out, which enabled him to spurt when the chance came, at no cost of exhaustion later. He knew the gauges by heart, how to utilize the exhaust, and worked something along the line of the new superheated steam theory.

The night had set in very dark and very stormy. They had nothing to look out for, however, on the out track except an accommodation that had started two hours previous. No. 999 had a light load, and she sped along without a jar. The wires took care of her. By nine o'clock they were twenty miles "to the good" on regular schedule basis.

After that it was slower progress. The wind had arisen to a hurricane, the rain came down in torrents, and as they passed Winston they began to get in among the hills, where there was a series of intricate and dangerous curves.

"It's nearly a waterspout," observed Fogg, as the rain swept against the cab as if driven from a full pressure hose, and they could feel the staunch locomotive quiver as it breasted great sweeps of the wind. "I don't like that," he muttered, as a great clump came against the cab curtain. And he and his engineer both knew what it was from past experience.

"One of those young landslides," spoke Ralph.

"The second in a half-an-hour," declared Fogg. "It's clear mud, but sometime in one of these storms we'll get a big drop of rock, and there'll be mischief afoot."

Ralph slowed as they entered a long stretch known as Widener's Gap. It was a pull up hill. Besides that, Widener was only two miles ahead, and the curves were so sharp and frequent that they could not catch the semaphore at any distance.

Both engineer and fireman were under an intense strain, and Ralph kept a keen lookout from his cab window. Fogg was doing the same. Suddenly he uttered a great shout. It was echoed by Ralph, for there was cause for excitement.

"A tree!" yelled Fogg.

Ralph set the air and pulled the lever in a flash. What the gleaming headlight of No. 999 had shown, however, they were upon in a leap. They could feel a grinding jar, but the pilot had evidently swept the obstacle aside. They could hear the branches sweep the top of the engine. Then there came a warning sound.

Bumpety-bump,-bump-bump! The tree, uprooted from the gap side by the rain and the wind, had descried half a circle, it seemed, when shifted by the pilot. Its big end had rolled under the coach. From the feeling the young engineer could guess what had happened.

"Shut her off!" shouted Fogg.

"The coach has jumped the track!" echoed Ralph quickly.

His heart was in his mouth as he made every exertion to bring the locomotive to a quick stop. No. 999 acted splendidly, but it was impossible to slow down under two hundred feet.

"Both trucks off—she's toppling!" yelled Fogg, with a backward glance.

Each instant Ralph waited for the crash that would announce a catastrophe. It did not come. The coach swayed and careened, pounding the sleepers set on a sharp angle and tugging to part the bumpers. Ralph closed the throttle and took a glance backwards for the first time.

"The coach is safe, Mr. Fogg," he spoke. "Get back and see how badly the passengers are mixed up."

"There's nothing coming behind us?" asked the fireman.

"No, but tell the conductor to set the light back as far as he can run."

"Allright."

"The Night Express!" gasped Ralph the next moment, in a hushed whisper, as he caught the faint echo of a signal whistle ahead of them in the distance.

An alarming thought came into his mind. Nothing could menace them ahead on the out track and nothing was due behind, but the coach attached to No. 999 stood on a tilt clear across the in track.

Along those rails in ten minutes' time, unaware of the obstruction, the night express would come thundering down the grade at a forty-mile clip around the sharp curves of Widener's Gap.

"It's 38. She's due, entering Widener," breathed Ralph. "Yes," with a glance at the cab clock, "and just on time. Mr. Fogg," he shouted after his fireman, leaping to the ground, "get the people out of that coach—38 is coming."

"The Night Express," cried Fogg hoarsely. "I never thought of it."

Ralph tore one of the rear red tender lights from its place. He started down the out rails on a dead run. His only hope now was of reaching the straight open stretch past the last curve in open view of Widener. To set the warning signal short of that would be of no avail. No. 38 could not possibly see it in time, coming at full speed, to avoid a smash-up.

In a single minute the young engineer was drenched to the skin. It was all that he could do to keep from being blown from his footing. He fairly counted the seconds as he shot forward, sprinting to the limit on that slippery, flooded roadbed. He could not restrain a shout of relief and hope as he turned the last curve.

"Widener—38!" he gasped.

The station lamps were visible, a mile distant. Somewhat nearer, a blur of white radiance amid the dashing rain, was the headlight of No. 38 showing that she was coming at momentarily increasing speed. Ralph aimed to run nearer to the air line stretch to plant the signal. Suddenly his feet tripped and he went headlong. The breath seemed knocked out of his body as he landed across the ties of the brief trestle reach, which he had forgotten all about in his excitement. The lantern, flung wide from his grasp, struck one rail, smashed to pieces, and the lamp went out as it dropped with a flare into the deep gully beneath.



CHAPTER XVIII

AT THE SEMAPHORE

THE young engineer of No. 999 struggled to his feet appalled. The case seemed hopeless. He had matches in his pocket. In dry weather under the same circumstances he might to gather up enough dry grass and brush to build a fire between the rails, but now, with everything soaked and dripping this was impossible.

"The semaphore signal!" gasped Ralph. "Can I reach it in time?"

He crossed the remainder of the trestle in desperate leaps. Ralph calculated the distance to the semaphore, the distance of the train, and his heart failed him. Still he kept on. His eyes were fixed on the lantern aloft showing open tracks for the oncoming train. It was his star of hope. Then as he reached it he saw that he was too late.

To scale the slippery timber to the staple-runners without boot hooks would be no easy task. To get to the first rung and ascend would consume fully two minutes' time.

"What shall I do—what can I do?" panted the young railroader in desperation.

Just beyond the semaphore was a symmetrical heap of bleached blocks of rock comprising a landmark guide for engineers. Ralph ran to it. Groping among the gravel at its base, his fingers frantically grasped several loose stones. He glanced once at the glowering headlight of No. 38.

"If I can make it—if I can only make it!" he voiced, and the aspiration was a kind of a wail.

The young engineer of No. 999 had been the former leader of all boyish sports and exercises in Stanley Junction. Posed as he had posed many times in the past when he was firing at a mark, with all his skill, he calculated aim, distance and fling. The bull's eye target was the lantern pendant from the arm of the semaphore.

One—failed! the missile missed its intended mark.

Two—a ringing yell of delight, of hope, of triumph rang from the lips of the young engineer. The skillfully-aimed projectile had struck the glass of the signal, shivering it to atoms. The wind and rain did the rest. Out went the light.

A sharp whistle from No. 38, the hiss of the air brakes, and panting and exhausted, the young engineer of No. 999 watched the Night Express whiz by on a lessening run and come to a stop two hundred yards away.

Ralph dashed after the train, now halted beyond the trestle. He did not heed the shout of the brakeman already out on the tracks, but got up to the locomotive just as the conductor, lantern in hand, reached it.

"Hello!" shot out the engineer of No. 38, staring at the figure outlined within the halo of the conductor's light—"Fairbanks!"

"Why, so it is!" exclaimed the conductor, and it was easy for him to discern from Ralph's sudden appearance and breathless manner that he had some interest, if not an active part, in the mysterious disappearance of the semaphore signal. "What is it, Fairbanks?"

Very hurriedly Ralph explained. The engineer of No. 38 uttered a low whistle, meantime regarding the active young railroader, whom he well knew, with a glance of decided admiration. Then as hurried were the further movements of the conductor.

Within a very few minutes a brakeman was speeding back to Widener to inform the man on duty there of the condition of affairs. He returned to report the situation in safe official control all up and down the line. In the meantime No 38. had moved up to the scene of the wreck. This was done at the suggestion of Ralph, who did not know how the passengers in the special coach might have fared. Arrived at the scene, however, it was soon learned that two men only had been thrown from their beds and slightly bruised. The rest of the passengers were only shaken up.

The frightened passengers were huddled up, drenched to the skin, at the side of the gap, for Fogg had insisted on their taking no risk remaining in the derailed coach.

"We're stalled for three hours," decided the engineer of No. 38.

"Yes, and more than that, if the wrecking gang is not at Virden, as we suppose," added the conductor.

The passengers of the derailed coach were taken to shelter in a coach which backed to Widener. There was nothing to do now for the engineer and fireman of No. 999 but to await the arrival of the wrecking crew. Word came finally by messenger from the dispatcher at the station that the same was on its way to the Gap. Inside of two hours the coach was back on the rails, and No. 999 moved ahead, took on transferred passengers from No. 38, and renewed the run to Bridgeport on a make-time schedule.

There had been a good many compliments for the young engineer from the crew of No. 38. The conductor had expressed some gratifying expressions of appreciation from the passengers who had heard of Ralph's thrilling feat at the semaphore. The conductor of the special coach attached to No. 999 had come up and shook hands with Ralph, a choking hoarseness in his throat as he remarked: "It's a honor to railroad with such fellows as you." Fogg had said little. There were many grim realities in railroading he knew well from experience. This was only one of them. After they started from Widener he had given his engineer a hearty slap of the shoulder, and with shining eyes made the remark:

"This is another boost for you, Fairbanks."

"For No. 999, you mean," smiled Ralph significantly. "We'll hope so, anyway, Mr. Fogg."

Wet, grimed, cinder-eyed, but supremely satisfied, they pulled into Bridgeport with a good record, considering the delay at the Gap. The conductor of the special coach laid off there. No. 999 was to get back to Stanley Junction as best she could and as quickly. As she cut loose from the coach its conductor came up with an envelope.

"My passengers made up a little donation, Fairbanks," the man said. "There's a newspaper man among them. He's correspondent for some daily press association. Been writing up 'the heroic dash—brave youth at the trestle—forlorn hope of an unerring marksman'—and all that."

"Oh, he's not writing for a newspaper," laughed Ralph; "he's making up a melodrama."

"Well, he'll make you famous, just the same, and here's some government photographs for you lucky fellows," added the conductor, tossing the envelope in his hand into the cab.

Fogg grinned over his share of the fifty-dollar donation and accepted it as a matter of course. Ralph said nothing, but he was somewhat affected. He was pleased at the recognition of his earnest services. At the same time the exploit of the night had shaken his nerves naturally, and reminded him of all the perils that accompanied a practical railroad career. A stern sense of responsibility made him thoughtful and grave, and he had in mind many a brave, loyal fellow whose fame had been unheralded and unsung, who had stuck to his post in time of danger and had given up his life to save others.

No. 999 was back at Stanley Junction by eight o'clock the next morning. When Ralph reached home he was so tired out he did not even wait for breakfast, but went straightway to his bed.

He came down the stairs in the morning bright as a dollar, to hear his mother humming a happy song in the dining-room, and Fred Porter softly accompanying with a low-toned whistle on the veranda. The latter, waving a newspaper in his hand, made a dash for Ralph.

"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing to some sensational headlines. "They've got you in print with a vengeance. A whole column about 'the last heroic exploit of our expert young railroader and rising townsman—Engineer Fairbanks.'"



CHAPTER XIX

THE BOY WHO WAS HAZED

"Well, Porter, proceed."

Ralph gave the direction. He and Fred were seated in the garden summer-house, settled comfortably on benches facing each other across a rustic table, after a good breakfast, a general restful feeling permeating them.

"All right," assented Fred. "Before I begin, though, I wish to make a remark. The way your mother and yourself have treated me has been just royal—I'll never forget it!"

"And never forget us," directed the young engineer with a warm, friendly smile. "You'll always find yourself welcome in this house."

"That's what gets me," said Fred, and there was a slight tremor and a suspicion of tears in his voice. "Most fellows would have little to do with an impostor, eh?"

"That's a pretty hard word, Porter," intimated Ralph. "Just the same, I believe in you. I have had confidence in you all along."

"And my story won't disturb it any," declared Fred. "Well, to begin—my name is not Marvin Clark."

"Of course, I know that already."

"It is Fred Porter."

"So you have told me."

"I am an orphan, homeless. As I said when I first came here, I have been a sort of a knockabout, a wanderer. I have been a poor boy. The real Marvin Clark, whose father is the real and genuine president of the Middletown & Western Railroad, is a rich boy. I have saved his life when he was drowning. He likes me for that, and there isn't much that he wouldn't do for me."

"You deserve it," said Ralph.

"Well, to make a long story short, he was a student at the Earlville Academy. He's a fine, manly fellow, nothing sneaking or mean about him. One night, though, he and his school chums got to cutting up. They raided the town and had a dozen fights with the village boys. One of them was taken prisoner, a lad named Ernest Gregg. The academy fellows decided to haze him. They put him through an awful course of sprouts. They ducked him in the river, scared him with mock gunpowder explosions, and wound up by tying him blindfolded to a switch near a railroad track. They left him there all night. The result was that when little Ernest was discovered the next morning, he was in a high fever and delirious."