A SPECIAL PASSENGER
"Behave yourself," said Ralph Fairbanks quietly.
The young engineer simply gave his furious antagonist a push with his
free hand. The other hand was on duty, and Ralph's eyes as well. He
succeeded in bringing the locomotive to a stop before Fogg needed any
further attention.
The fireman had toppled off his balance and went flat among the coal
of the tender. Ralph did not feel at all important over so easily
repelling his assailant. Fogg was in practically a helpless condition,
and a child could have disturbed his unsteady footing.
With maudlin energy, however, he began to scramble to his feet. All
the time he glowered at Ralph, and made dreadful threats of what he
was going to do to the youth for "knocking him down." Fogg managed to
pull himself erect, but swayed about a good deal, and then observing
that Ralph had the free use of both hands now and was posed on guard
to meet any attack he might meditate, the irate fireman stooped and
seized a big lump of coal. Ralph could hardly hope to dodge the
missile, hemmed in as he was. It was poised for a vicious fling. Just
as Fogg's hand went backwards to aim the projectile, it was seized,
the missile was wrested from his grasp, and a strange voice drawled
out the words:
"I wouldn't waste the company's coal that way, if I were you."
Ralph with some surprise and considerable interest noted the intruder,
who had mounted the tender step just in time to thwart the quarrelsome
designs of Lemuel Fogg. As to the fireman, he wheeled about, looked
ugly, and then as the newcomer laughed squarely in his face, mumbled
some incoherent remark about "two against one," and "fixing both of
them." Then he climbed up on the tender to direct the water tank spout
into place.
"What's the row here, anyhow?" inquired the intruder, with a pleasant
glance at Ralph, and leaning bodily against the fireman's seat.
Ralph looked him over as a cool specimen, although there was nothing
"cheeky" about the intruder. He showed neither the sneakiness nor the
effrontery of the professional railroad beat or ride stealer,
nothwithstanding the easy, natural way in which he made himself at
home in the cab as though he belonged there.
"Glad you happened along," chirped the newcomer airily. "I'll keep you
company as far as Bridgeport, I guess."
"Will you, now?" questioned Ralph, with a dubious smile.
The lad he addressed was an open-faced, smart-looking boy. He was well
dressed and intelligent, and suggested to Ralph the average college or
home boy. Certainly there was nothing about him that indicated that he
had to work for a living.
"My name is Clark--Marvin Clark," continued the intruder.
Ralph nodded and awaited further disclosures.
"My father is President of the Middletown & Western Railroad,"
proceeded the stranger.
Ralph did not speak. He smiled slightly, and the keen-eyed intruder
noticed this and gave him a sharp look.
"Old racket, eh? Too flimsy?" he propounded with a quizzical but
perfectly good-natured grin. "I suppose they play all kinds of
official relationships and all that on you fellows, eh?"
"Yes," said Ralph, "we do hear some pretty extravagant stories."
"I suppose so," assented the youth calling himself Marvin Clark.
"Well, I don't want to intrude, but if there's room for myself and my
credentials, I'd rather keep you company than free pass it in the
parlor coach. There you are."
As the boy spoke of "credentials," he drew an unsealed envelope from
his pocket and handed it to Ralph. The latter received it, noting that
it bore in one corner the monogram of the Great Northern, with
"President's office--official business" printed under it. He withdrew
the enclosure and perused it.
The sheet was a letter head of the Middletown & Western Railroad. It
bore on one line in one handwriting the name "Marvin Clark," and
beneath it the words: "For identification," in another handwriting,
and the flourishing signature below "Nathaniel Clark, President."
In typewriting beneath all this were the words: "Pass on all trains,
Marvin Clark," and below that a date and the name in writing of Mr.
Robert Grant, the President of the Great Northern, unmistakably
genuine. There were few employees on the road who were not familiar
with that signature.
"All right," said Ralph, refolding the sheet, re-inclosing it in the
envelope, and handing it back to the stranger. "I guess that passes
you anywhere on the line."
"You see, I've got a sort of roaming commission," explained young
Clark buoyantly, as he got comfortably seated on the fireman's
cushion. "No particular use at school, and father wants me to learn
railroading. The first step was to run down all the lines and pick up
all the information I could. I've just got to put in two months at
that, and then report to family headquarters my store of practical
knowledge. See here."
Marvin Clark drew a blank from his pocket. Some thirty of its pages he
showed to Ralph were filled with memoranda. Thus: "Aug. 22, cattle
freight, Upton to Dover. O. K. Simpson, Conductor." There followed
like items, all signed, forming a link of evidence that the boy had
been a passenger on all kinds of rolling stock, had visited railroad
shops, switch towers, water stations, in fact had inspected about
every active department of several railroad lines that connected with
the Middletown & Western Railroad.
"That is a pretty pleasant layout, I should say," remarked Ralph.
"Oh, so, so," replied Clark indifferently. "Athletics is my
stronghold. If I ever get money enough--I mean if I had my own
way--I'd train for expert on everything from golf to football."
"I'm pretty strong in that direction myself," said Ralph, "but a
fellow has to hustle for something to eat."
"I know what that means," declared Clark. "Had to help the family by
peddling papers--."
Clark paused and flushed. Ralph wondered at the singular break his
visitor had made. A diversion covered the embarassment of the young
stranger and caused Ralph to momentarily forget the incident. Fogg had
swung back the water spout, set the tender cover, and climbed down
into the cab. Then he took the side light signals and went around to
the pilot. No. 999 carried two flags there, now to be replaced by
lanterns. Fogg came back to the cab rolling up the flags.
"All right," he announced ungraciously, and hustled Clark to one side
without ceremony as the latter abandoned his seat. Ralph gave the
starting signal and Clark edged back in the tender out of the way.
The young engineer took a good look at his fireman. The latter was
muddled, it was plain to see that, but he went about his duties with a
mechanical routine born from long experience. Only once did he lurch
towards Ralph and speak to him, or rather hiss out the words.
"You'll settle with me for your impudence yet, young fellow. You're a
high and mighty, you are, breaking the rules giving your friends a
free ride."
Ralph did not reply. One anxiety kept him devoted to his work--to lose
no time. A glance at the clock and schedule showed a ten minutes'
loss, but defective or experimental firing on a new locomotive had
been responsible for that, and he counted on making a spurt, once
beyond Plympton.
Marvin Clark knew his place, and Ralph liked him for keeping it. The
young fellow watched everything going on in the cab in a shrewd,
interested fashion, but he neither got in the way of the cross-grained
Fogg, nor pestered Ralph with questions.
Plympton was less than five miles ahead just as dusk began to fall.
Ralph noticed that his fireman rustled about with a good deal of
unnecessary activity. He would fire up to the limit, as if working off
some of his vengefulness and malice. Then he went out on the running
board, for no earthly reason that Ralph could see, and he made himself
generally so conspicuous that young Clark leaned over and said to
Ralph.
"What's the matter with your fireman, anyhow--that is, besides that
load he's got aboard?"
"Oh, he has his cross moods, like all of us, I suppose," explained
Ralph, with affected indifference.
"I wouldn't take him for a very pleasant comrade at any time,"
observed Clark. "It's a wonder he don't take a tumble. There he is,
hitching around to the pilot. What for, I wonder?"
Ralph was not paying much attention to what the cab passenger was
saying. He had made up five minutes, and his quick mind was now
planning how he would gain five more, and then double that, to
Plympton and beyond it.
He gave the whistle for Plympton, as, shooting a curve, No. 999 drove
a clattering pace down the grade with the lights of the station not a
quarter-of-a-mile away. They were set for clear tracks, as they should
be. Ralph gave the lever a hitch for a rattling dash on ten miles of
clear running. Then fairly up to the first station semaphore, he broke
out with a cry so sharp and dismayed that young Clark echoed it in
questioning excitement.
"The siding!" cried Ralph, with a jerk of the lever--"what's the
meaning of this?"
"Say!" echoed Clark, in a startled tone, "that's quick and queer!"
What had happened was this: No. 999 going at full speed on clear
signals had been sent to a siding and the signals cancelled without a
moment's warning. Under ordinary circumstances, a train thus
sidetracked would be under notified control and run down the siding
only a short distance. Going at high speed, however, and with a full
head of steam on, Ralph realized that, long as the siding was, he
would have to work quick and hard to check down the big locomotive
before she slid the limit, and stuck her nose deep into the sand hill
that blocked the terminus of the rails.
It was quite dark now. The lights of the station flashed by. Both
hands in use to check the locomotive and set the air brakes, Ralph
leaned slightly from the cab window and peered ahead.
"Shoot the sand!" he cried, almost mechanically.
It was a good thing that the cab passenger was aboard and knew
something about the cab equipment. Young Clark reached the side of the
engineer's seat in a nimble spring. His hand located the sand valve
without hesitancy.
Ralph uttered a short, sharp gasp. That look ahead had scared him. He
was doing all he could to slow down, and was doing magnificently, for
the reverse action moved to a charm. Still, he saw that after dashing
fully two hundred yards down the siding, the natural momentum would
carry the train fully one-third that distance further.
"Any obstruction?" shot out his agile companion, springing to the
fireman's seat, sticking his head out of the window and staring ahead.
"Whew! we're going to hit."
The speaker saw what Ralph also beheld. Dimly outlined directly in
their path was a flat car, and above it, skeletonized against the
fading sunset sky, was the framework of a derrick. A repair or
construction gondola car was straight ahead of No. 999.
They seemed to be approaching it swiftly and irresistibly. The wheels
slid now, fairly locked, there was a marked ease-down, but Ralph saw
plainly that, great or small, a collision was inevitable.
"Say, that fireman of yours!" shouted young Clark--"there he goes."
The locomotive was fairly upon the obstruction now. Ralph stuck to the
lever, setting his lips firmly, a little pale, his muscles twitching
slightly under the stress of excitement and suspense.
"Zing!" remarked the cool comrade of the young engineer--"we're
there!"
At that moment a flying form shot from the running board of the
locomotive. Lemuel Fogg had jumped.