A MIDNIGHT ALARM
"Well, Dave, we have been in this camp just a month to-day. How do you
think you like it?"
"I like it first-rate, Roger--in fact, better than I first thought I
would. All the engineers and assistants are so kind and helpful."
"That's what they are," returned the senator's son. "And I think we
are getting along famously. Do you know, I am actually in love with
the construction of this new Catalco bridge. I think it's going to be
a dandy when it's completed."
"Not only a dandy, Roger, but, unless I miss my guess, it will be a
monument to the skill and ingenuity of the Mentor Construction
Company. I've been reading up on all kinds of bridges, and I think the
construction of this particular bridge goes ahead of most of them."
"One thing is sure--Mr. Obray is very proud of the way things are
going. I heard from Andrews that some of the other construction
companies thought we would never be able to build this bridge the way
it is going up."
The talk between the two chums was held in the evening after work
for the day had come to an end. Dave and Roger stood on an elevation
of ground surveying the unfinished bridge--or rather chain of
bridges--which spanned a river and the marshland beyond. It had been
a great engineering feat to obtain the proper foundations for the
bridge where it spanned the marshland, and make them impervious to
the floods which came with great force during certain seasons of the
year.
The first week at the camp had been spent in the offices, but all the
other time had been put in with the engineering gang that was
superintending the construction of the far end of the bridge, and also
the laying out of the railroad route through the hills and cuts
beyond. The work had proved fascinating to the chums, and they were
surprised to see how quickly the time passed.
Dave and Roger had made a number of friends, but none more agreeable
than Frank Andrews. Andrews occupied a room close to their own, and
often spent an evening with them.
About the end of the second week they had received word concerning
William Jarvey. The bookkeeper in the offices at San Antonio had had a
violent quarrel with Mr. Watson and had been discharged. He had gone
off declaring that his being treated thus was unjustifiable, and that
he was going to bring the Mentor Construction Company to account for
it.
"I guess he's nothing but a bag of wind," was Roger's comment, on
hearing this. "The company is probably much better off to have such a
chap among the missing."
"I don't see what he can do to hurt the company," had been Dave's
answer. "He was probably discharged for good cause."
Although so far away from home, it must not be supposed that Dave and
Roger had forgotten the folks left behind. They had sent numerous
letters telling of their various experiences and of what they hoped to
do in the future. In return Roger had received one letter from his
father and another from his mother, and Dave had gotten communications
from his sister Laura and from Jessie, and also a long letter from
Ben.
Of these the letter received from Jessie was to our hero the most
important, and it must be confessed that he read it a number of times.
The girl was greatly interested in all that he had told her about his
work, and she said she hoped he would become a great civil engineer,
and that she certainly trusted he would not have any trouble with the
Mexicans.
The letter from Ben Basswood had been rather a disheartening
communication. Ben wrote that his father did not seem to regain his
health as rapidly as the doctor had anticipated, and that nothing new
concerning Ward Porton or Tim Crapsey had been uncovered. Ben added
that he had written to the authorities in New York City concerning
Porton and had received word back that they had been unable to locate
the former moving-picture actor.
"I believe the loss of those miniatures has had its full effect on Mr.
Basswood," remarked Dave, when speaking of the matter to his chum. "I
suppose it makes him feel blue, and that retards his recovery."
"More than likely," answered Roger. "A person can't very well throw
off a heavy spell of sickness when he is so depressed in spirits. It's
too bad! And I suppose Mrs. Basswood feels dreadful to think she was
the one to let the fortune slip out of their hands."
"No doubt of it, Roger. Of course, it's easy enough to blame her, and
I suppose a great many of their neighbors do. But, just the same,
place yourself in her position--worried half to death over the
sickness of her husband--and you might have done the same thing."
It was a warm evening and the chums took their time in returning to
the camp, knowing supper would not be served until a little later.
During the day several shots had been heard at a great distance to the
southward, and some of the civil engineers had wondered if some sort
of a scrimmage was taking place on the other side of the Rio Grande.
"If a fight is in progress I hope it doesn't extend to this
neighborhood," remarked one of the engineers, in speaking of the
matter. "We've got troubles enough of our own--getting this bridge
right--without having the greasers interfering with our work;" and he
gave a grim laugh.
When the chums arrived in camp they found that the day's mail had come
in. There was a Washington newspaper for Roger containing an address
delivered in the Senate by Senator Morr, and also a long letter for
our hero from Ben.
"Well, here is news at last!" cried Dave, as he scanned the
communication. "Come on out here, away from the crowd, Roger, and I'll
read it to you;" and then he led the way to a corner and acquainted
his chum with the contents of the letter, which was as follows:
"I know you will be interested to learn that we have at last heard
from that rascal, Tim Crapsey, who, with Ward Porton, got the
miniatures from my mother. Crapsey sent a very badly written
letter to my father, stating that he and Porton had parted
company, but that he had the most of the miniatures,--in fact, all
but six of them.
"Crapsey wrote that he was in the city of New York, and had the
miniatures in a safe place, and that he would return them to us
for fifteen thousand dollars. We were to insert a personal
advertisement in one of the New York newspapers if we were willing
to accept his offer, and then he would send us word how the
exchange of money for the miniatures could be made.
"Of course, as you know, my father is still sick. He didn't have
anything like fifteen thousand dollars in cash to offer Crapsey,
and besides that Mr. Wadsworth and your Uncle Dunston thought it
was altogether too much money to offer a thief like that. In fact,
your uncle was of the opinion that they should only try to lead
Crapsey on, so that they could capture him. But my father, backed
up by Mr. Wadsworth, at length agreed to put up five thousand
dollars in order to get the miniatures back, and an advertisement
was inserted in the newspapers to that effect.
"We waited two days for a reply, and then came a scrawl on a bit
of paper signed by Crapsey, stating that he was having trouble of
another kind and could not for the present keep on with his
negotiations. After that my father inserted another advertisement
asking for more information, but up to the present time no
additional word has come in.
"My father does not know what to make of it. Your folks and Mr.
Wadsworth are of the opinion that either Crapsey was trying to
fool them and got scared or else that the rascal has been caught
by the police for some other crime and is trying to conceal his
identity. They are divided on the question as to whether to
believe Crapsey when he wrote that he and Porton had parted
company--they are half inclined to believe that Porton is still
with him, and that the whole scheme was framed up by Porton."
"That is certainly interesting news," remarked Roger, after both had
perused the letter a second time. "And it settles one thing--and that
is that Tim Crapsey must have been in New York with Ward Porton at the
time we saw the latter."
"Exactly, Roger. And it also proves beyond a doubt that that pair were
really the thieves. Previous to this we only supposed such to be the
fact--we really couldn't prove it."
"Oh, I was sure of it all along, Dave."
"So was I, Roger. But you know in a court of law it is one thing to
know a thing and another to be able to prove it."
The two young civil engineers discussed the letter all through the
evening meal and even for some time later. Then, however, Roger turned
to his newspaper, to read with care the address that his father had
delivered. Dave was also interested in this.
"I'd like to be in the Senate some time when your father was
speaking," he remarked to his chum. "It must be a great sight to see
such a body as that when it is in session."
"It is, Dave," answered his chum. "And people come thousands of miles
to see it."
Before retiring for the night Dave penned a letter to Ben, and also
sent a letter to Jessie, and another to his Uncle Dunston which
was meant for the entire household. Roger spent the time in a
communication to his mother, and also in a long letter to Luke
Watson.
The night proved to be unusually warm, for the breeze which was
usually stirring had died down completely. Dave fell into a fitful
doze, from which he awoke about midnight to find his mouth and throat
quite parched.
"I guess I'd better get up and get a drink," he told himself, "and
then I may be able to sleep better. Phew! but the thermometer has
certainly been going up the last few days."
He arose to his feet and walked out of the room into the hallway of
the building, where in one corner there was a water-cooler. He had
just finished drinking a glass of water when a sound from outside
reached his ears. There was a shout from a distance, followed almost
instantly by a rifle shot.
"Hello! what can that mean?" he cried.
A moment later came more shouts, this time a little closer to the
camp. Then two more rifle shots rang out sharply through the midnight
air.
"Something is wrong, that's sure!" exclaimed the youth. Rushing back
into the bedroom he shook Roger vigorously. At the same time he heard
others getting up and calling to each other, wanting to know what the
shouts and shots meant.
"What do you want, Dave?" asked the senator's son, sleepily.
"Get up, Roger!" answered our hero, quickly. "Hurry up! there is
something going on outside! I just heard a number of yells and several
rifle shots."
"You don't mean it, Dave!" and now Roger was on his feet with a bound.
"Maybe it's the greasers."
"I don't know what it is, Roger. But I guess we had better slip into
our clothing. Maybe somebody is-- Listen!"
Dave broke off short, and both strained their ears to hear what was
taking place outside. They heard a confused shouting, followed by
several yells. And then came a volley of shots--five or six in
number.
"It's an attack! That's what it is!" cried the senator's son. "I'll
bet some of those Mexican bandits are coming over here! Oh, Dave! what
do you suppose we had better do?"
"I don't know, except that we had better slip on our clothing and get
our pistols," answered Dave. "This looks as if it might be serious."
"Up, boys! Up!" came the cry from somebody outside. "Get your guns and
your pistols! The Mexican raiders are coming this way!"