ABOUT CHERRY
The first thing Ralph did on his arrival at Rockton after that
momentous round trip to and from Hammerfest, was to look up Bob Adair.
He knew where to find the chief detective now; or, at least, who to
ask about him without disturbing Supervisor Hopkins.
He reached the detective at last. Of course Mr. Adair had heard all
about the dynamiting of the trestle pillar at Devil’s Den. He had sent
a man to make a special report on the terrible affair. But he had not
heard from Dallas and he was worried.
“The boy’s in trouble. That is what is the matter. What you tell me,
Ralph, bears out my suspicion.”
“I bet he set up that scarecrow and fired it to stop the Flyer,” the
engineer of that fast train observed.
“Granted. He must have been watching in that vicinity. But the trestle
wreckers were too smart for him. The charge was exploded and the
trestle wrecked. He had not time to go to the nearest telegraph
station, so he set the fire instead. But what became of him then?”
“I fear something bad has happened to him,” was the answer.
“Great Scott! something is always happening to Zeph,” observed Mr.
Adair.
“I know. But it must have been something serious for him to discard
his cap and vest and even his outer shirt. For I believe all those
things hung on the bushes up there on the crag belonged to Zeph.”
“Perhaps he hung them there before the pillar was blown out.”
“But what for? I don’t get it at all,” cried Ralph. “Queer as Zeph is,
he isn’t crazy. Not at all! He had a reason for making signals to
somebody, and that shirt et cetera are signals.”
“See to-morrow when you go by if they are still there,” suggested Mr.
Adair. “Meanwhile I will have my men beat the bushes for him around
there. I will have that farmer you speak of interviewed.”
“But if anything bad has really happened to Zeph, it will be too
late,” sighed Ralph as he turned away and started homeward.
He could not take Mr. Adair’s easy view of the mystery. Ralph had a
fondness for Zeph. He could not forget the many times the odd fellow
had helped him or been associated with him in dangerous adventure.
And now, it seemed to Ralph, Zeph Dallas must himself need help or he
would not have shed his garments on the side of that crag overhanging
the Devil’s Den. Ralph greatly desired to look into the matter.
Yet, he could not do that. The general manager had put him on his
honor when he gave him the Midnight Flyer run. Ralph could not desert
that duty even to aid a friend.
He heard about another person in trouble when he arrived at home. His
mother was full of it.
“Did you hear that Mrs. Hopkins was very ill, Ralph?” the widow asked,
almost at once when he entered the cottage.
“I’d be ill if I were that man’s relative,” grumbled the young
engineer. “What is the matter with her?”
“It seems to be a long-standing trouble the doctor has been treating
her for, and now she must go under an operation. Actually, they say
she is wearing her heart out because Cherry is away from her and at
Shelby Junction. She has never been separated from her before so she
tells Mrs. Wagner. That man is awful!”
“He is getting worse around the yards,” said Ralph. “I just heard he
accuses one of the section foremen of letting the strikers steal
dynamite so that they could blow up that trestle.”
Mrs. Fairbanks had heard of that; but she had no idea her son’s life
had been in danger. And Ralph was not telling her too much. He was
glad she switched to Mrs. Hopkins’ illness again.
“If Cherry is not allowed to come home, I fear her mother will never
come through the operation alive,” said the widow. “Mrs. Wagner says
the doctor declares Hopkins the hardest man to move from a decision he
ever knew. He calls it ‘mental delinquency’ on the supervisor’s part.
He says,” and Mrs. Fairbanks smiled, “if Hopkins had been spanked at
the right time when he was a boy, and spanked enough, he would not
have got the ‘self-importance complex’ and become such a nuisance to
his fellowmen.”
“That medico knows his business!” laughed Ralph. “Ain’t it the truth?
as Zeph would say. And that reminds me, Mother. I fear Zeph is in some
trouble down the line. Mr. Adair does not know what has become of
him.”
“That boy is always getting into some difficulty,” said the widow. “I
would not worry about him, if I were you, Ralph.”
That day passed without any particular outbreak by the strikers in
Rockton. The police and railroad detectives had the situation pretty
well in hand about the terminal and the city yards.
Mr. Hopkins had taken the bit in his teeth regarding the attempted
wrecking of the Midnight Flyer in Shadow Valley. One of the section
foremen near the trestle had obtained some dynamite for a specific
purpose, and the supervisor had jumped to the conclusion that this
foreman had given up the explosive to the strikers.
This unproved assertion provoked more trouble on the entire length of
the division. The section foreman had complained to his union. The
full quantity of dynamite was promptly found in his possession, and
inside of ten hours the union officials had demanded that Mr. Hopkins
retract his accusation.
“Now, why don’t they ask a hungry bulldog to give up a bone?” Ralph
observed, when he read this in the evening paper before leaving home
for his night run to Hammerfest. “Those fellows are as bad as the
super himself. He never handles anybody with gloves; but you can’t
handle him without having your own hands muffled. And those union
leaders ought to know it.”
Ralph kissed his mother warmly at the door and started off for the
station, swinging his heavy lunch can. Mrs. Fairbanks never overlooked
the fact that a railroader is always hungry. And Ralph hated
restaurant food. He carried enough for a bite on the engine as well as
a hearty breakfast at the far end of his run.
He did not go down to the roundhouse himself, but trusted to his
firemen to back the locomotive on to the westbound track and into the
train-shed. As he stood in his overalls and with his coat and lunch
kit near the open window of the telegraph room, he heard Mr. Barton
Hopkins’ voice inside.
“Anything on, Silsby?” asked the supervisor, in his sharp, quick way.
“No, Mr. Hopkins,” returned the night operative.
“Rush this, then,” ordered the supervisor and then Ralph heard his
quick step going out of the room.
The operative, Silsby, turned immediately to his key. Ralph heard him
call Shelby Junction and repeat the call until he got an answer. Then
he sent the following, Ralph reading the Morse easily as Silsby tapped
it out:
Miss C. Hopkins,
“22 Horatio Street,
“Shelby Junction.
“Your mother ill. Old trouble, but serious.
Come home at once.
“(Signed) B. Hopkins.”
There was the repeat back from the Shelby Junction operator, and then
Silsby gave the “O. K.” and closed his key. Ralph, waiting for the
backing in of the big eight-wheeler for Number 202, wondered if Mr.
Hopkins was, after all, as case-hardened and hard-crusted as he
appeared to be.
The supervisor was having domestic trouble. Perhaps he loved his
mouse-like little wife, and his daughter, as well. These family
troubles might be one present cause of the supervisor’s caustic
remarks and his uncompromising attitude in railroad affairs.
“I was telling the G. M. the officials did not look at things from the
men’s standpoint,” considered Ralph. “Perhaps the men ought to see
things from the supervisor’s standpoint, too.”