"Too bad," murmured Ralph. "I don't think much of your Marvin Clark."

"Hold on, don't misjudge him. He helped to capture the enemy, as they called poor little Gregg, but he left the crowd right after that, supposing his chums would scare their captive a bit and let him go. Clark had no hand whatever in the downright persecution that sent the boy to the hospital. It seems that some of the gunpowder got into the eyes of the little fellow, and the douse in the river had given him a cold. The scare he got had nearly driven him out of his right mind, for he was a timid little fellow. A month later Ernest was discharged from the hospital nearly blind, thin, pale and weakly, a mere shadow of his former self."

"Of course the academy fellows tried to make up for all that," suggested Ralph.

"They didn't. Vacation came on, and they hied to their homes with not a thought of the great sorrow they had brought on their innocent victim. They say that Clark was just furious when he heard of it all. He laid out two of the ringleaders and shamed them in public. He sought out Ernest and took him to the best hotel in town. He hired doctors, and loaded the little fellow with comforts and luxuries."

"It must have cost him something," remarked Ralph.

"What did Clark care for that? His father was rich and gave him all the money he wanted. He had an account at a bank, and was heir to two aunts who doated on him and who were fabulously rich. I never saw a fellow take to heart the misfortunes of a poor little stranger as Clark did. The incident seemed to have changed his whole life. He sobered down wonderfully. He blamed himself for the whole thing, and took the whole responsibilities upon himself. Nearly all the time he was with Ernest, trying to cheer him up, hoping to find some way to make him well and strong and happy again."

"A royal good fellow, in fact, just as you said—I see that."

"Yes, sir," declared Fred staunchly. "Well, to continue: Clark's father and family were going to Europe. They had arranged for young Clark to go with them, but he wouldn't. Then there was a family council. Clark had not made much progress at school. He was fine at football, but no good at arithmetic. In fact, he was a disappointment to his father as a student. The old man, the academy professor, and the family lawyer, held a great consultation. Old man Clark came to a stern decision. It was planned out that young Clark should follow in the footsteps of his father and become a railroader. A regular arrangement was made. Clark was to have free passes everywhere. He was to spend his entire vacation traveling over different railroad systems, while his folks were in Europe. Twice a week he was to send to the family lawyer reports of his progress, accompanied by vouchers showing that he had not wasted the time."

"I see," nodded Ralph; "also where you come in."

"Yes, that's easy to guess," said Fred. "Just at that time I happened to be on a flying visit to Earlville, where one day I met Clark. He took me to the hotel, where I met Ernest. I had known young Gregg before, for he had come to Earlville a ragged, homeless lad before I first left, seeming to have no home or relatives, and going to work at odd jobs around the town. Clark told me of the fix he was in. While we were talking, a sudden idea came to him. He became very much excited and serious, and then made a very strange request of me."

"To assume his identity and go railroading in his stead?" inquired Ralph, anticipating what was coming.

"You've struck it," assented Fred; "just that."

"And you accepted?"

"And that is why you see me here," said Fred. "Don't think any the less of me, Fairbanks, for doing it. Don't find fault with me if I took up the imposture for all there was in it. It's my way—when I go at a thing, I do so with all my—nerves. I was Marvin Clark to the core. I took up his name, I played his part, and say, I tried not to disgrace his good name by one unmanly act. He taught me to imitate his handwriting perfectly one day. The next I was on the road, without a mishap until I met you."

"Which may not be a mishap after all," suggested the young engineer.

"I think as you do about that. I've come to you for advice, and I feel sure that it will be good advice. Now, then, to get to central motive of Clark's plan—a noble, grand act, a royal deed. It was all for the sake of his little charge, Ernest Gregg."

"I can imagine that," said Ralph.

"Clark could not get the little fellow out of his mind. He had got, it seemed, a clew to some of his relatives. He told me that only for a wicked enemy, and if he had his rights, Ernest would be in a position of positive wealth. He said that he was determined to find a certain old man who could clear up the whole situation. He was going to start out with Ernest to solve the secret of his strange life, while his friends supposed that he was following out the plan that his father had arranged. Clark made a plan how we were to keep track of one another, writing to certain points we agreed upon. I started out from Earlville on my part of the arrangement, while Clark stole out of town with his young charge. For three weeks I wrote regularly to him and he replied. During the last month I have not received a word from him, and some of my letters have come back to me."

"Then you are worried about him?" inquired Ralph.

"I am, very much. You see, he spoke of an enemy of Ernest. How do I know what may have happened to both of them? If Clark should disappear, see what a fix I am in, assuming his name, spending his money. I'd have a hard time explaining reasonably the wild, mad move Clark made me take."

"It is certainly a singular situation," admitted the young railroader thoughtfully.

"Isn't it, now? I've come to you to have you help me solve the problem. Think it over, give me some advice. Or, one thing—you go to many places with your railroading. You might keep a watch out for Clark, just as I am doing. You might get a clew to him or run across him."

"But how should I know him?" inquired Ralph.

"I'm going to give you his picture."

"That will help."

Fred drew out a memorandum book and selected from it a small photograph, which he presented to Ralph. The latter saw a bright, manly face portrayed in the picture.

"You keep that," directed Fred.

Ralph reflected for a few moments. Then they discussed the situation in all its bearings. There was not much to suggest, however, on the part of the young engineer. The most they could hope for, he told Fred, was that one or the other of them might by some circumstance run across the missing Clark and his young charge.

"I've got an idea that I ought to run down a branch line of the road I have never been over," suggested Fred, at the close of their animated colloquy. "If I do, I'll have to catch a train in an hour. I'll get word to you soon again, and if you hear of anything that interests me, I'll arrange so that a letter or a wire will reach me if you address it to Marvin Clark, Lake Hotel, Wellsville."

"All right," agreed Ralph.

They strolled together down to the depot a little after that. A train from the west came in just as the one having Fred for a passenger steamed out. A familiar figure alighted from one of the coaches.

"Here I am again," announced Zeph Dallas, coming up to Ralph.

"How are your little friends, the Canaries?" inquired the young engineer.

"Safe and snug at home," replied Zeph. "Going up to the house?"

"Yes, just come in from a special trip, and I probably have a lay-over till to-morrow. I want to call and see a friend at the hotel for a few moments. Then I'm at your service."

When they reached the hotel, Ralph sought out Archie Graham, to find the young inventor in his room, engrossed in putting together some kind of a mechanical model. The latter greeted Ralph with effusion.

"I'm having the prime chance of my life," declared Archie. "That note of yours was the open sesame to the roundhouse and everything about it. The foreman made me as welcome as a friend. I say, Fairbanks, they think a lot of you, these railroad chums of yours."

"Do they?" asked Ralph, with a modest smile. "I'm glad they do."

"I'll show you results in a few days," declared Archie, with a show of more enthusiasm than Ralph had ever before seen him exhibit. "I've got up an invention that will just about revolutionize engineering."

"You don't say so!"

"Yes, I do. Only a day or two, and I'm going to try it—you'll hear about it, all right."

Ralph did, in fact, hear about it in a very sensational way, and within a few hours after the interview.

He rejoined Zeph and they proceeded homewards. Zeph was just as mysterious as ever about his new employment. Ralph knew that he was bubbling over from a pent-up lot of secrecy, but he did not encourage his quaint friend to violate an evident confidence reposed in him by his employer.

Zeph announced that he would like to stay over at the Fairbanks home until the next day, and was made duly welcome. He amazed and amused Ralph by showing him his "detective outfit," as he called it. It was an incongruous mass, stored away in a flat leather case that he secreted in a great pocket made inside his coat—a wig, false whiskers, a pair of goggles, and a lot of other "secret service" paraphernalia, suggested to Zeph by reading some cheap and sensational detective stories.

"Well, I've got to get on the shadowy trail to-day," yawned Zeph, as he got out of bed the next morning.

"Where's the shadow, Zeph?" asked Ralph humorously.

"Let you know when I find my quarry."

"Ha, bad as that?" laughed Ralph.

"Oh, you can smile, Ralph Fairbanks," said Zeph resentfully. "I tell you, I'm on a mighty important case and—say, where did you get that?"

"What?"

"That picture!" exclaimed Zeph, picking up from the bureau the photograph of Marvin Clark, given to the young engineer by Fred Porter the day previous.

"Oh, that picture?" said Ralph. "A friend of mine gave it to me. He's trying to find its original, and hoped I could help him."

"Trying to find him?" repeated Zeph with big staring eyes. "Whew! I can do that for you."

"You can?" demanded Ralph.

"I should say so!"

"Do you know the original of that picture then?" inquired Ralph.

"Sure I do—why, he's the person who hired me to be a detective," was Zeph's remarkable reply.



CHAPTER XX

"LORD LIONEL MONTAGUE"

"You can't get on here!"

"But I've got a paus, don't you know."

"Paws? Yes, I see," said Lemuel Fogg. "Take 'em off the tender, son, or you'll get a jerk that will land you, for we're going to start up pretty soon."

"Hawdly—I have a right here, my man—I've got a paus, don't you know."

"See here, my friend, if you are bound for Hadley, this isn't the train."

"I didn't say Hadley, sir, I said 'hawdly.'"

"He means hardly, Mr. Fogg," put in Ralph, "and he is trying to tell you he has a pass."

"Why don't he talk English, then?" demanded the fireman of No. 999 contemptuously, while the person who had aroused his dislike looked indignant and affronted, and now, extending a card to Ralph, climbed up into the tender.

He was a stranger to the engineer—a man Ralph could not remember having seen before. His attire was that of a conventional tourist, and his face, words and bearing suggested the conventional foreigner. He wore a short, stubby black mustache and side whiskers, a monocle in one eye, and he had a vacuous expression on his face as of a person of immense profundity and "class."

Ralph, glancing over the card, saw that it was a pass from the master mechanic of the road, briefly explaining that the bearer was Lord Lionel Montague, studying up American railroad systems.

"We can't offer you a seat, Lord Montague," spoke Ralph politely. "It's rough work in cramped quarters aboard a locomotive."

"I have noticed it," replied "his ludship." "Not so abroad, by no means, my man. In fact, on the home lines in Lunnon, it is quite the thing, you know, for the quality to make a fad of locomotive parties, and the accommodations for their comfort are quite superior to this, don't you know."

"That so?" growled Fogg, with an unpleasant glance at the stranger. "Why, I've had Senators in my cab in my time, glad to chum with the crew and set back on the coal, jolly and homelike as could be—as you'll have to do, if you stay on this engine."

"Remawkably detestable person!" observed the stranger confidentially to Ralph. "I shall ride only a short distance—to the first stop, in fact."

"You are welcome," replied Ralph, "and if I can explain anything to you, I am at your service."

"Thawnks, thawnks," uttered the pretentious passenger, and fixed his monocled eye on space in a vapid way.

No. 999 was on schedule for the old accommodation run to Riverton. It was nearly a week after the interview between the young engineer and Fred Porter recited in the last chapter. Affairs had quited down with Ralph, and railroad life had settled down to ordinary routine of the usual commonplace character.

There had at first been considerable interest for Ralph in the remarkable statement of Zeph Dallas that the original of the photograph of Marvin Clark, the son of the railroad president, was his mysterious employer. Further than that involuntary admission of his erratic friend, however, Ralph could not persuade Zeph to go. Zeph declared that he was bound by a compact of the greatest secrecy. He insisted that there could be no possibility of a mistake in his recognition of the picture.

Ralph told him that a friend was very anxious to find his employer, and told Zeph who his friend was. The latter became serious, and acted quite disturbed when he learned that it was Fred Porter, whom he had met several times.

"I'd like to tell you a whole lot, Ralph, but I can't do it!" Zeph had burst out. "Say, one thing, though; I'm going to tell my employer about Fred Porter being so anxious to see him, and you can write to Porter and tell him that his friend is all right and safe, if you want to. What's that address—I may get around to Porter myself."

Ralph told Zeph. That same evening the latter left Stanley Junction, and Ralph had not heard from him since, nor did he receive word from Fred. Temporarily, at least, Zeph, Fred and the railroad president's son, Marvin Clark, the "Canaries" and all the peculiar mystery surrounding them, seemed to have drifted out of the life of the young engineer.

No. 999 was about ready to start on her daily trip when the stranger designated as Lord Montague had appeared. As he stood against the tender bar and seemed to commune with himself on the crudity of American locomotive cabs, Ralph leaned from the window and hailed a friend.

"I say, Graham," he observed, "you seem particularly active and restless this morning."

Ralph had reason for the remark. The young inventor had been very little care to his sponsor and friend during the past week. Given free access to the roundhouse, Archie had just about lived there. Quiet and inoffensive, he at first had been a butt for the jokes of the wipers and the extras, but his good-natured patience disarmed those who harmlessly made fun of him, and those who maliciously persecuted him had one warning from his sledge-hammer fists, and left him alone afterwards.

On this especial morning Archie was stirred with an unusual animation. Ralph noticed this when he first came down to the roundhouse. The young inventor hung around the locomotive suspiciously. He even rode on the pilot of No. 999 to the depot, and for the past five minutes he had paced restlessly up and down the platform as though the locomotive held some peculiar fascination for him. As he now came up to the cab at Ralph's hail, his eye ran over the locomotive in the most interested way in the world, and Ralph wondered why.

"Call me, Fairbanks?" mumbled Archie, and Ralph could not catch his eye.

"I did, Graham," responded Ralph. "What's stirring you?"

"Why?"

"Chasing up 999."

"Am I?"

"It looks that way; it looks to me as if you were watching the locomotive."

"She's worth watching, isn't she?"

"Yes, but you act as if you expect her to do something."

"Ha! ha!—that's it, h'm—you see—say, wish I could run down the line with you this morning."

"We're crowded in the cab, as you see," explained Ralph, "but if you want the discomfort of balancing on the tank cover back there——"

"I'd dote on it—thanks, thanks," said Archie with a fervor that increased Ralph's curiosity as to his strange actions this particular morning.

"Got some new bee in his head?" suggested Fogg, as Archie scrambled up over the coal. "He'll have a new kind of locomotive built by the time we clear the limits—that is, in his mind."

Lord Lionel Montague warmed up to Ralph the next few minutes before starting time. He asked a few casual questions about the mechanisms of No. 999, and then seemed tremendously interested in the young engineer himself.

"I've taken a fawncy to you, Mr. Fairbanks, don't you know," he drawled out. "I'd like to cultivate you, quite. I must call on you at Stanley Junction. There's a great deal you might tell me of interest, don't you see."

"I shall be happy to be of service to you, Lord Montague," responded Ralph courteously.

He did not like the man. There was something untrue about his shifty eye. There was a lot of "put on" that did not strike Ralph as natural. "His ludship" harped on the youth of Ralph. Only veterans were intrusted with important railroad positions in England—"didn't he know." He was asking many questions about Ralph's juvenile friends, as if with some secret purpose, when the train started up.

"Hi, up there!" Fogg challenged Archie, seated on the tank tender top, "don't get moving up there and tumble off."

The young inventor certainly looked as if he was moving. His eyes were glued to the smokestack of the locomotive, as though it possessed a fascinating influence over him.

"Say, there's some draft this morning," observed the fireman, half-way to the crossing, as he threw some coal into the furnace.

"I should say so," replied Ralph; "some sparks, too, I notice."

"Humph! that new patent spark arrester don't arrest particularly," commented Fogg. "Queer," he added, with a speculative eye on the smokestack.

That appendage of No. 999 was shooting out showers of sparks like a roman candle. As she slid the splits at the crossing and got down to real business, the display was very noticeable.

"I'd say that some of our old time enemies were doctoring the fuel, if it wasn't that the crowd is off the job after that last drubbing I gave Hall and Wilson," remarked the fireman. "I can't understand it. That draft is pulling the coal up through the flues fast as I can shovel it in. Thunder!"

With a yell the fireman of No. 999, as he opened the furnace door to throw in more coal, leaped to one side.

A cyclonic stream, like the sudden blast of a volcano, poured out into the cab.



CHAPTER XXI

ARCHIE GRAHAM'S INVENTION

The cab was suddenly filled with smoke, ashes and steam. Something unusual had happened. Unable to determine it all in a minute, Ralph pulled the lever and set the air brakes.

Mingled with the jar and the hiss of steam there arose a great cry—it was a vast human roar, ringing, anguished, terrified. It proceeded from the lips of the self-dubbed Lord Montague, and glancing towards the tender Ralph witnessed a startling sight.

The monocled, languid-aired nobleman had struck a pose against the tender bar, and as Fogg opened the furnace door and the fire box suddenly belched out a sheet of flame and then a perfect cloud of ashes, the passenger of high degree was engulfed. Fogg, alert to his duty, after nimbly skipping aside, had kicked the furnace door shut. He was not quick enough, however, to prevent what seemed to be half the contents of the furnace from pouring out a great cascade of ashes as if shot from a cannon, taking the astounded and appalled Montague squarely down his front.

"Murder!" he yelled, and grasped his head in his hands to brush away the hot ashes that were searing his face.

As he did so he became a new personality. His mustache was brushed from his lip and fell to the bottom of the cab, while its former possessor made a mad dive to one side.

"Here, you chump!" cried Fogg; "do you want to kill yourself?" and grabbing the singed and frightened passenger, he pinned him against the coal and held him there. In doing this he brushed one whisker from the side of his captive's face, and the latter lay panting and groaning with nearly all his fictitious make-up gone and quite all of his nerve collapsed.

"What's happened?" asked Ralph, as they slowed down.

"It felt like a powder blast," declared Fogg.

Archie Graham had uttered a cry of dismay—of discovery, too, it seemed to Ralph. The young engineer glanced at his friend perched on the top of the tender tank. The face of the young inventor was a study.

Archie acted less like a person startled than as one surprised. He appeared to be neither shocked nor particularly interested. His expression was that of one disappointed. It suddenly flashed across Ralph, he could scarcely have told why, that the young inventor had indeed been "inventing" something, that something had slipped a cog, and that he was responsible for the catastrophe of the moment. Now Archie looked about him in a stealthy, baffled way, as though he was anxious to sneak away from the scene.

Half-blinded, sputtering and a sight, "his ludship" struggled out of the grasp of the fireman. His monocle was gone. His face, divested of its hirsute appendages, Ralph observed, was a decidedly evil face. As the train came to a halt the dismantled passenger stepped from the cab, and wrathfully tearing the remaining false whiskers from place, sneaked down the tracks, seeking cover from his discomfiture.

"Hi! you've left that nobleman face of yours behind you," shouted Fogg after him. "What's his game, Fairbanks?"

"It staggers me," confessed Ralph. "Hello, there, Graham!"

But the young inventor with due haste was disappearing over the rear of the tender, as though he was ashamed of a part in the puzzling occurrence at the moment.

"Something's wrong," muttered Fogg, and he opened the furnace door timidly. There was no further outburst of ashes. "Queer," he commented. "It couldn't have been powder. I noticed a draft soon as we started. What made it? Where is it now?"

"It was only when we were running fast," submitted Ralph.

The fireman leaped down to the tracks. He inspected the locomotive from end to end. Then he began ferretting under the engine. Ralph watched him climb between the drivers. Strange, muffled mutterings announced some discovery. In a moment or two Fogg crawled out again.

"I vum!" he shouted. "What is this contraption?"

He grasped a piece of wire-netted belting, and as he trailed out its other end, to it was attached a queer-looking device that resembled a bellows. Its frame was of iron, and it had a tube with a steel nozzle.

"I say," observed the young engineer, in a speculative tone, "where did that come from?"

"I found its nozzle end stuck in through one end of the draft holes in the fire box," answered Fogg. "This belt ran around two axles and worked it. Who put it there?"

"Graham," announced Ralph politely. "Well—well—I understand his queer actions now. Bring it up here," continued Ralph, as the fireman was about to throw it aside.

"The young fellow who thinks he is going to overturn the system with his inventions? Well, he must have done a lot of work, and it must have taken a heap of time to fix the thing so it worked. The belt was adjusted to a T. Say, you'd better keep him out of the roundhouse, or he'll experiment on us some day in a way that may lead to something serious."

Ralph put the contrivance under his seat for more leisurely inspection later on. He had to smile to think of the patience, the ingenuity and the eccentric operation of the well-meant project of his young inventor friend. The bellows principle of increasing the furnace draft might have been harmless in a stationary engine. Even on the locomotive it had shown some added suction power while the locomotive was going ahead, but the moment the furnace door was opened the current of air from below sought the nearest vent. That was why "his ludship" had retired under a decided cloud in more ways than one.

When they arrived at Riverton the young engineer made a search for both Archie and the disguised impostor. He located neither. From what he gathered from the conductor, Archie had left the train at the first station after the stop. The pretended English lord had been noticed footing it back towards Stanley Junction.

The return trip was uneventful. Archie did not put in an appearance, and Ralph fancied he might have gone back to Bridgeport. The next morning when Ralph reported for duty, little Torchy, the call boy, sidled up to him in a confidential way.

"Say, Mr. Fairbanks—I noticed a fellow was on your cab on your run yesterday that I have seen before——"

"Indeed," answered Ralph curiously; "what about him?"

"Nothing much, only he was around here a couple of days ago. He pretended that he wanted to see the inside of a roundhouse, and Mr. Forgan sent me with him to show him about. When he got me alone he began asking me all about you. Then he tried to pump me about all your boy friends. I didn't like his looks or his actions, so I thought I would tell you what I have."

"Thank you," said Ralph. "If you ever run against him again, tell me."

"I will, sure," responded the staunch little fellow, who had a genuine friendship for Ralph, who had encouraged him greatly, by initiating him into roundhouse duties when he first came to work for the Great Northern.

Ralph could not fathom the possible motive of the stranger, who apparently was somehow interested in his doings. When they started out on their regular run, he told Fogg what Torchy had imparted to him. The fireman reflected speculatively over the disclosure.

"I can't understand what the fellow is up to," he admitted, "unless one of the gangs is up to a new trick and has hired a stranger to work it on us."

There was a long wait at Riverton after arrival that day. Then they were sided, and Fogg strolled off to a restaurant. Ralph sat down on a pile of ties at the side of the track and enjoyed the lunch that he had brought with him from home. He had just finished it and was about to go to the cab and get a book on railroading to read, when a tall, farmer-appearing fellow came upon the scene.

"Say," he drawled, "is this 999—yes, I see it is."

"All right," nodded Ralph; "what about it?"

"I want to see the engineer."

"I am the engineer."

"Name Fairbanks?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sent to you."

"By whom?"

"Don't know—never saw the boy before. He's a stranger in Riverton. Came up to me and gave me a half-a-dollar to come here and deliver a message to you."

"Let me know it," directed Ralph.

"Come out here on the tracks, and I'll show you where he said you was to come to see him. See that old shed over beyond those freights? Well, the boy said you was to come there."

"Oh, he did?" commented Ralph musingly.

"Yes, he said to come alone, as it was particular. He said you'd know when I said Martin—Martin, oh, yes, Clark, that's it."

"Marvin Clark," decided the young railroader at once, and as the messenger went his way Ralph ran to the engine cab, threw off his jacket and then walked down the tracks. He of course thought of Fred Porter at once. It looked as though that individual had turned up again and had sent for him, and Ralph was glad to hear from him at last.

The building that had been pointed out to him by the boy messenger was a storage shed for repair tools and supplies. Ralph passed a line of damaged freights, and reaching the shed, found its door open. He stepped across the threshold and peered around among the heaps of iron and steel.

"Is anybody here?" he inquired.

"Yes, two of us," promptly responded a harsh, familiar voice, that gave Ralph a start, for the next instant his arms were seized, drawn behind him, and the young engineer of No. 999 found himself a prisoner.



CHAPTER XXII

IKE SLUMP AGAIN

Ralph knew at once that he had fallen into a trap of some kind. He struggled violently, but it was of no avail. Two persons had slipped up behind him, two pairs of hands were holding him captive.

"Who are you?" demanded the young engineer sharply, over his shoulder.

There was no response, but he was forced forward clear back into the shed. The front door was kicked shut. Ralph was thrown roughly among a heap of junk. He recovered himself quickly and faced his assailants.

The light in the place was dim and uncertain. The only glazed aperture in the shed was a small window at the rear. With considerable interest Ralph strained his gaze in an endeavor to make out his captors. Then in immense surprise he recognized both.

"Ike Slump and Jim Evans," he spoke aloud involuntarily.

"You call the roll," observed Evans with a sneer.

Ralph reflected rapidly. The last he had heard of this precious brace of comrades, they had been sentenced to prison for a series of bold thefts from the railroad company. How they had gotten free he could not decide. He fancied that they had in some way escaped. At all events, they were here, and the mind of the young engineer instantly ran to one of two theories as to their plans: Either the gang at Stanley Junction had hired them to annoy or imperil him, or Slump and Evans were inspired by motives of personal revenge.

Ike Slump had been a trouble to Ralph when he first began his ambitious railroad career. It was Slump who had hated him from the start when Ralph began his apprenticeship with the Great Northern, as related in "Ralph of the Roundhouse." Ralph had detected Slump and others in a plot to rob the railroad company of a lot of brass journal fittings. From that time on through nearly every stage of Ralph's upward career, Slump had gone steadily down the easy slope of crime.

When he linked up with Evans, his superior in years and cunning, he had several times sought revenge against Ralph, and but for the vigilance and courage of the young engineer his life might have paid the forfeit.

Evans acted promptly, wasting no words. He had drawn a weapon from his pocket, and this he handed to Slump. Then he turned a fierce, lowering visage upon Ralph.

"Fairbanks," he began, "you're to go with us—where, don't matter, nor why. We owe you one, as you've known for a long time, and if it wasn't that we're here for the money there is in it, and not revenge, I'd take pleasure in balancing the months you got us in jail by crippling you so you'd never pull another lever. This is business, though, pure and simple. If you get hurt, you can blame yourself. You've got to go with us."

"Why have I?" demanded Ralph.

"Because we say so. There's a man quite anxious to see you."

"Who is he?"

"That's telling. He wants to ask you just one question. A civil answer given, and you are free as the wind. Slump, take this pistol, get up on that pile of rails, and guard Fairbanks. If he starts to run, shoot—understand?"

"I guess I do!" snarled the graceless Ike, climbing to the top of the pile of rails. "When I think of what this fellow has done to down me, it makes my blood boil."

"I'll be back with a wagon in fifteen minutes," said Evans. "You take your medicine quietly, Fairbanks, and nobody will get hurt. Try any capers, and blame yourself."

The speaker proceeded to the door of the shed, opened it, and closed it after himself as if everything was settled his way. Ike Slump, regarding the captive with a venomous expression of face, sat poising his weapon with the manner of a person glad to have an occasion arise that would warrant its use under the instructions given by his partner.

Ralph summed up the situation and counted his chances. It was apparent to him that only a bold, reckless dash could avail him. There was no chance to pounce upon and disarm the enemy, however, and Ralph hesitated about seeking any risks with a fellow who held him so completely at his mercy.

"How does it seem?" jeered Ike, after a spell of silence, but Ralph did not answer at once. He had experienced no actual fear when so suddenly seized. Now, although he could not disregard a certain risk and menace in the custody of two of his worst enemies, a study of the face of the youth before him made the young railroader marvel as to what he could find enticing in doing wrong, and he actually felt sorrow and sympathy, instead of thinking of his own precarious situation.

"Slump," spoke Ralph finally, "I am sorry for you."

"That so? Ho! ho! truly?" gibed the graceless Ike. "What game are you up to? Don't try any, I warn you. You're clever, Ralph Fairbanks, but I'm slick. You see, the tables have turned. I knew they would, some time."

"What is it you fellows want of me, anyhow?" ventured Ralph, hoping to induce Ike to disclose something.

"Nothing to worry about," declared Slump carelessly. "You'll soon know. Say, though, Fairbanks, don't stir the lion, don't pull his tail."

"You seem to be talking about menageries," observed Ralph.

"You'll think you're in one, sure enough, if you rile Evans up. He won't stand any fooling, you hear me. Shut up, now. We'll leave discussing things till this job is over and done with. Then I may have something to tell you on my own personal account, see?" and Ike tried to look very fierce and dangerous. "I'll give you something to think of, though. You're going to tell a certain man all you know about a certain fellow, and you're going to fix it so that the certain man can find the certain fellow, or you don't run 999 for a time to come, I'll bet you."

"Who is this certain man?" inquired Ralph.

"I don't know his name. He's a stranger to me."

"And who is the certain fellow?"

"I know that one—I don't mind telling you. Then shut up. You've a way of worming things out of people, and I'm not going to help you any—it's Marvin Clark."

"I thought it was," nodded the young engineer reflectively; and then there was a spell of silence.

Ralph could only conjecture as to the significance of Ike's statement. There certainly was some vivid interest that centered about the missing son of the railroad president. That name, Marvin Clark, had been used to lure Ralph to the old shed. Now it was again employed. It took a far flight of fancy to discern what connection young Clark might have with these two outcasts—worse, criminals. Ralph decided that their only mission in any plot surrounding Clark was that of hired intermediaries. He did not know why, but somehow he came to the conclusion that Evans and Slump were acting in behalf of the pretended Lord Montague. Why and wherefore he could not imagine, but he believed that through circumstances now developing he would soon find out.

Slump shifted around on the pile of rails a good deal. They afforded anything but a comfortable resting place. Finally he seemed to decide that he would change his seat. He edged along with the apparent intention of reaching a heap of spike kegs. He never, however, took his eye away from Ralph. Ike, too, held his weapon at a continual menace, and gave his captive no chance to act against him or run for the door.

Near the end of the pile of rails, Ike prepared to descend backwards to the spike kegs. He planned to do this without for an instant relaxing his vigilance. As he reached out one foot to touch the rails, there was an ominous grinding sound. He had thrown his weight on one rail. The contact pushed this out of place.

Once started, the whole heap began to shift. Ralph, quite awed, saw the pile twist out of shape, and, tumbling in their midst, was his watcher. A scream of mortal agony rang through the old shed, and Ike Slump landed on the floor with half a ton of rails pinioning his lower limbs.



CHAPTER XXIII

A CRITICAL MOMENT

If the rails under which Ike Slump lay had not caught at their ends with other rails, his limbs would have been crushed out of all semblance. Ralph noted this at once, and as well the extreme peril of the situation of the enemy who, a minute previous had been gloating over his helplessness.

"Don't move—for your life, don't move!" shouted Ralph, and he sprang forward in front of the pinioned Ike Slump.

"I'm killed, I'm crushed to death!" bellowed Ike. "Oh, help! help!"

The weapon had fallen from his hand. Both arms wildly sawing the air, Ike shivered and shrank like the arrant craven he was at heart.

"Do just as I say," ordered the young engineer breathlessly. "Don't stir—don't even breathe."

Ralph had jumped to the end of the pile of rails. His quick eye selected the one rail that was the key of the tangle, which, directed wrong, would sweep the mass with crushing force across the pinioned body of Ike. The rails were short lengths. But for this, Ralph, strong as he was, could have done little or nothing. He got a grasp upon the rail. Then he sung out.

"Slip when I lift."

"I can't,—I can't!" wailed Ike.

"You've got to—now!"

Ralph gave a tug at the rail. There was an ominous grind and quiver as the others interlocked. He made a tremendous lift, one which strained every sinew and started the perspiration from every pore.

"I'm numbed, I'm all crushed!" snivelled Ike; nevertheless he managed to crawl out, or rather slip out from under the uplifted rail. He rolled on the dirt floor of the shed, making a great ado. It was just in time, for Ralph felt his eyes starting from his head. He dropped the heavy mass he had sustained and staggered back, well-nigh overcome.

As his breath came back to him, Ralph glanced particularly at Ike. The latter was completely absorbed in his own sufferings. Ralph could discern from the movements of his limbs that neither of them was dislocated and apparently no bones were broken. Still, he realized that they must be badly bruised and that Ike was disabled, at least for a time.

"I'm going for help," he said simply, and darted from the shed. Ike yelled after him to protest against desertion, but Ralph paid no attention. He planned to get to friends while Evans was still away, and he determined to get back with friends by the time Evans returned.

Fogg was at the engine as Ralph ran along the tracks, and one of the brakemen of the accommodation was with him. Ralph rapidly apprized his fireman of the situation.

"Slump and Evans, eh!" muttered Fogg, a deep crinkle of belligerency crossing his forehead. "It was Slump who stole half my chickens. As to Evans, his mean treachery during the strike came near getting me discharged. I thought they were safe in jail."

"So did I," said Ralph. "They seem to have escaped, though. Mr. Fogg, they are bad people to have at large."

"Bad! they're of a dangerous breed, I tell you. Simmons, hustle along with us."

The fireman snatched up a furnace poker and put down the track after Ralph, on the run. He was the first to dart into the shed when they reached it, and ran up against the others following, after a swift glance about the place.

"No one here," he reported. "Gone—they've slipped us—there's no one in this shed."

"Ah, I see," spoke Ralph, with a look about the place outside. "Here are wagon wheels," and then he cast his eye across the landscape.

It was so crowded with tracks, buildings and trees beyond that he could not look far in the distance. Ralph, however, was satisfied that Evans, returning with the wagon, had made haste to carry his helpless comrade to the vehicle and get beyond reach of capture.

Fogg was for starting a pursuit, but Ralph convinced him of the futility of this course, and they returned to the locomotive. Once there, the fireman went over the case in all its bearings. Ralph had heretofore told him little concerning Fred Porter and Marvin Clark. He had shown him the photograph of the latter some days previous, asking him to keep an eye out for its original. Now he felt that some confidence was due his loyal cab mate, and he recited the entire story of what he knew and his surmises.

"You've got a square head, Fairbanks," said Fogg, "and I'll rely on it every time. It's logic to think your way. Some fellow is mightily interested in this young Clark. None too good is the fellow, either, or he wouldn't have to beat around the bush. No, he's not straight, or he wouldn't hire such fellows as Evans and Ike Slump to help him out."

"I don't understand it all," confessed Ralph, "but I can see that a good deal of mysterious interest centers around this young Clark. I'm going to try and get some word to Porter—and to Zeph Dallas. They should know what's going on regarding Clark."

The incident did not depart from the young engineer's mind during the return trip to Stanley Junction, nor for several days later. With the escape of Evans and Ike Slump, however, the episode ended, at least for the time being. A week and more passed by, and that precious pair and their presumable employer, the pretended Lord Montague, seemed to have drifted out of existence quite as fully as had Zeph, Porter and young Clark.

One morning there was an animated discussion going on when Ralph entered the roundhouse. He was greatly interested in it, although he did not share in the general commotion.

The result of somebody's "confidential" talk with the division superintendent had leaked out—the Great Northern was figuring to soon announce its new train.

"As I get it," observed old John Griscom, "the road is in for a bid on the service the Midland Central is getting."

"You don't mean through business?" spoke an inquiring voice.

"Sure, that," assented the veteran railroader. "We've beat them on the China & Japan Mail run to Bridgeport, and now the scheme is to run the Overland Express in from the north, catch her up here, and cut out Bridgeport at a saving of fifty miles on the regular western run."

"Then they will have to take the Mountain Division from Stanley Junction."

"Just that, if they expect to make the time needed," assented Griscom. "Hey, Bill Somers," to a grizzled old fellow with one arm, who was shaking his head seriously at all this confab, "what you mooning about?"

"I wouldn't take that run," croaked Somers, "if they gave me a solid gold engine with the tender full of diamonds. I left an arm on that route. Say, Dave Little and I had a construction run over those sliding curves up and down the canyon grades. It lasted a month. There were snowslides, washouts, forest fires. There's a part of the road that's haunted. There's a hoodoo over one section, where they kill a man about once a week. Little lost his leg and his job there. My old arm is sleeping thereabouts in some ravine. No Mountain Division run for me, boys!"

"You won't get it, never fear," observed a voice.

"No, I know that," retorted Somers a little sadly, indicating his helplessness by moving his stump of an arm, "but I pity the fellow who does."

Day by day after that there were new additions to the fund of gossip concerning the new run. It all interested Ralph. Nothing definite, however, was as yet stated officially. Ralph and Fogg continued on the accommodation, and there was now little break in the regular routine of their railroad experience.

Ralph had made a short cut across the switch yards one morning, when a stirring episode occurred that he was not soon to forget, nor others. It took an expert to thread the maze of cars in motion, trains stalled on sidings, and trains arriving and departing.

It was the busiest hour of the day, and Ralph kept his eye out sharply. He had paused for a moment in a clear triangle formed by diverging rails, to allow an outward bound train to clear the switch, when a man on the lower step of the last car waved his hand and hailed him.

It was the master mechanic, and Ralph was pleased at the notice taken of him, and interested to learn what the official wanted of him. The master mechanic, alighting, started across the tracks to join Ralph.

A train was backing on the one track between them. Another train was moving out on the rails still nearer to Ralph.

It was a scene of noise, commotion and confusion. If the master mechanic had been a novice in railroad routine, Ralph could not have repressed a warning shout, for with his usual coolness that official, timing all train movements about him with his practiced eye, made a quick run to clear the train backing in to the depot. He calculated then, Ralph foresaw, to cross the tracks along which the outgoing train was coming.

"He's taking a risk—it's a graze," murmured the young engineer in some trepidation.

The master mechanic was alert and nimble, though past middle age. He took the chances of a spry jump across the rails, his eye fixed on the outgoing train, aiming to get across to Ralph before it passed. In landing, however, he miscalculated. The run and jump brought him to a dead halt against a split switch. His foot drove into the jaws of the frog as if wedged there by the blow of a sledge-hammer.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE NEW RUN

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

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

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

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

"Swing down!" cried the young railroader. "It's your only chance."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The step of a coach, it seems," explained Forgan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

"Used up."

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

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

"Yes, I thought he was," nodded Ralph.

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

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

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

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

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

"My!" was all that Ralph could gasp out.

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

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



CHAPTER XXV

THE MOUNTAIN DIVISION

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

"Oh, no," dissented Ralph Fairbanks; "I'm just started in to learn what real railroading means."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It only worked the wrong way," explained Archie; "next time——"

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

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

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

"You bet it is," assented Archie with force.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that so?" Toot! toot! toot!

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

"I declare!" shouted Fogg, staring hard. "Swish—gone! But what was it we passed?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's a queer layout," soliloquized Ralph, as the strange outfit flashed by. "Hello!"

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

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



CHAPTER XXVI

MYSTERY

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

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

"A queer car—the queerest old relic I ever saw," mused Ralph. "I'm going to look into this affair."

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

"Did you?" spoke Ralph. "You don't mean Zeph Dallas, do you?"

"That's who," nodded Torchy. "Big as life on a single car run—and, say, such a car!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Good!" applauded Ralph.

"Here's the dope—that engine and old tourist car was a kind of a special—the craziest special, though, that either you or I ever heard of."

"Is that so?" inquired Ralph.

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

"Indeed?" murmured Ralph thoughtfully.

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

"Yes," nodded Ralph, "Zeph Dallas."

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

"I'm interested," explained Ralph.

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

"But what for?" inquired Ralph.

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

"How did you find that out?" asked Ralph.

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

"And where was Zeph?"

"They left him up at the spur."

"H'm," commented Ralph, feeling that Zeph was indeed enveloping himself in a dense mist of mystery.

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

"He didn't explain——" began Ralph in wonderment.

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

"And found?" pressed Ralph.

"Nothing."

"What!"

"No—empty."

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

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

"The strangest I ever heard of," confessed Ralph.

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

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

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

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

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

"No run to-night, boys," he announced. "You'd better get back to your warm beds."

"Blockade on the Mountain Division?" inquired the fireman.

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

"H'm," observed Fogg. "I fancied to-day's storm would shut up things."

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXVII

THE RAILROAD PRESIDENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Martin, chief dispatcher," he spoke through the 'phone. "Give me the situation over the Mountain Division in a nutshell."

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

"How's the South Branch?" he inquired next.

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

"Excuse me, Mr. Grant," he spoke respectfully, "but I'm in pretty close touch with conditions along the lines. If I can explain anything——"

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

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

"What's the condition."

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

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

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

"Snow and drifting wind reported between here and Dunwood."

"What else?"

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

"That's half the forty-five miles—go head."

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

"What's on the schedule?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This way, Fairbanks."

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

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

"Yes, sir, Lemuel Fogg. We're on No. 999, Overland Express."

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

The fireman approached promptly.

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

"Yes, sir," nodded Fogg coolly.

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

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

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

"I haven't the heart to order any man on a run a night like this," responded the official, "but if you mean it——"

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

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

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

"The Mountain Division?" repeated Ralph, mystified.

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

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



CHAPTER XXVIII

A RACE AGAINST TIME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There's just three stations the whole stretch," he reported, "and the tracks are clear—that's one good point."

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

"There's heaps of fuel—a good six tons," spoke the fireman. "My! but the stack pulls like a blast furnace."

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it, Fairbanks?" he asked somewhat impatiently.

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

"Are you willing to risk it?" inquired the official.

"That's what we are here for," asserted Ralph.

"Then don't delay."

"It's getting worse and worse!" exclaimed Fogg, after a half-hour's further running.

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

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

"We can't stop now!" he shouted; "put on every pound of steam, Fairbanks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good for you—we've made it!"

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

"If we can only make it—oh, we've got to make it now!" he shouted at Ralph.

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

"We're ahead of calculations," he spoke to Fogg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The last shovel full."

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Ralph.

The fireman swept his hand towards the empty tender.

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

"I'll mend it some," declared the fireman. "Fairbanks, we might lighten the load," he added.

"You mean——"

"The tender."

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

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

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

"Say," yelled Fogg suddenly, "they've given the Express the right of way."

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

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

"I'm going to," replied Fairbanks grimly.

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXIX

ZEPH DALLAS AGAIN

"Say—Engineer Ralph—Mr. Fairbanks!"

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

"What's the trouble, Torchy?" he inquired.

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

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

"I know, yes," nodded Ralph.

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

"I remember distinctly; go ahead."

"There's another car just like that one in the yards now, right this minute."

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

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

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

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

"Remarkably so," assented Ralph.

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