One evening shortly after the beginning of the summer holidays Alex was
chatting over the wire with Jack, who was now a full-fledged operator at
Hammerton, when the despatching office abruptly broke in and called
Bixton.
"I, I, BX," answered Alex.
"Is young Ward there?" clicked the instruments.
"This is 'young Ward.'"
"Say, youngster, would you care to do a couple of weeks' vacation relief
at Hadley Corners, beginning next Monday? The man there wants to get off
badly, and we have no one here we can send."
"Most certainly I would," replied Alex, promptly.
"OK then. We'll count on you. I'll send a pass down to-night," said the
despatcher.
Thus it came about that the following Monday morning Alex alighted at the
little crossing depot known as Hadley Corners, and for the second time
found himself, if but temporarily, in full charge of a station.
Entering the little telegraph room, he announced his arrival to the
despatcher at "X."
"Good," clicked the sounder. "And now, look here, Ward. Don't do any
tinkering with the instruments while you are there. We don't want a
repetition of the mix-up you got the wire into at BX through your joking
a month or so ago."
The joke referred to was a hoax Alex had played on his father the
previous First of April. Through an arrangement of wires beneath the
office table, by which with his foot, unseen, he could make the
instruments above click as though worked from another office, he had
called his father to the wire, and posing as the despatcher, had severely
reprimanded him for some imaginary mistake in a train order. It had been
"all kinds of a lark," until, unfortunately, the connections became
disarranged, tying up the entire eastern end of the line for half an
hour.
At the recollection of the escapade Alex laughed heartily. Nevertheless
he promptly replied, "OK, sir. I won't touch a thing." And the despatcher
saying nothing more, he began calling Bixton.
"I'm here, Dad," he announced when his father answered; "and it's a fine
little place. The woods come almost up to the back of the station, and
the nearest house is a mile away. That's where I am to board. The other
operator arranged it. It's going to be a regular little picnic."
"That's nice," ticked the sounder. "I thought you would like it." And
then Alex again laughed as his father added, "And now, no tinkering with
things, my boy! Remember!"
"OK, Dad. I won't touch a thing. Good-by."
It was the following Monday that the "all agents" message was sent over
the wire announcing an unusually heavy shipment of gold from the Black
Hill Mines, and warning station agents and operators to look out for and
report any suspicious persons about their stations. But these messages,
usually following hold-ups on other roads, had been intermittently sent
for years, and nothing had happened on the Middle Western; and in his
turn Alex gave his "OK," and thought nothing more about it.
A half hour later he sat at the open window of the telegraph room, deeply
interested in the July St. Nicholas--so interested, indeed, that he did
not hear soft footfalls on the station platform without. The man came
quietly nearer--reached the window. Then suddenly Alex glanced up, the
magazine fell to the floor, and with a loud cry he sprang to his feet.
He was gazing into the barrel of a revolver, and behind it was a
black-masked face!
Hold-up men! The gold train!
Wildly Alex turned toward the telegraph-key. But the man leaned quickly
forward, seized him by the shoulder, and threw him heavily back into the
chair. "You move again and I'll shoot!" he said sharply, and Alex sank
back helpless.
Yes; hold-up men. And he had betrayed his trust. Betrayed his trust! That
thought stood out even above his terror. Oh, if he had only kept a
lookout!
[Illustration: HE WAS GAZING INTO THE BARREL OF A REVOLVER.]
The man, who had said nothing further, presently withdrew the revolver
and took a comfortable seat on the window-ledge. As the silence
continued, Alex began somewhat to recover himself, and fell to wondering
what the other bandits were doing while this man was watching him.
A few moments later the answer came in a single upward click from the
instruments.
"There--wires cut, ain't they?" said his captor.
"Yes, I suppose," said Alex, bitterly.
"They sure are," said the voice from behind the mask. "And when we get
through, them wires'll be cut so you won't be able to fix 'em up in a
hurry."
Fifteen minutes later a second masked and heavily armed figure appeared.
"Every wire cut five poles back on either side of the station," he
announced briefly. "It'll take a lineman half a day to fix 'em up again,
and we'll be twenty miles away by that time. Now we'll put the hobbles on
the youngster, and git."
Often Alex had longed for just such an adventure as this. The final
disenchantment was anything but glorious. Roughly seizing him, the two
men forced him stiffly upright in the chair, drew his arms about the back
of it, and there secured them, wrist to wrist, drawing the knot until
Alex almost cried out in pain. Then, as tightly, they bound his ankles to
the lower rungs, one on either side.
"Now one of us is going to watch from the woods for a spell--we'll leave
the back door open, so we can see right in--and if you make a move, you
get this quick! See?" said one of the desperadoes, tapping his pistol
significantly.
Therewith they passed out, leaving the rear door wide open, and in utter
misery of mind Alex watched them stride toward the trees.
Before the two bandits had crossed the open space, however, Alex's mind
had cleared. For plainly they were hurrying! Then their promise to watch
him must have been only a threat, to keep him quiet! Good! At once he
began straining at his wrists, paused as the two men reached the edge of
the clearing and momentarily turned, and as they disappeared amid the
trees, began struggling with grim determination.
It seemed a hopeless task at first, and the rawhide thongs cut cruelly
into Alex's wrists and ankles. But bravely he struggled on, wriggled and
twisted, paused for breath, and struggled again. And finally one hand
came suddenly free.
It required but a few seconds to get into his pocket, reach his knife,
and open it with his teeth. A moment later Alex was on his feet, and
staggered out onto the platform.
Yes, the wires were cut, five poles in either direction! Alex clenched
his hands. After all, what could he do? To restore the line was entirely
out of the question. Had there been but one break he could not have
climbed the pole and carried aloft that heavy stretch of wire.
And there was less than twenty minutes in which to work, to catch the
Overland at Broken Gap. For undoubtedly it was beyond that point that the
bandits planned holding her up--probably on one of the steep grades of
the Little Timber hills.
Suddenly Alex uttered a gasp of hope. A moment he debated, with nervously
clasped hands, then, exhaustion forgotten, dashed back into the little
telegraph room, found a screw-driver, and in a few minutes had loosened
from the table the telegraph-key and the receiving instrument. Catching
them up, with some short ends of wire, he darted out and up the track to
the west.
Two hundred yards distant the intact end of the telegraph line drooped
into the drainage ditch. Alex caught it up and dragged it to the rails.
Placing the key and relay on the end of a tie, he connected them on one
side to the rail, and on the other side to the end of the line wire.
But the responding click did not come. Alex groaned in disappointment. He
had counted on the rails giving a "ground" connection. Then the line
would have closed, and he could have worked it to the west. But
apparently the hot weather had entirely dried out the sand beneath the
rails, and thus insulated them.
But he was not yet beaten. There was a ground wire at the station. Why
could he not use the rails that far, if they were insulated? With a
hurrah he seized the end of the line wire, and in a few moments had
connected it to one of the rail joints. Then, catching up the
instruments, he dashed back for the station.
Placing the instruments again on the table, he found a piece of loose
wire that would reach from the instruments, out through the window, to
the rails; ran out and quickly connected it to a rail joint, and, darting
back, connected the other end to the instruments. Instantly there was a
sharp downward click. The line was closed!
Alex could not suppress a quick "Thank Heaven!" and, trembling with
excitement, he seized the key and began swiftly calling the despatcher.
"X, X, X, HC," he called. "X, X--"
He felt the line open, and closed his own key. Then, in surprise, he
read: "So you have been monkeying with the wires there after all, have
you? Now look here--"
Quickly Alex interrupted, and shot back: "Train robbers are after the
Overland. They held me up, and cut the wires both sides of the station. I
got free, and have made a connection through the rails--HC."
For a moment the line remained silent, while at his end of the wire the
despatcher sat bolt upright in his chair, eyes and mouth wide open. But
in another moment the despatcher had recovered himself, and, springing
back to the key, began madly calling Broken Gap.
"B, B, B, X!" he called. "B, B, X! Qk! Qk!"
[Illustration: BUT THE RESPONSE CLICK DID NOT COME.]
Alex shot a glance at the clock, and leaned forward over the instruments,
scarcely breathing. There was yet three minutes before the Overland was
due at Broken Gap. But she did not stop there, and frequently passed
ahead of time. If "B" did not answer the call immediately--
The whir of "B's" was interrupted, and slowly and deliberately came an
"I, I, B." Alex leaped in his chair, and again strained forward tensely.
"Has 68 passed?" hurled the despatcher.
"Just coming."
"Stop her! Flag her! Qk! Qk!"
The line opened, as though "B" was about to make a reply, then smartly
closed again.
"Stop her! Stop her!" repeated "X."
There was a leaden, breathless silence, while Alex nervously clenched and
unclenched his hands. At last the line again clicked open, and with a
characteristic deliberation that caused the nerve-strung boy a moment's
hysterical laugh, "B" announced: "Just got her. She's slowing in now.
What's up?"
The despatcher at "X" had regained his equilibrium, and in his usual
crisp manner he replied: "Take this for Conductor Bedford:
"Bedford: Hold-up apparently planned between Broken Gap and Hadley
Corners. Probably on one of the grades of the Little Timbers.
Gather a posse quickly, and make sure of capturing them. Report at
HC.
"(Signed) Jordan, X."
As "B" gave his "OK" with the stumbling hesitation of blank astonishment,
the line again opened. And at the first word the intense strain broke,
and Alex sank forward over the table with a convulsive sob.
"Grand, my boy! Grand!" clicked the sounder. It was his father, at
Bixton. He had overheard it all.
"Grand! That's the word," came the despatcher. "There's not another
operator on the division who would have known enough to do what he did
to-day. I guess we won't bother him any more about his 'tinkering,' will
we?"
* * * * *
Only half an hour late, the mighty mogul pulling the Overland Limited
drew panting to a stop before the little station, and in a moment Alex
was surrounded by a crowd of congratulating trainmen and passengers. And
when he reappeared after sending the message which notified the
despatcher of the train's safe arrival and of the capture of the two
bandits, he was surprised and speechlessly confused by having pressed
upon him by the enthusiastic passengers an impromptu purse of
seventy-five dollars.
Later in the afternoon Alex was called to the wire by Jack, at Hammerton.
"Say, what is all this you've gone and done, Al?" clicked Jack
enthusiastically. "The afternoon papers here have a whole column story!
'Please attach statement at once!'"
"Oh, it looks much bigger than it really was," responded Alex modestly.
"And anyway, it came about through my own carelessness. I ought to have
been reprimanded, instead of patted on the back."
"Nonsense! Those hold-up men would have got you, anyway. If you had seen
them coming, they would simply have approached in a friendly way, then
got the drop on you. You had no gun.
"But, say," added Jack mock-seriously, "how is it these real high class
adventures always come your way? I'm getting jealous."
"I can assure you you needn't be. It's lots more fun reading about them.
Wait and see," said Alex.
Jack was soon to have his opportunity of "seeing," though a more
disagreeable experience was first to come.
V