THE FIRST FORENOON.
The following morning Frank Merriwell appeared at the roundhouse in
overalls and jumper, ready for work. His working clothes were new and
clean, in contrast to the clothes of the other wipers, who stared at
him, grinned and made comments on his “dudish” appearance. Although
Frank could hear nearly every word spoken, he paid not the slightest
attention to anything the men said. He was there to work, and he
waited for the foreman to appear and tell him what he was to do.
“He’ll leave quick,” declared one of the wipers.
“It’s two to one he’ll quit before noon,” said another.
“You’d win,” chuckled a third.
“Nivver a bit can yez tell about thot, me b’ys,” put in a young
Irishman with a pleasant face. “He had th’ grit to b’ate th’ shtuffin’
oout av Ould Sloogs, an’ it’s a fair chance he’ll be afther havin’ th’
grit to shtay and wor-ruk, no matther av he don’t loike it. Oi’ll bet
me money on him.”
Frank gave the speaker a grateful look. He saw a begrimed but rather
comely youth of twenty, who looked as if he had a heart overflowing
with good nature.
The wipers went to work, relieving those who were there, and the
machinists appeared and began their tasks of the day.
After a little, Frank found himself left quite alone, and he began to
feel restless and long to be doing something.
“Here, boy!”
A man was beckoning to him, and he hastened toward him.
“Workin’ here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get hold of this casting and help me lift it. I’ll carry the biggest
part of it, for it’s heavy.”
Frank’s pride was touched. Immediately he stooped and picked up the
heavy casting without assistance.
“Where will you have it, sir?” he asked.
The machinist gasped.
“Well--you’re--no--baby! Bring it over here.”
Frank obeyed and put it down as directed.
“That’s all right, young fellow,” said the machinist; “but I advise
you not to keep it up. If you do, you’ll find all the heavy lifts
shouldered onto you. I see you are new here. Don’t be too ambitious to
show what you can do.”
“Thank you for the advice,” said Merry, quietly.
Then he looked around to discover something else to do, and it was not
long before he found a task shoveling ashes. He was working steadily at
this when the foreman passed.
Frank expected the foreman would stop and say something to him, but the
man did not seem to notice him at all.
“All right,” thought Merry, grimly. “You told me to come prepared for
work, and I’m here. I’m going to work, too.”
He found plenty to be done, and also discovered that the other wipers
took great satisfaction in giving him the very dirtiest jobs. Still he
did not complain, but, no matter what he was asked to do, he kept about
his work steadily and quietly.
“How do you like it, dudie?” asked one of the wipers, mockingly.
“Speaking to me, sir?” inquired Frank, placidly.
“Yes.”
“My name is Merriwell.”
“Oh, it is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, dudie is good enough, and that goes.”
“Hey, Bill,” called another wiper, “you don’t know who you’re chinnin’
there.”
“Why, I’m chinnin’ the new superintendent of the road,” grinned the
taunting wiper.
“You’re talkin’ to the chap that knocked the stuffin’ out of Old Slugs
yesterday.”
“The blazes I am! What, that soft-looking guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, may I be gosh-darned!”
The man stared at Frank as if unable to believe such a thing possible.
“Why, he’s a kid!”
“If you think so, just get him after ye. Slugs gave you a thrashing,
and you wouldn’t last half as long with that kid.”
After this the man did not call Frank “dudie” again, but there were
others who did. Whenever two or three wipers were together in Frank’s
vicinity, they did their best to jolly him.
Merry did not get angry. He knew that would be the worst thing for him.
He said very little, but occasionally he made some retort, and in every
case it proved cutting for the one at whom it was aimed. The men began
to realize after a while that the soft-looking youth could use his
tongue quite as skillfully as his fists.
What surprised everybody was the fact that Frank did not show
hesitation in taking hold of any kind of a job, no matter how dirty. He
was not squeamish, or, if he was, he did not betray it.
Nearly half the forenoon had passed before Frank learned that Martin
Hall, or Old Slugs, as he was generally called, had not put in an
appearance that morning, but was reported to be ill in bed, unable to
work.
Then some strange workmen came round to see the boy who had whipped Old
Slugs. They looked him over doubtfully, and were inclined to disbelieve
the story.
“Slugs could chaw him up in a minute,” one declared.
“That’s what everybody thought till they saw him try it,” said a
witness of the fight.
“Well, it must have been an accident if that boy knocked Slugs out.”
“It wasn’t no accident. It was the cleanest, smartest fightin’ I ever
saw. Why, look at him! He don’t bear a mark, and Slugs is in bed, with
his face all cut and plastered.”
“All right, if you say so; but I don’t understand it.”
All this was very embarrassing to Frank, who regretted the unfortunate
occurrence that had made him so conspicuous in the roundhouse. He
continued about his work, pretending that he did not hear the talk.
Long before noon Frank was smeared with dirt and grease. It was a
strange experience to him, for all his life he had been immaculate
about his dress and his person.
But he had started out to make his way in the world, and he had begun
at the very foot of the ladder. No one understood better than he that
there was no room at the top for shirkers. It was honest work, and he
hoped for something better in the future.
He did not allow his mind to dwell on the pleasures that were past. He
knew the winner in the battle of life is the one who looks forward, not
backward.
Frank felt confidence in himself. He believed he would be able to rise
in time, and he had entered the roundhouse with the determination to
keep his eyes and ears open and learn everything possible as fast as
possible.
Along toward noon, when it happened that there was no worse work
for him to do, one of the wipers set him to aiding in cleaning up a
locomotive.
It happened that the man was of a sociable turn, and he fell to talking
with Frank, asking him many questions, all of which Merry answered
truthfully.
“It don’t seem to me that you was cut out for this kind of work,” said
the wiper. “But mebbe you may have luck and get somewhere. It’s mighty
hard, though. Now, I know every part of an engine, and I can handle one
as well as half the engineers, but I don’t get no show. I did think
there was a chance for me to get on firing till the strike over on the
P. B. & Y. That throwed lots of good men out of work, and some of them
came right over here and found jobs firing or running engines, which
knocked out us chaps who was waiting for an opening. No telling now
when my turn’ll come.”
Frank did his best to cheer the man up, and then found his opportunity
to ask a number of questions about the names of the different parts of
the engine. Every explanation the wiper made to him he fixed in his
mind, and, when noon came, he was satisfied that he had not let his
first half day pass without learning something.
The foreman came up to him.
“I’ve had my eye on you this forenoon,” he said.
Frank started. He had not fancied that the foreman was noticing him at
all.
“Yes; I’ve had my eye on you,” said the foreman. “You’ve worked all
right, and you didn’t stand round with your hands in your pockets
waiting for somebody to tell you what to do. You found enough to do,
and you did it. That’s right. Keep on the same way. That’s all.”
Then he walked away, without another word.