AN ANGRY ENGINEER.
That night, as Frank was reading in his room by the light of a kerosene
lamp, he heard voices from a room adjoining. There seemed something
familiar in the sound, and he laid down the book on engineering which
he had been studying.
The voices ceased, but there was a sound of clattering dishes.
The wall was thin, and up near the ceiling a crack showed a ray of
light.
Frank began to study again, and again the voices interrupted him. This
time he was sure there was a familiar sound about them.
“Is it possible?” he muttered, starting to his feet. “Can they have a
room so near?”
His curiosity was aroused, and, with a desire to satisfy himself, he
drew a chair to the partition and stood upon it. This enabled him to
peer through the crack.
He found himself looking into a room much like his own. In the middle
of the floor, directly in the range of his vision, was a table, on
which stood a lighted lamp. The table was spread for a meal, and at
that table sat the street musicians, the blind girl and her brother. It
was evident that they had just sat down, for, as Frank looked, the girl
bowed her head to ask a blessing.
Hushing his breathing, Frank tried to hear her words. He could not
understand them all, but he heard her mention his name, and he knew he
was included in that blessing.
Frank could study no more that night. He walked the floor for a time,
feeling that a new interest had come into his life, for somehow it
seemed there was a bond between himself and the young street musicians.
His dreams that night were pleasant.
Frank’s second day in the roundhouse was almost a repetition of the
first, save that he learned to assist in turning the engines upon the
table, and he listened to a discussion among the wipers about the
mysterious properties of the slide valve, which led him to read up on
the subject as far as possible.
A week passed. By the end of that time Frank was able to clean certain
parts of the engine in a manner thoroughly satisfactory, and he could
see that he was making progress in knowledge.
He had also found an opportunity to make known to the young musicians
that his room was next to theirs, and there was visiting back and forth.
It really seemed to the brother and sister that their fortune had
turned with the meeting with Frank, for they were doing far better than
they had done before.
“You must be a mascot, Mr. Merriwell,” laughed the lame boy, as they
all sat together one evening.
“Please don’t call me Mr. Merriwell any more,” requested Merry. “You
know my first name. Call me by that.”
“Oh, it doesn’t seem right!”
“It will please me far better.”
“Then we will try, eh, sister?”
The girl smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “Frank is a beautiful name, and it seems so well
suited to him. Yes, we will call him that if he really wishes us to.”
“I do; and I will call you Nellie and Jack. I hope it is true that I am
your mascot, and there may be something in it, for my friends who have
stuck to me have all had good luck.”
“Fortune has been against us a long time,” said the boy; “ever since
mother died.”
“Tell me something of yourselves,” urged Frank. “How long have you been
alone in the world?”
“Almost two years now. Father was an invalid the last of his life,
and so all the money he had saved was used in caring for him. Mother
did not live long after he went away. She loved him so! Her heart was
broken, and if it had not been for leaving us, I think she would have
been glad to go.”
“But have you no relatives?”
“No near relatives who care anything for us. Mother had a brother, but
we do not know where he is now.”
“But we feel that we have found some one in you who is almost as near
and dear as a relative,” said the girl.
The absolute loneliness of the brother and sister affected Frank, and
he resolved to do everything in his power to brighten their lives.
Thus it came about that he was so often with them. He took pleasure in
playing upon the guitar, and he regretted to discover that his work was
beginning to stiffen his fingers. Having made this discovery, he bought
a preparation to use on his hands to keep them from growing stiff.
Among the engineers was one by the name of Joe Hicks, a man with a
coal-black mustache and a sullen face. Hicks drank a great deal, but he
was one of the best engineers on the road, and he managed to keep his
job. He was surly when he was not well filled with liquor, and brutal
when he had been drinking.
The wipers, with the exception of Old Slugs, who was back at work, were
afraid of Hicks. Not one of them liked the job of cleaning his engine,
for a speck of dirt left anywhere brought a growl.
And it happened before a week was out that Frank was put onto Hicks’
engine.
The engineer had not left the roundhouse when Merry began work. On his
way out he paused and stared at Frank.
“Here!” he growled; “what are you doing?”
“Cleaning this engine, sir.”
“Who told ye to?”
“Mr. Ganzell.”
That was the name of the foreman.
“Ganzell’s a fool! Get away from there!”
Frank kept at work.
“Get away from there, I tell ye!” snarled Hicks. “Don’t you hear what I
say?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why don’t ye mind?”
“Because you are not the foreman.”
“The foreman be--blowed. That’s my engine; I run her. I’m not going
to have a greenhorn plugging round her. Get away, now. If you don’t,
I’ll----”
“What?”
Frank turned and looked the man straight in the eyes, and he was
perfectly cool when he said:
“What will you do?”
“Why, blame your head! I’ll break your neck!”
“I wouldn’t advise you to try it.”
The coolness of the youth staggered Hicks, who was accustomed to seeing
the wipers start and cringe before him. He felt like collaring Frank,
but something caused him to stay his hand.
Larry Logan, the young Irishman, came up and stood looking on, an
expression of satisfaction on his face.
“Oi think ye’d betther foind out th’ b’y ye’re tacklin’, Mr. Hicks,”
chuckled Larry.
“What in thunder do I care who he is! If he’s one of Ganzell’s
favorites, it won’t make any difference. If he don’t get away from that
engine, I’ll mop him all over the ground.”
“It’s a roight swate job ye’d be afther takin’, sur,” grinned the young
Irishman. “This is th’ chap phwat knocked out Ould Sloogs widout
gettin’ a marruk on himself.”
“Hey?”
The engineer looked astonished. He had heard of the encounter between
the bully of the roundhouse and an applicant for work, but it did not
seem possible that this boy had whipped the ruffian.
“Thot’s dead straight, sur,” asserted Larry.
“Well, I don’t care who he is, I won’t have a slob clean old 33!”
“Phwat are yez goin’ to do?”
“See Ganzell about it.”
“Thot’ll be aisier fer yez than av ye troied to take th’ b’y off th’
job yersilf.”
“Shut up! Don’t you get sassy, fer I’ll thump ye if ye do.”
Then Hicks hurried away in search of the foreman.
“It’s a roight foine toime ye’ll have wid him,” said Larry to Frank.
“He’s worse thin Ould Sloogs, fer he’ll be afther hittin’ yez in th’
back.”
“I am not afraid of him,” declared Frank, quietly.
In a short time Hicks came round with the foreman. Stopping near the
engine, the angry man pointed to Frank, growling:
“Look here, Mr. Ganzell, you know I take special pride in the way I
keep my engine. Now what d’yer mean by puttin’ a greenhorn on her to
clean her?”
“It was necessary, Hicks,” said the foreman, with an expression of
anger. “I will have an old wiper go over her after Merriwell finishes,
so she will be all right.”
“But I don’t want a greenie plugging at her. They’re sure to be tryin’
to find out how things work, and they get things out of order.”
“I don’t think there will be any trouble in that line.”
“Then you don’t mean to take him off?”
“No.”
Hicks was boiling.
“All right!” he snarled. “If anything happens, don’t blame me. You know
how particular I am with old 33, an’ I don’t think you are givin’ me a
square deal.”
With that he left the roundhouse, muttering and growling as he went.