FROM BAD TO WORSE
Ralph refrained from telling his mother anything about this recent
occurrence. He knew she would feel hurt because of what Barton Hopkins
had said. She was much more likely to resent a slight put upon her son
than Ralph was himself.
And, in any event, there was so much else to tell the widow regarding
the happenings of the last eighteen hours that he himself quite forgot
the sting that he had first felt because of Mr. Hopkins’ unfair speech
and ungentlemanly conduct.
But later the fact that Cherry Hopkins was to be sent away from
Rockton to get her out of Ralph’s way was a matter that returned again
and again to the young fellow’s mind. It seemed unfair, not alone to
him, but to the girl herself.
And he fancied Mrs. Hopkins would be much disturbed by her husband’s
decision. Ralph was really sorry to be the cause of friction in the
supervisor’s family.
“Why, if he had spoken decently—asked me like a man! He knew I could
hear all he said—meant I should—I would have promised not to speak to
Cherry or approach her in any way. Of course I would! What does he
think I am?”
The thought of this troubled him for several days in spite of all the
other matters of serious portent which weighed upon his spirits.
For things on the division were going rapidly from bad to worse. With
the shops practically closed, for as yet the Great Northern had not
tried to bring in strike-breakers, the rolling stock of the division
fast became crippled. There were breakdowns innumerable. Some of the
freight engines were soon ready for the scrap heap. And it made a
regular schedule, for freight at least, all but impossible.
The influence of other officials—not that of Barton Hopkins—kept the
older maintenance of way men faithful. Most of the section hands
stayed on the job. In fact the bulk of the trouble lay in the shops
and yards at Rockton.
There Andy McCarrey’s influence was most felt. He had some political
backing, too. And the dislike for Supervisor Hopkins was more
pronounced at this terminal than at the other, or along the line.
Meanwhile Ralph had continued as engineman of the Midnight Flyer and
the eastbound express from Hammerfest. That his mother was far from
reconciled to this change in his work, he well knew. But she was as
loyal in her way to the best interests of the Great Northern as the
young fellow himself.
“If the general manager asked you to do it, Ralph, of course you could
not refuse,” said Mrs. Fairbanks. “But I shall never be satisfied
until you are back in the train dispatcher’s office. I hope for your
advancement to more important positions than that of locomotive
engineer.”
“Plenty of time for that,” said her son cheerfully. “And I know the G.
M. will not forget me. It is only for a short time, we shall hope.
This strike will not last forever.”
But he did not tell her of the many delays and actually perilous
chances of his situation. He had been accosted on the street and
threatened by some of the strikers. The men who had broken away from
their unions as well as from the employing railroad were desperately
determined to stop every wheel on the division.
It was Andy McCarrey’s boast that he would have the Great Northern on
its knees in a month. It seemed that he had a large strike fund at his
command. And Ralph suspected that the fellow likewise had under his
control a band of rascals who would go to any length to cripple the
railroad.
Gangs of ill-favored fellows were hanging about the yards. He heard of
such men, too, all along the division. Tool sheds were broken into;
the gangs’ handcars were crippled; fires were set on railroad
property; numberless small crimes were committed which could not be
traced to the strikers themselves, but were undoubtedly committed at
Andy McCarrey’s behest.
“If we could just get one thing hitched to that slick rascal, we would
put him where the dogs wouldn’t get a chance to bite him for some
time,” Bob Adair said once to Ralph. “But McCarrey is as sharp as a
needle. By the way, how much of that old tenement house did you see
the night you and Zeph found him and Grif Falk over there?”
“Very little of it. It appeared to be practically empty. And I am sure
there were no families living in it,” Ralph replied.
“You are right in that,” said the detective. “It is an old condemned
tenement. But somehow McCarrey has got a lease of it. Nobody seems to
know what goes on in there. And there is no good reason, as far as the
police can find, for searching the premises.
“If I could just make sure the supply of liquor some of the men are
getting is stored there, it would give us an opening. But if we do
anything that can be proved illegal, McCarrey will have a case against
us. He has some of the sharpest lawyers in the city in his pay.”
“Did you find Whitey Malone?” asked the engineer of the Midnight Flyer
reflectively.
“No. Zeph has lost trace of him. But I believe the fellow is still
away from Rockton. I fancy McCarrey was afraid to trust him here. Or
he has been sent along the road on some errand that has not yet come
to a head. That boy, Zeph, is like a beagle on a trail, however. I
hope he will mark down his man before long.”
Ralph’s own eyes were always open for the appearance of Whitey. By
night, of course, while he sat on the bench of the big locomotive that
drew the Midnight Flyer, he could not hope to see much on either side
of the twin rails over which his train sped. But coming back by
daylight he saw a good deal more.
The eastbound express made several stops besides those four which the
Flyer made. And it was during those brief stops that Ralph picked up
most of the news he got regarding the feeling of the road’s employees
along the division.
At Hardwell, a considerable lumbering town some miles east of Oxford
and on the slope of Shadow Valley, Ralph first heard of the “bandit.”
He saw on the platform a man with his head bandaged surrounded by a
little group of interested natives. The engineer identified the
evidently wounded man as the third trick operator and signalman at
this station.
He could not leave his engine, of course, but the operator knew Ralph
and came down the platform to speak to him.
“I got a nasty smash on the head this morning,” he explained. “I don’t
know who the rascal was, but he got a hundred and forty dollars of the
road’s money and my watch and stickpin.”
“How came you to let him do that, Fiske?” Ralph asked, but with some
sympathy.
“I was setting the signals for your own train, Fairbanks, the Midnight
Flyer. I didn’t hear the fellow come in, but just as I turned from the
levers I found him there behind me. Sure I had a gun! But it was in
the desk drawer. We haven’t had a hold-up around here for years. He
hit me on the head with the butt of his gun and I went down and out.
When I came to he had lit out with my junk and the company’s money.”
“That is too bad,” said Ralph, as he caught sight of the conductor’s
raised arm. “What kind of looking fellow was he?”
“Don’t know. He had a flour bag over his head. Tall, husky fellow.
That is all I know about it. The super is giving me rats over the
wire.”
“He would,” called out Ralph, as he let the steam into the cylinders
and the train began to move.
“Now, I wonder,” thought the young engineer, “if Whitey Malone had
anything to do with that. Or is the bandit a free-lance with no
connection with these strikers? Humph! Where is Zeph, I wonder?”
When Zeph next appeared it was in an astonishing way. Neither Ralph
nor his queer friend was likely to forget the occasion.