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CHAPTER VIII
AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY
The young engineer of No. 999 faced a new mystery, a sharp suspicion darted through his mind. He recalled instantly several queer breaks that the special passenger had made in his conversation.
“Your cousin, is he?” observed Ralph thoughtfully.
“That’s what he is,” affirmed Dave Bissell.
“And his name is Fred Porter?”
“Always has been,” declared Dave. “Why, something up? Humph! I can guess. Bet he’s been up to some of his old tricks. He always was a joker and full of mischief.”
“Tell me more about him,” suggested Ralph.
“Why, there isn’t much to tell,” said Dave. “He and I were raised at Earlville. His parents both died several years ago, and he wandered around a good deal. This is the first I’ve seen of him for over two years.”
“Might you not be mistaken – facial resemblance?”
“Not much,” observed Dave staunchly. “Think I don’t recognize my own relatives? Why, didn’t you notice how he acted?”
“Yes, surprised.”
“No, scared,” corrected Dave, “and ran away.”
“Why?” demanded Ralph.
“Well, from your seeming to know him under another name, I should say because he is found out. What game has he been playing on you, Fairbanks?”
“He has done me more good than harm,” evaded Ralph. “I’ve only known him since yesterday.”
“Well, he has run away, that’s certain. That bothers me. Fred Porter was never a sneak or a coward. He was full of jolly mischief and fun, but a better friend no fellow ever had.”
“He struck me that way,” said Ralph. “I hope he’ll come back. There’s my engine coming, and I’ll have to go on duty. Try and find him, Dave, will you?”
“If I can.”
“And if you find him, tell him I must see him before we leave Bridgeport.”
“All right.”
Ralph picked up the lunch package that his odd acquaintance had dropped and moved along the platform to where No. 999 had run. The locomotive was backed to the coaches and the relief engineer stepped to the platform.
“I say,” he projected in an undertone to Ralph, “what’s up with Fogg?”
“Is there anything?” questioned Ralph evasively.
“Dizzy in the headlight and wobbly in the drivers, that’s all,” came the response, with a wink.
Ralph’s heart sank as he entered the cab. Its atmosphere was freighted with the fumes of liquor, and a single glance at the fireman convinced him that Fogg was very far over the line of sobriety. Ralph hardly knew how to take Fogg. The latter nodded briefly and turned away, pretending to occupy himself looking from the cab window. Ralph could not resist the impulse to try and break down the wall of reserve between them. He stepped over to the fireman’s side and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“See here, Fogg,” he said in a friendly tone, “I’ve got to say something or do something to square accounts for your help in routing that crowd this morning.”
“Don’t you speak of it!” shot out the fireman fiercely. “It’s over and done, isn’t it? Let it drop.”
“All right,” laughed Ralph genially. “Say, I saw a dispatch in the Bridgeport paper to-day from Stanley Junction that ought to make you feel pretty good.”
“Did?” snapped Fogg, determinedly antagonistic and stubbornly keeping his face turned away.
“Yes. It gave the list of names of those in our district who passed an examination as school teachers.”
Ralph observed that a tremor ran through the fireman’s frame at this intelligence.
“Who – who was in it?” he questioned, his voice hoarse and tense.
“Two from the Junction.”
“Two?”
“Yes, and the one who led with the highest average was your daughter, Nellie.”
“I – I don’t deserve it!” fairly sobbed the fireman, getting up suddenly and striving to hide his emotion. “Boy!” and he trembled all over as he now faced Ralph, “I’m steamed up again, as you can plainly see. I won’t deny it, but I had to, I couldn’t fire a mile unless I steamed up, but I’ll say one thing with truth – I’ve got no bottle in the cab.”
“That’s good, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph.
“And never will have again, and you’ve seen the last signs of the dirty stuff on me. I’m going home to make a new start.”
“Heaven bless you in your new resolution, Mr. Fogg!” cried Ralph, his own tones none too steady.
“I’ll – I’ll have something to say to you after we get home,” continued Fogg. “Just leave me alone till then.”
Something was working on the mind of the fireman, this was very plain – something for good, Ralph fervently hoped. The young engineer took his cue promptly. During all the trip to Stanley Junction he avoided all conversation except commonplace routine remarks. Up to the time of leaving Bridgeport Ralph had waited expectantly for some sign of the youth he had known as Marvin Clark. Clark or Porter, his new acquaintance did not put in an appearance, nor did Dave Bissell return.
“Dave did not succeed in finding him,” decided Ralph, as No. 999 started up. “I’m sorry.” Dave had been pretty positive as to the identity of his cousin, and the elusive actions of his relative seemed to verify his recognition.
“Traveling under false colors, I fear,” reflected the young engineer. “A pretty bold and difficult imposture, I should think. Are his credentials false or stolen? But how to explain his motive? He doesn’t like railroading, and the system and the vouchers he is at so much trouble to get and preserve make this business decidedly mysterious. If it wasn’t for those features, I would feel it my duty to report the affair and notify the real Marvin Clark, if there is one.”
Ralph had both mind and hands full during the trip. As to Fogg, he went straight about his duties, grimly silent and mechanically. As the fire and vim of stimulation died down, Ralph could see that it was with the most exhaustive effort that his fireman kept up his nerve and strength. Fogg was weak and panting the last shovel full of coal he threw into the furnace, as they sighted Stanley Junction. He was as limp as a rag, and looked wretched as the train rolled into the depot.
They ran the locomotive to the roundhouse. Ralph went at once to the foreman’s office, while Fogg attended to the stalling of No. 999. He found the night watchman asleep there and no orders on the blackboard for Fogg or himself. This meant that they need not report before noon.
Ralph looked around for the fireman when he came out of the office, but the latter had disappeared, probably headed for home. Ralph, half-across the turntable, halted and went over to No. 999.
“The vest of that mysterious new acquaintance of mine, Clark – Porter,” said Ralph – “he said he left it in the locomotive.”
Ralph did not find the article in question in his own bunker. He threw back the cover of Fogg’s box, to discover the vest neatly folded up at the bottom of that receptacle. With some curiosity he looked over its pockets.
“Whew!” whistled Ralph, as he removed and opened the only article it contained – a check book. The checks were upon a bank at Newton. About half of what the book had originally contained had been removed. Examining the stubs, Ralph calculated that over $1,000 had been deposited at the bank in the name of Marvin Clark, and that fully half that amount had been checked out.
“This is pretty serious,” commented the young engineer. “It looks as if the impostor has not only stolen Clark’s name, but his passes and his check book as well. I don’t like the looks of this. There’s something here I can’t figure out.”
Ralph placed the check book in his own pocket and returned the vest to the box. As he did this, he disturbed a piece of cloth used by Fogg to wipe grease from the cab valves. Something unfamiliar to the touch was outlined wrapped up in the rag, and Ralph explored.
Two objects came into view as he opened the piece of cloth. With a great gasp the young engineer stared at these. Then he rolled up the rag and placed it and its contents in his pocket.
His face grew grave, and Ralph uttered a deep sigh, startled and sorrowful.
The young engineer of No. 999 had made a discovery so strange, so unexpected, that it fairly took his breath away.
The mystery of the collision on the siding at Plympton was disclosed.
CHAPTER IX
THE LIGHT OF HOME
Ralph walked home in the quiet night in a serious and thoughtful mood. His usually bright face was clouded and his head bent, as though his mind was greatly upset. As the light of home came into view, however, with a effort he cast aside all railroad and personal cares.
“Always the same dear, faithful mother,” he murmured gratefully, as he approached the cheerful looking cottage all alight down stairs, and hurried his steps to greet her waiting for him on the porch.
“Ralph,” she spoke anxiously, “you are not hurt?”
“Hurt!” cried Ralph, “not a bit of it. Why,” as he noticed his mother trembling all over, “what put that into your head?”
“The fear that what Zeph heard downtown at the roundhouse might be true,” replied Mrs. Fairbanks. “There was a rumor that there had been a collision. Besides, I knew that some of your enemies were watching your movements.”
“You must stop worrying over these foolish notions,” said Ralph reassuringly. “We made a successful run, and as to the enemies, they generally get the worst of it. Men in the wrong always do.”
Ralph was glad to get back to his comfortable home. As he passed through the hallway he noticed Zeph Dallas, asleep on the couch. Ralph did not hail or disturb him. Young Dallas had been at work for the friends of Ralph who operated the Short Line Railroad up near Wilmer, but about two weeks previous to the present time had got tired of the dull route through the woods and had come to Stanley Junction. The young engineer had gotten him a job “subbing” as a helper on a yards switch engine. Zeph had been made welcome at the Fairbanks home, as were all friends of Ralph, by his devoted mother.
“You are the best mother and the best cook in the world,” declared Ralph, as he sat down at the table in the cozy little dining room, before a warm meal quickly brought from the kitchen. “Really, mother, you are simply spoiling me, and as to your sitting up for me this way and missing your sleep, it is a positive imposition on you.”
His mother only smiled sweetly and proudly upon him. Then she asked:
“Was it a hard trip, Ralph?”
“In a way,” responded Ralph. “But what made it harder was some unpleasant developments entirely outside of railroad routine.”
“That so? It never rains but it pours!” proclaimed an intruder abruptly, and, awakened from his sleep by the sound of voices, Zeph Dallas came into the dining room yawning and stretching himself.
“Why!” exclaimed Ralph, giving the intruder a quick stare, “what have you ever been doing to yourself?”
“Me?” grinned Zeph – “you mean that black eye and that battered cheek?”
“Yes – accident?”
“No – incident,” corrected Zeph, with a chuckle. “A lively one, too, I can tell you.”
“Fell off the engine?”
“No, fell against a couple of good hard human fists. We had been sorting stray freights all the afternoon on old dinky 97, and had sided to let a passenger go by, when I noticed a man with a bag and a stick picking up coal along the tracks. Just then, a poor, ragged little fellow with a basket came around the end of the freight doing the same. The man thought he had a monopoly in his line, because he was big. He jumped on the little fellow, kicked him, hit him with his stick, and – I was in the mix-up in just two seconds.”
“You should keep out of trouble, Zeph,” advised Mrs. Fairbanks, gently.
“How could I, ma’am, when that little midget was getting the worst of it?” demurred Zeph. “Well, I pitched into the big, overgrown bully, tooth and nail. I’m a sight, maybe. You ought to see him! He cut for it after a good sound drubbing, leaving his bag of coal behind him. I gave the little fellow all the loose change I had, filled his basket from the bag, and sent him home happy. When I got back to the engine, Griggs, the assistant master mechanic, was in the cab. He said a few sharp words about discipline and the rules of the road, and told me to get off the engine.”
“Discharged, eh?”
“And to stay off. I’m slated, sure. Don’t worry about it, Fairbanks; I’d got sick to death of the job, anyway.”
“But what are you going to do?” inquired Ralph gravely.
“Get another one, of course. I’m going to try to get Bob Adair, the road detective, to give me a show. That’s the line of work I like. If he won’t, I’ll try some other town. I’m sorry, Fairbanks, for my wages will only settle what board I owe you, and there’s that last suit of clothes you got for me, not paid for yet–”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that, Zeph,” interrupted Ralph kindly. “You’re honest, and you’ll pay when you can. You may keep what money you have for a new start until you get to work again.”
Zeph looked grateful. Then Ralph gave some details of the record run to Bridgeport, there was some general conversation, and he went to bed.
Ralph had asked his mother to call him at nine o’clock in the morning, but an hour before that time there was a tap at the door of the bedroom.
“Ralph, dear,” spoke up his mother, “I dislike to disturb you, but a messenger boy has just brought a telegram, and I thought that maybe it was something of importance and might need immediate attention.”
“That’s right, mother. I will be down stairs in a minute,” answered the young railroader, and he dressed rapidly and hurried down to the sitting room, where his mother stood holding out to him a sealed yellow envelope. Ralph tore it open. He looked for a signature, but there was none. It was a night message dated at Bridgeport, the evening previous, and it ran:
“Clark – Porter – whatever you know don’t speak of it, or great trouble may result. Will see you within two days.”
“I wonder what the next development will be?” murmured Ralph. “‘Great trouble may result.’ I don’t understand it at all. ‘Will see you in two days’ – then there is some explanation coming. Clark, or whatever his real name is, must suspect or know that his cousin, Dave Bissell, has told me something. Well, I certainly won’t make any move about this strange affair until Clark has had an opportunity to straighten things out. In the meantime, I’ve got a good deal of personal business on my hands.”
Ralph was a good deal in doubt and anxious as to his railroad career, immediate and prospective. As has been told, his trip to Bridgeport had been a record run. The fact that the China & Japan Mail could be delivered on time, indicated a possibility that the Great Northern might make a feature of new train service. It would not, however, be done in a day. No. 999 might be put on the Dover branch of the Great Northern, or accomodation service to other points, and the Overland Express connection canceled.
There had been all kinds of speculation and gossip at the dog house as to the new system of business expansion adopted by the Great Northern. That road had acquired new branches during the past year, and was becoming a big system of itself. There was talk about a consolidation with another line, which might enable the road to arrange for traffic clear to the Pacific. New splendid train service was talked of everywhere, among the workmen, and every ambitious railroader was looking for a handsome and substantial promotion.
Ralph could not tell until he reported at the roundhouse after twelve o’clock when and how he would start out again. On the Bridgeport run he was not due until the next morning. All he was sure of was that he and Fogg were regulars for No. 999 wherever that locomotive was assigned, until further orders interfered. Despite the successful record run to Bridgeport, somebody was listed for at least a “call-down” on account of the accident on the siding at Plympton. Every time Ralph thought of that, he recollected his “find” in Lemuel Fogg’s bunker, and his face became grave and distressed.
“It’s bound to come out,” he reflected, as he strolled into the neat, attractive garden after breakfast. “Why, Mr. Griscom – I’m glad to see you.”
His old railroad friend was passing the house on his way to the roundhouse to report for duty. His brisk step showed that he was limited as to time, but he paused for a moment.
“You got there, Fairbanks, didn’t you?” he commented heartily. “Good. I knew you would, but say, what about this mix-up on the signals at Plympton?”
“Oh, that wasn’t much,” declared Ralph.
“Enough to put the master mechanic on his mettle,” objected the veteran engineer. “He’s going to call all hands on the carpet. Had me in yesterday afternoon. He showed me your conductor’s report wired from Bridgeport. It throws all the blame on Adams, the new station man at Plympton. The conductor declares it was all his fault – ‘color blind,’ see? Master mechanic had Adams down there yesterday.”
“Surely no action is taken yet?” inquired Ralph anxiously.
“No, but I fancy Adams will go. It’s a plain case, I think. Your signals were special and clear right of way, that’s sure. Danforth is ready to swear to that. Adams quite as positively swears that the green signals on the locomotive were set on a call for the siding. He broke down and cried like a child when it was hinted that a discharge from the service was likely.”
“Poor fellow, I must see the master mechanic at once,” said Ralph.
“You’ll have to, for your explanation goes with him and will settle the affair. You see, it seems that Adams had broken up his old home and gone to the trouble and expense of moving his family to Plympton. Now, to be let out would be a pretty hard blow to him. Of course, though, if he is color blind–”
“He is not color blind!” cried Ralph, with so much earnestness that Griscom stared at him strangely.
“Aha! so you say that, do you?” observed the old engineer, squinting his eyes suspiciously. “Then – Fogg. Tricks, I’ll bet!”
“I’ll talk to you later, Mr. Griscom,” said Ralph.
“Good, I want to know, and I see you have something to tell.”
The young engineer had, indeed, considerable to tell when the time came to justify the disclosures. He was worried as to how he should tell it, and to whom. Ralph sat down in the little vine-embowered summer-house in the garden, and had a good hard spell of thought. Then, as his hand went into his pocket and rested on the piece of cloth with its enclosure which he had found in Fogg’s bunker on No. 999, he started from his seat, a certain firm, purposeful expression on his face.
“I’ve got to do it,” he said to himself, as he went along in the direction of the home of Lemuel Fogg. “Somebody has got to take the responsibility of the collision. Adams, the new station man at Plympton, is innocent of any blame. It would be a terrible misfortune for him to lose his job. Fogg has sickness in his family. The truth coming out, might spoil all the future of that bright daughter of his. As to myself – why, if worse comes to worse, I can find a place with my good friends on the Short Line Railway down near Dover. I’m young, I’m doing right in making the sacrifice, and I’m not afraid of the future. Yes, it is a hard way for a fellow with all the bright dreams I’ve had, but – I’m going to do it!”
The young engineer had made a grand, a mighty resolve. It was a severe struggle, a hard, bitter sacrifice of self interest, but Ralph felt that a great duty presented, and he faced its exactions manfully.
The home of Lemuel Fogg the fireman was about four blocks distant. As Ralph reached it, he found a great roaring fire of brush and rubbish burning in the side yard.
“A good sign, if that is a spurt of home industry with Fogg,” decided the young railroader. “He’s tidying up the place. It needs it bad enough,” and Ralph glanced critically at the disordered yard.
Nobody was astir about the place. Ralph knew that Mrs. Fogg had been very ill of late, and that there was an infant in the house. He decided to wait until Fogg appeared, when he noticed the fireman way down the rear alley. His back was to Ralph and he was carrying a rake. Fogg turned into a yard, and Ralph started after him calculating that the fireman was returning the implement to a neighbor. Just as Ralph came to the yard, the fireman came out of it.
At a glance the young engineer noted a change in the face of Fogg that both surprised and pleased him. The fireman looked fresh, bright and happy. He was humming a little tune, and he swung along as if on cheerful business bent, and as if all things were coming swimmingly with him.
“How are you, Mr. Fogg?” hailed Ralph.
The fireman changed color, a half-shamed, half-defiant look came into his face, but he clasped the extended hand of the young railroader and responded heartily to its friendly pressure.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Fairbanks,” he said, straightening up as if under some striving sense of manliness.
“That’s all right,” nodded Ralph with a smile. “I’m going back to the house with you, and will be glad to have a chat with you. First, though, I want to say something to you, so we’ll pause here for a moment.”
“I’ve – I’ve made a new start,” stammered Fogg. “I’ve buried the past.”
“Good!” cried Ralph, giving his companion a hearty slap on the shoulder, “that’s just what I was going to say to you. Bury the past – yes, deep, fathoms deep, without another word, never to be resurrected. To prove it, let’s first bury this. Kick it under that ash heap yonder, Mr. Fogg, and forget all about it. Here’s something that belongs to you. Put it out of sight, and never speak of it or think of it again.”
And Ralph handed to the fireman the package done up in the oiling cloth that he had unearthed from Fogg’s bunker in the cab of No. 999.
