Kitabı oku: «Ralph on the Overland Express: or, The Trials and Triumphs of a Young Engineer», sayfa 5
CHAPTER X
FIRE!
Lemuel Fogg gave a violent start as he received the parcel from Ralph’s hand. His face fell and the color deserted it. The package unrolled in his grasp, and he let it drop to the ground. Two square sheets of green colored mica rolled out from the bundle.
“Fairbanks!” spoke the fireman hoarsely, his lips quivering – “you know?”
“I surmise a great deal,” replied Ralph promptly, “and I want to say nothing more about it.”
“But – ”
“I have figured it all out. Adams, the station man at Plympton, has a family. You are going to turn over a leaf, I have decided to take all the blame for the collision on the siding. I shall see the master mechanic within an hour and settle everything. I am going to resign my position with the Great Northern road.”
The fireman’s jaws dropped at this amazing declaration of the young railroader. It seemed as if for a moment he was fairly petrified at the unexpected disclosure of the noble self-sacrifice involved. He did not have to explain what those two sheets of green mica signified – Ralph knew too well. Inspired by jealousy, Lemuel Fogg had slipped them over the white signal lights of No. 999 as the locomotive approached Plympton, getting the siding semaphore, and removing them before the smash-up had come about.
“Never!” shouted Fogg suddenly. “Let me tell you, Fairbanks – ”
Before the speaker could finish the sentence Ralph seized his arm with the startling words:
“Mr. Fogg, look – fire!”
Facing about, Lemuel Fogg uttered a frightful cry as he discerned what had just attracted the notice of the young engineer. The Fogg house was in flames.
When Ralph had first noticed the fiercely-burning heap of rubbish on the Fogg premises, he had observed that it was dangerously near to the house. It had ignited the dry light timber of the dwelling, the whole rear part of which was now a mass of smoke and flames.
“My wife – my helpless wife and the little child!” burst from the lips of the frantic fireman in a shrill, ringing scream.
Ralph joined him as he ran down the alley on a mad run. The great sweat stood out on the bloodless face of the agonized husband and father in knobs, his eyes wore a frenzied expression of suspense and alarm.
“Save them! save them!” he shouted, as Ralph kept pace with him.
“Don’t get excited, Mr. Fogg,” spoke Ralph reassuringly. “We shall be in time.”
“But she cannot move – she is in the bedroom directly over the kitchen. Oh, this is a judgment for all my wickedness!”
“Be a man,” encouraged Ralph. “Here we are – let me help you.”
“Up the back stairs!” cried Fogg. “They are nearest to her.”
“No, no – you can never get up them,” declared Ralph.
The side door of the house was open, showing a pair of stairs, but they were all ablaze. Smoke and sparks poured up this natural funnel fiercely. Ralph caught at the arm of his companion and tried to detain him, but Fogg broke away from his grasp.
Ralph saw him disappear beyond the blazing barrier. He was about to run around to the front of the house, when he heard a hoarse cry. Driven back by the overpowering smoke, Fogg had stumbled. He fell headlong down a half a dozen steps, his head struck the lower platform, and he rolled out upon the gravel walk, stunned.
Ralph quickly dragged the man out of the range of the fire and upon the grass. He tried to arouse Fogg, but was unsuccessful. There was no time to lose. Seizing a half-filled bucket standing by the well near by, Ralph deluged the head of the insensible fireman with its contents. It did not revive him. Ralph sped to the front of the house, ran up on the stoop and jerked at the knob of the front screen door.
It was locked, but Ralph tore it open in an instant. A woman’s frantic screams echoed as the young railroader dashed into the house. He was quickly up the front stairs. At the top landing he paused momentarily, unable to look about him clearly because of the dense smoke that permeated the place.
Those frenzied screams again ringing out guided him down a narrow hallway to the rear upper bedroom. The furniture in it was just commencing to take fire. On the floor was the fireman’s wife, a tiny babe held in one arm, while with the other she was trying unsuccessfully to pull herself out of range of the fire.
“Save me! save me!” she shrieked, as Ralph’s form was vaguely outlined to her vision.
“Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Fogg,” spoke Ralph quickly – “there’s no danger.”
He ran to the bed, speedily pulled off a blanket lying there, and wrapped it about the woman.
“Hold the child closely,” he directed, and bodily lifted mother and babe in his strong, sinewy arms. The young railroader staggered under his great burden as he made for the hallway, but never was he so glad of his early athletic training as at this critical moment in his life.
It was a strenuous and perilous task getting down the front stairs with his load, but Ralph managed it. He carried mother and child clear out into the garden, placed them carefully on a rustic bench there, and then ran towards the well.
By this time people had come to the scene of the fire. There were two buckets at the well. A neighbor and the young railroader soon formed a limited bucket brigade, but it was slow work hauling up the water, and the flames had soon gained a headway that made their efforts to quench them useless.
Ralph organized the excited onlookers to some system in removing what could be saved from the burning house. In the meantime he had directed a boy to hasten to the nearest telephone and call out the fire department. Soon the clanging bell of the hose cart echoed in the near distance. The rear part of the house had been pretty well burned down by this time, and the front of the building began to blaze.
Ralph got a light wagon from the barn of a neighbor. A comfortable couch was made of pillows and blankets, and Mrs. Fogg and her child were placed on this. Ralph found no difficulty in enlisting volunteers to haul the wagon to his home, where his mother soon had the poor lady and her babe in a condition of safety and comfort. As Ralph returned to the dismantled and still smoking Fogg home he met a neighbor.
“Oh, Fairbanks,” spoke this person, “you’re in great demand up at the Foggs.”
“How is that?”
“Fogg has come to. They told him about your saving his wife and child. He cried like a baby at first. Then he insisted on finding you. He’s blessing you for your noble heroism, I tell you.”
“I don’t know about the noble heroism,” returned Ralph with a smile. “Go back, will you, and tell him I’ll see him in about an hour. Tell him to come down to our house at once. It’s all arranged there to make him feel at home until he can make other arrangements.”
“You’re a mighty good fellow, Fairbanks” declared the man enthusiastically, “and everybody knows it!”
“Thank you,” returned Ralph, and proceeded on his way. As he casually looked at his watch the young railroader quickened his steps with the half-murmured words:
“And now for a tussle with the master mechanic.”
CHAPTER XI
THE MASTER MECHANIC
“Want to resign, do you?”
“That is what I came here for, sir,” said the young engineer of No. 999.
“Well, you’re too late,” and the master mechanic of the Great Northern seemed to turn his back on Ralph, busying himself with some papers on his desk. He was a great, gruff fellow with the heart of a child, but he showed it rarely. A diamond in the rough, most of the employees of the road were afraid of him. Not so Ralph. The young railroader had won the respect and admiration of the official by his loyalty and close attention to duty. In fact, Ralph felt that the influence of the master mechanic had been considerable of an element in his promotion to No. 999. He stepped nearer to the desk, managing to face the would-be tyro.
“Too late, sir?” he repeated vaguely.
“Didn’t I say so? Get out!”
The master mechanic waved his hand, and Ralph was a trifle surprised at what seemed a peremptory dismissal. The moving arm of the old railroader described a swoop, grasped the hand of Ralph in a fervent grip, and pulling the young engineer to almost an embrace, he said:
“Fairbanks, we had in our family a little boy who died. It’s a pretty tender memory with us, but every time I look at you I think of the dear little fellow. He’d have been a railroader, too, if he had lived, and the fondest wish of my heart is that he might have been like you.”
“Why–” murmured the astonished Ralph.
The master mechanic cleared his throat and his great hand swept the moisture from his eyes. Then in a more practical tone he resumed:
“I said you was too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Resigning. You are too late,” observed the official, “because Lemuel Fogg has already been here.”
“Then–”
“To tender his resignation, to tell the whole truthful story of the collision on the siding at Plympton. Fairbanks,” continued the master mechanic very seriously, “you are a noble young fellow. I know your design to bear the whole brunt of the smash-up, in order that you might save your fireman and the station man down at Plympton. As I said, Fogg was here. I never saw a man so broken. He told me everything. He told me of your patience, of your kindness, your manliness. Lad, your treatment of Fogg under those circumstances shows the mettle in you that will make you a great man, and, what is better still, a good man.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ralph in a subdued tone, deeply affected despite himself.
“For the first time in twenty years’ service,” continued the official, “I am going to take a serious responsibility on myself which should be rightly shouldered by the company. The Plympton incident is dead and buried. The three of us must hold always the secret close. The black mark is rubbed off the slate.”
“You have done right – oh, believe me, sir!” declared Ralph earnestly. “I feel sure that Mr. Fogg has learned a lesson that he will never forget, and the blessings of his sick wife, of his ambitious young daughter, will be yours.”
“In my desk yonder,” continued the master mechanic, “I have his written pledge that drink is a thing of the past with him. I told Fogg that if ever he disappointed me in my belief that he was a changed man, a reformed man, I would leave the service feeling that my mistaken judgment did not do justice to my position with the Great Northern. As to you, ready to sacrifice yourself for the sake of others – you are a young man among thousands. Drop it now – get out!” ordered the master mechanic, with a vast show of authority. “It’s all under seal of silence, and I expect to see you and Fogg make a great team.”
“Mr. Fogg’s house has just burned down,” said Ralph. “It would have broken him down completely, if his discharge had been added to that misfortune.”
“Burned down?” repeated the master mechanic, in surprise and with interest. “How was that?” and Ralph had to recite the story of the fire. He added that he had heard Fogg had but little insurance.
“Wait a minute,” directed the official, and he went into the next office. Ralph heard him dictating something to his stenographer. Then the typewriter clicked, and shortly afterwards the master mechanic came into the office with a sheet of foolscap, which he handed to Ralph. A pleased flush came into the face of the young railroader as he read the typewritten heading of the sheet – it was a subscription list in behalf of Lemuel Fogg, and headed by the signature of the master mechanic, with “$20” after it.
“You are a noble man!” cried Ralph irresistibly. “No wonder it’s a joy to work for you.”
“Down brakes there!” laughed the big-hearted fellow. “Don’t draw it too strong, Fairbanks. Don’t be more liberal than you can afford now,” he directed, as Ralph placed the paper on the desk, and added to it his subscription for $10. “You can tell Fogg we’re rising a few pennies for him. I’ll circulate the subscription among the officials, and if any plan to have the roundhouse crowd chip in a trifle comes to your mind, why, start it down the rails. Get out.”
“All right,” cried Ralph. “You’ve said that twice, so I guess it’s time to go now.”
“One minute, though,” added the master mechanic. “You and Fogg will run No. 999 on the Tipton accommodation to-morrow. It’s a shift berth, though. I don’t want you to go dreaming quite yet, Fairbanks, that you’re president of the Great Northern, and all that, but, under the hat, I will say that you can expect a boost. We are figuring on some big things, and I shouldn’t wonder if a new train is soon to be announced that will wake up some of our rivals. Get out now for good, for I’m swamped with work here.”
The young engineer left the office of the master mechanic with a very happy heart. Affairs had turned out to his entire satisfaction, and, too, for the benefit of those whose welfare he had considered beyond his own. Ralph was full of the good news he had to impart to Lemuel Fogg. As he left the vicinity of the depot, he began to formulate a plan in his mind for securing a subscription from his fellow workers to aid Fogg.
“I say,” suddenly remarked Ralph to himself with a queer smile, and halting in his progress, “talk about coincidences, here is one for certain. ‘The Overland Limited,’ why, I’ve got an idea!”
The “Overland Limited” had been in Ralph’s mind ever since leaving the office of the master mechanic. There could be only one solution to the hint that official had given of “new trains that would wake up some of the rivals of the Great Northern.” That road had recently bought up two connecting lines of railroad. The China & Japan Mail experiment – could it be a test as to the possibility of establishing an “Overland Special?” At all events, there was a pertinent suggestion in the words that met the gaze of the young engineer and caused him to halt calculatingly.
A newly-painted store front with clouded windows had a placard outside bearing the announcement: “Olympia Theatre, 10-cent show. Will open next Saturday evening with the following special scenes: 1 – The Poor Artist. 2 – London by Gaslight. 3 – A Day on the Overland Limited.” At the door of the store just being renovated for a picture show stood a man, tying some printed bills to an awning rod for passers by to take. Ralph approached this individual.
“Going to open a moving picture show?” he inquired in a friendly way.
“I am,” responded the show man. “Interested?”
“Yes,” answered Ralph.
“I hope the public will be. It’s a sort of experiment, with two other shows in town. There’s none in this locality, and they tell me I’ll do well.”
“I should think so,” answered Ralph. “Bright, clean pictures will draw a good crowd.”
“I’d like to get the railroad men in touch with me. They and their families could give me lots of business. There’s that prime ‘Overland’ scene. It’s a new and fine film.”
“And it has suggested something to me that you may be glad to follow out,” spoke Ralph.
“And what’s that, neighbor?” inquired the showman curiously.
“I’ll tell you,” responded Ralph. “There was a fire in town to-day – one of the best-known firemen on the road was burned out. It’s a big blow to him, for he’s lost about all he had. There isn’t a railroad man in Stanley Junction who would not be glad to help him get on his feet again. The big fellows of the road will subscribe in a good way, but the workers can’t spare a great deal.”
“I see,” nodded the man. “What are you getting at, though?”
“Just this,” explained Ralph. “You get out some special dodgers and announce your opening night as a benefit for Lemuel Fogg, fireman. Offer to donate fifty per cent. of the proceeds to Fogg, and I’ll guarantee to crowd your house to the doors.”
“Say!” enthused the man, slapping Ralph boisterously on the shoulder, “you’re a natural showman. Write me the dodger, will you, and I’ll have it over the streets inside of twenty-four hours.”
“I’m better at filling in time schedules than composing show bills,” said Ralph, “but I’ll have a try at this one for my friend’s sake.”
Ralph went inside and was soon busy with blank paper and pencil, which the showman provided. His composition was a very creditable piece of literary work, and the showman chuckled immensely, and told Ralph that he could consider himself on the free list – “with all his family.”
Ralph made a start for home again, but his fixed plans were scheduled for frequent changes, it seemed. An engineer friend, on his way to the roundhouse, met him, and Ralph turned and walked that way with him. He broached the subject nearest to his heart, and soon had his companion interested in the subscription for Lemuel Fogg. When he parted with the man at the end of the depot platform the latter had promised to be responsible for great results among his fellow-workmen.
The young engineer now proceeded in the direction of home. The whistle of the western accommodation, however, just arriving, held him stationary for a few moments, and he stood watching the train roll into the depot with the interest ever present with a railroader.
The last coach was a chair car. As the coaches jolted to a halt, there crawled or rather rolled from under the chair car a forlorn figure, weakened, tattered, a stowaway delivered from a perilous stolen ride on the trucks.
It was a boy; Ralph saw that at a glance. As the depot watchman ran forward to nab this juvenile offender against the law, the boy sat up on the board plankway where he had landed, and Ralph caught a sight of his face.
In an instant the young railroader recognized this new arrival. It was “Wheels,” otherwise Archie Graham, the boy inventor.
CHAPTER XII
A GOOD FRIEND
RALPH could not repress a smile at a sight of the erratic youth. The young inventor, it seemed, was always coming to light in some original way. His last sensational appearance fitted in naturally to his usual eccentric methods.
“Hey, there! trying to beat the railroad, eh?” shouted the depot official officer, rushing forward to nab the culprit.
“Don’t arrest him, Mr. Brooks,” spoke Ralph quickly. “I know him; I’m interested in him. He is no professional ride-stealer, and I am perfectly satisfied that he never went to all that risk and discomfort because he didn’t have the money to pay his fare.”
The watchman was an old-time friend of Ralph. He looked puzzled, but he halted in his original intention of arresting the stowaway. Young Graham paid no attention to anything going on about him. He seemed occupied as usual with his own thoughts solely. First he dug cinders out of his blinking eyes. Then he rubbed the coating of grime and soot from his face, and began groping in his pockets. Very ruefully he turned out one particular inside coat pocket. He shook his head in a doleful way.
“Gone!” he remarked. “Lost my pocket book. Friend – a pencil, quick.”
These words he spoke to Ralph, beckoning him earnestly to approach nearer.
“And a card, a piece of paper, anything I can write on. Don’t delay – hurry, before I forget it.”
Ralph found a stub of a pencil and some railroad blanks in his pocket, and gave them to the young inventor. Then the latter set at work, becoming utterly oblivious of his surroundings. For nearly two minutes he was occupied in making memoranda and drawing small sections of curves and lines.
“All right, got it, good!” he voiced exultantly, as he returned the pencil to Ralph and carefully stowed the slips of paper in his pocket. Then he arose to his feet. He smiled queerly as he gazed down at his tattered garments and grimed and blistered hands.
“Pretty looking sight, ain’t I?” he propounded to the young engineer. “Had to do it, though. Glad I did it. Got the actual details, see?”
“What of, may I ask?” inquired Ralph.
“New idea. Save fuel, make the engine go faster. Been figuring on it for months,” explained the strange boy. “I live at Bridgeport.”
“Yes, I know,” nodded Ralph. “I saw you there.”
“Did? Glad of that, too. If you feel friendly enough, maybe you’ll advise me what to do in my distressing plight. Stranger here, and lost my pocketbook. It fell out of my pocket while I was hanging on to the trucks. Not a cent.”
“That can be fixed all right, I think,” said Ralph.
“Clothes all riddled – need a bath.”
“You had better come with me to the hotel, Mr. Graham,” spoke Ralph. “I know enough about you to be interested in you. I will vouch for you to the hotel keeper, who will take care of you until you hear from home.”
“Yes. Got money in the bank at Bridgeport,” said Archie Graham. “As I was telling you, I’ve struck a new idea. You know I’ve been trying to invent something for a number of years.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that, and sincerely hope you will figure out a success.”
“Stick at it, anyway,” declared Archie. “Well, at Bridgeport they take me as a joke, see? That’s all right; I’ll show them, some day. They voted me a nuisance at the shops and shut me out. Wouldn’t let me come near their engines. I had to find out some things necessary to my inventions, so I came on to Stanley Junction. Rode in a coach like any other civilized being until I got about ten miles from here – last stop.”
“Yes,” nodded Ralph.
“Well, there I stepped out of the coach and under it. Whew! but it was an experience I’ll never try again. All the same, I got what I was after. I wanted to learn how many revolutions an axle made in so many minutes. I wanted to know, too, how a belt could be attached under a coach. I’ve got the outlines of the facts, how to work out my invention: ‘Graham’s Automatic Bellows Gearing.’”
Ralph did not ask for further details as to the device his companion had in mind. He led a pleasant conversation the way from the depot, and when they reached the hotel introduced Archie to its proprietor.
“This friend of mine will be all right for what he orders, Mr. Lane,” said Ralph.
“Yes, I’m going to stay here some days, perhaps a week or two,” explained the young inventor, “so, if you’ll give me a blank check I’ll fill it for what cash I may need. You put it through your bank and the funds will be here to-morrow.”
Everything was arranged in a satisfactory way, even to Archie ordering a new suit of clothes. The youth came out temporarily from his usual profundity, and had a real, natural boyish talk with Ralph. The latter recited the incident of the adventure with Billy Bouncer’s crowd at Bridgeport.
“Oh, that Jim Scroggins fellow,” said Archie, with a smile. “Yes, I remember – ‘kick him Scroggins.’ You see, he had broken into my workshop, destroyed some devices I was working on and stole a lot of my tools. So you’re Mr. Fairbanks? I’ve heard of you.”
“Ralph, you mean, Mr. Graham,” observed the young railroader pleasantly.
“Then Archie, you mean,” added his eccentric companion. “I’d like to be friends with you, for I can see you are the right sort. You’ve done a good deal for me.”
“Oh, don’t notice that.”
“And you can do a good deal more.”
“Indeed? How?”
“By getting me free range of your roundhouse here. Can you?”
“I will be glad to do it,” answered Ralph.
“I hope you will,” said Archie gratefully. “They don’t know me here, and they won’t poke fun at me or hinder me. I’m not going to steal any of their locomotives. I just want to study them.”
“That’s all right,” said Ralph, “I’ll see you to-morrow and fix things for you, so you will be welcome among my railroad friends.”
“You’re a royal good fellow, Mr. Ralph,” declared the young inventor with enthusiasm, “and I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“Well, I’ve tried to do something for humanity to-day,” reflected the young engineer brightly, as he wended his way homewards. “It comes easy and natural, too, when a fellow’s trying to do his level best.”
Ralph found his mother bustling about at a great rate when he reached home. The excitement over the fire had died down. Fogg was up at the ruins getting his rescued household belongings to a neighborly shelter. The string of excited friends to condole with Mrs. Fogg had dwindled away, and the poor lady lay in comfort and peace in the best bedroom of the house.
“She seems so grateful to you for having saved her life,” Mrs. Fairbanks told Ralph, “and so glad, she told me, that her husband had signed the pledge, that she takes the fire quite reasonably.”
“Yes,” remarked Ralph, “I heard about the pledge, and it is a blessed thing. I have other grand news, too. There’s a lot of good fellows in Stanley Junction, and the Foggs won’t be long without a shelter over their heads,” and Ralph told his mother all about the subscription list and the moving picture show benefit.
“You are a grand manager, Ralph,” said the fond mother. “I am only too glad to do my share in making these people welcome and comfortable.”
“You know how to do it, mother,” declared Ralph, “that’s sure.”
“It seems as if things came about just right to take in the Foggs,” spoke Mrs. Fairbanks. “Limpy Joe went back to his restaurant on the Short Line yesterday, and Zeph Dallas has left, looking for a new job, he says, so we have plenty of spare rooms for our guests.”
Ralph started for the ruined Fogg homestead to see if he could be of any use there. He came upon Fogg moving some furniture to the barn of a neighbor on a hand-cart. The fireman dropped the handles as he saw Ralph. His face worked with vivid emotion as he grasped the hand of the young railroader.
“Fairbanks,” he said, “what can I say to you except that you have been the best friend I have ever known!”
“Nothing, except to make up your mind that the friendship will last if you want to suit me.”
“Honest – honest?” urged Fogg, the tears in his eyes, earnestly regarding Ralph’s face. “You don’t despise me?”
“Oh, yes, we all dislike you, Mr. Fogg!” railed Ralph, with a hearty laugh. “The master mechanic has such bitter animosity for you, that he’s taking his revenge by circulating a subscription list to help build you a new home.”
“Never!” gasped Fogg, overcome.
“What’s more,” proceeded Ralph, in the same ironical tone, “the men down at the roundhouse have such a deep grudge against you, that they are following his example.”
“I don’t deserve it – I don’t deserve it!” murmured the fireman.
“Why, even the new moving picture showman is so anxious to throw you down, that he’s going to give you a benefit Saturday evening.”
“I guess I’m the wickedest and happiest man in the world,” said Fogg, in a subdued tone.
“You ought to be the happiest, after that little memoranda you gave to the master mechanic,” suggested Ralph.
“The pledge? Yes!” cried the fireman, “and I mean to keep it, too. He told you about it?”
“And everything else necessary to tell,” replied Ralph. “It’s all settled. He says you and I ought to make a strong team. Let’s try, hard, Mr. Fogg.”
“Lad, I’ll show you!” declared Fogg solemnly.
“All right, then say no more about it, and let us get these traps under cover, and get home to enjoy a famous meal my mother is preparing for all hands.”
Activity and excitement around the Fairbanks home did not die down until long after dark. All the afternoon and evening people came to the house to see Fogg, to offer sympathy and practical assistance. If the fireman needed encouragement, he got plenty of it. He seemed to have grown into a new man under the chastening, and yet hopeful influences of that eventful day in his life. Before his very eyes Ralph fancied he saw his fireman grow in new manliness, courage and earnestness of purpose.
All hands were tired enough to sleep soundly that night. When Ralph came down stairs in the morning, his mother told him that Fogg was up and about already. She believed he had gone up to the ruins to look over things in a general way. Ralph went out to hunt up the stroller for breakfast.
Scarcely started from the house, he halted abruptly, for the object of his quest was in view. Ralph saw the fireman about half a block away. He was facing two men whom Ralph recognized as Hall and Wilson, two blacklisters who had been prominent in the railroad strike.
One of them was gesticulating vigorously and telling something to Fogg, while his companion chipped in a word now and then. Suddenly something appeared to be said that roused up the fireman. His hand went up in the air with an angry menacing motion. He shouted out some words that Ralph could not hear at the distance he was from the scene.
The two men seemed to remonstrate. One of them raised his own fist menacingly. The other crowded towards Fogg in a stealthy, suspicious way.
In a flash the climax came. Swinging out his giant hand, the fireman of No. 999 seized his nearest opponent and gave him a fling into the ditch. He then sprang at the other, and sent him whirling head over heels to join his companion.
