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."