A NIGHT ALARM
“It’s only six o’clock. Go back to sleep, you’ll wake everybody in the
car,” exclaimed Phil, aroused from his slumbers by his brother’s
contortions as he dressed in their cramped section.
“I won’t if you stop talking. Besides, I want to see as much of the
country through which we are passing as I can.”
The prospect of new scenes interested the elder boy, and he, too, began
to dress.
“Instead of being the first ones up, we’re the last ones,” announced
Ted, withdrawing his head through the section curtains, after a look up
and down the car.
Such was, indeed, the fact, and as they emerged from their compartment,
they were greeted by the grey-haired man opposite.
“I’ve heard some of your conversation,” he smiled. “If you’re going to
be successful farmers, you’ll have to get up earlier than this. I’ve
been a farmer all my life, and there isn’t a time I can remember, since
I was big enough to carry a pail, that I wasn’t up at four-thirty,
summer or winter.”
“But what did you do? You couldn’t begin to farm so early,” returned
Ted.
“Chores,” answered the man. “Cows must be fed before they are milked and
the other stock must be attended to. The earlier a man gets his chores
done, the more time he can give to his farm. I’ve no patience with these
fellows who don’t get through with their chores till the middle of the
forenoon.”
“But you didn’t have any cows to milk this morning. I should think you
would have indulged in the luxury of a late sleep,” laughed Phil.
“I just couldn’t. It was four-fifteen when I looked at my watch and I
grew so fidgety I had to get up. Marthy, can’t you give these young
gentlemen some of your good coffee?” Turning, the boys beheld a plump
little woman, from whose face and eyes kindness and good nature
radiated, hurrying down the aisle with a steaming coffee-pot in her
hand.
“To be sure, I can, Silas.” Then, beaming on the young homesteaders, she
said:
“Just bring your cups. After I’d made it. I knew there was more’n twice
as much as Silas and I could drink.”
“We haven’t any cups, though we thank you just the same,” returned Phil.
“No cups? Land sakes, what did you expect to drink out of?” cried the
woman in dismay, subjecting the boys to a penetrating scrutiny.
“Guess they haven’t made the trip across the plains as many times as we
have, Marthy,” interposed her husband.
“This is our first time,” explained Ted.
“Land sakes, I thought because you knew enough to travel in a ‘tourist’
you’d been out before. If you haven’t cups, then I don’t suppose you
have anything but boughten pies, cake and such like,” sighed the woman.
“We haven’t even those,” smiled Phil.
“Then how did you expect to eat—beg from those as provided?” she asked.
“Easy, Marthy, easy,” protested the man the boys knew only as Silas.
“I can’t help it. I’ve no patience with people who—”
“We intend to get our meals in the dining-car,” hastily interposed Ted.
“Must have money to throw away,” opined the man.
“We haven’t, but we did not know about bringing any food or things with
us.”
The fact that the young homesteaders did not purpose sponging meals from
their fellow passengers quickly re-established them in the motherly
woman’s eyes, and, reaching under a seat, she drew forth a hamper from
which she produced cups, plates, knives, forks, and spoons.
“Now I’m not going to let you boys throw away your money in that
dining-car. I don’t know your names or anything about you, but you look
likely and that’s enough for me.” Quickly Phil introduced himself and
Ted, telling their new friends briefly about their home and the purpose
of their trip.
“Our name is Hopkins,” returned the woman, fairly bubbling over with
sympathetic interest in the young homesteaders. “I am glad we started
yesterday instead of today, Silas. You can give these boys lots of
points. One of our sons has a big farm in Idaho. Now you just sit down
and I’ll go back and get the rest of the breakfast.” And Mrs. Hopkins
bustled away to the forward part of the car, where the boys beheld a
half-dozen other women, their best—and uncomfortable—clothes of the day
before changed for easy-fitting gingham dresses.
“This is our sixth trip out, so you see we know the ropes,” explained
Mr. Hopkins. “When our sons and daughters travel with us—we’ve got five
scattered from California to Idaho—they make us ride in the parlour
cars, but Marthy and I prefer the tourists; she says the folks ain’t so
stuck up and that our money and things are safer.”
When he had first spoken about early rising, Phil had decided that Mr.
Hopkins was an unsuccessful Eastern farmer making a last desperate bid
for fortune by going West. But as he heard him tell of the many trips
across the continent and of his family, he recalled vividly Dr. Blair’s
words about judging by appearances.
Looking down the aisle, Ted saw Mrs. Hopkins bustling about an oil
stove, and soon she came toward them with two large plates.
“I always bring ham, it keeps better,” she explained, as she set the
plates, the other of which contained fried potatoes, on the table her
husband had improvised.
“But I didn’t know they allowed passengers to cook,” exclaimed Phil.
“That’s the beauty of a tourist car,” returned Mr. Hopkins. “Many a time
when I have gone into a diner and tasted the messes they set before me,
I’ve wished I was in a tourist where I could have some of Marthy’s
cooking.”
“I don’t wonder, it’s bully,” declared Ted, as he ate heartily. “We must
write Momsy and the girls to come by a tourist car, so they can do their
own cooking.”
“And I’ll give you a list of things to send them, things I’ve found keep
all right, so they won’t buy food that will spoil,” offered Mrs.
Hopkins.
“Thank you, and now isn’t there something we can do to return your
kindness?” asked Phil, when the simple but satisfying breakfast had been
eaten.
“You may wash the dishes,” smiled the kindly woman. “That’s Silas’ job,
but he doesn’t like it very well.”
“We shall be glad to, only you must tell us where to do it,” said Ted.
“Just go down to my oil stove. I left some water on it to heat. I’ll
give you soap, a dishcloth, and towels;” and again Mrs. Hopkins began
rummaging in the hamper, finally producing the required articles.
Picking up the dishes, the boys put them in a basket and started. Four
or five young people were already busy at similar tasks, and as Ted and
Phil joined them, they greeted them pleasantly.
Awkwardly and with much embarrassment the boys set about their work.
“Ouch!” cried Phil, snatching his hand from the saucepan of water into
which he had put a cup.
“Here, let me show you. I guess you don’t know much about dish-washing,”
laughed a pretty girl at the next stove.
“It seems that we don’t,” returned Phil, looking at his still smarting
hand.
“First of all, put out the flame of your stove, then get some cold water
from the tank and cool that in the saucepan,” directed their assistant.
The fact that they were fellow passengers broke down all barriers of
reserve, and by the time the dishes had been washed, the young people
were talking of their homes and their hopes.
“I’m so glad you are going to Washington,” said the girl who had come to
the young homesteaders’ rescue. “I was afraid Tom and I would be the
only young people on the car, but now you’re going through, we can have
a jolly time.”
And a jolly time they had, talking, playing cards, building air-castles,
and discussing farm problems, in the latter of which Mr. Hopkins joined
and gave them much valuable advice.
After the second day of riding through endless acres of land upon which
the wheat was just sprouting, the novelty wore away, giving place to
that feeling of monotony which the undulating plains bring to
Easterners.
“I should like to see a mountain or even a hill,’ exclaimed Ted,
petulantly.
“Mountains! You Easterners don’t know what mountains are,” returned Mr.
Hopkins. “Just wait until you see the Rockies. You’ll think your little
mountains are hills.”
“Well, I’d like to see them, just the same. They are better than these
everlasting plains.”
“A bit homesick, eh? Just remember that if it weren’t for these plains,
there wouldn’t be enough grain in the country to supply the congested
East with flour and things, making the cost of living still higher.”
“I didn’t mean to be disagreeable, Mr. Hopkins, but we’ve had nothing
but plains for forty-eight hours. I’d like to see something new, or have
something happen.” And getting up, the boy strolled restlessly down the
car, pausing to say a word to his new acquaintances, finally, the desire
for a change still upon him, passing into the next car.
Though this was also a tourist coach, Ted quickly noticed the occupants
were anything but prepossessing, and he was thanking his stars that Phil
and he were located in the other car when a man spoke to him.
“Sit down and talk to me,” he commanded. “I’m pretty nigh ‘loco’ for the
want of some one to swap words with, but there ain’t no one in here I’d
speak to.”
The man himself was not a person one would have selected as a travelling
companion, being badly in need of a shave and clad in clothes none too
clean. But despite his dislike of the fellow, Ted remembered his
criticism of Phil’s snobbishness and dropped into the seat.
“I can see you ain’t a ‘prairie dog.’ Going out West for a visit?” began
the stranger.
“No. My brother and I intend to take up a homestead.”
“Hope you have plenty of money.”
“Why?”
“Because it takes a pile to get started.”
“How do you mean? The fees for filing an entry are only ten dollars for
one hundred and sixty acres.”
“It’s the other things that count, farming tools, horses, men to help
build your house and barns and to work your land.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think, I _know_. Ten years ago, I came out, full of making a
fortune, just like you, and taking up a homestead. I had fifteen hundred
dollars. Inside of ten months it was gone; then I lost my claim. The
West ain’t no place for a poor man.”
“But you are still out here.”
“Because I ain’t got enough money to go back East. By working here and
there, I manage to keep alive. Not much like the fortune I set out to
make, what?”
To Ted’s mood such conversation did not bring relief and he made no
reply. Several times the man asked him pointed questions as to his
destination and plans, but the boy’s answers were evasive and, finally,
tiring of the attempts to extract information, he arose and returned to
his own car, where he sulked until bedtime.
“Who’s there? What do you want?” cried Phil, suddenly awakened by a coat
falling on his head. “Is that you, Ted?”
The fact that it was not his brother who had caused the coat’s fall was
soon established by the latter’s asking:
“What is it?”
“My coat fell down and woke me.”
In an instant Ted was on his knees in the berth, feeling along the hooks
where their clothing had hung.
“Mine’s gone!” he cried.
The other passengers had been aroused by the young homesteaders’
exclamations, and from several sections came demands of “What’s wrong?”
“Some one has taken my coat!” returned Ted.
“Lock the doors of the car!” called Mr. Hopkins, then added: “What’s the
matter with the lights?”
“They are out,” responded a woman.
“We’ll all be robbed!” wailed another.
Aroused to the seriousness of the situation, all the passengers
hurriedly donned clothes and quickly gathered in the aisle, talking
excitedly.
“This won’t do. Somebody light a lamp,” ordered Mr. Hopkins.
Instantly matches flickered, seemingly from all directions, and soon
three of the lamps were lighted.
“Are the doors locked?” called some one.
“It’s too late now. The thief’s had plenty of time to get out of the
car,” answered another. But notwithstanding this statement, several men
and women rushed to both ends of the car.
“Here’s the coat—on the floor!” cried one of those who had gone forward.
Forcing his way along the aisle, Ted seized the garment and hastily felt
in the inside pocket.
“My bill-fold and some letters are gone!” he gasped.