Kitabı oku: «Dave Porter and His Double: or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXIII
AT THE ENGINEERING CAMP
“I can understand now why that man Jarvey spoke against Mr. Watson,” remarked Dave, as he and his chum walked along the main street of San Antonio. “Mr. Watson evidently has no use for a fellow who doesn’t attend to business.”
“I think he’s all right, Dave,” returned Roger. “Of course, he’s business clean through. But that is what you’ve got to expect from a man who holds such a position.”
“Exactly, Roger. The fellow who takes his own time and does things about as he pleases has no place in the modern business world.”
The two youths had received full instructions regarding what they were to do. They were to take a train westward early in the morning for a small place known as Molona, situated but a short distance from the Rio Grande. There they were to report to Mr. Ralph Obray. Mr. Watson had asked them regarding what they had brought along in the way of baggage, and on being questioned had advised them to purchase several other things before starting for the engineering camp.
“This is certainly an odd sort of place–quite different from a New England town,” was Dave’s comment, as he and his chum went from one shop to another in San Antonio in quest of the things they wished to buy.
“Seems to me that it has quite a Mexican flavor to it,” remarked Roger. “Just see all the big hats and the fringed trousers.”
Now that they had come so far the chums were eager to get to the camp, and they could scarcely wait until the following morning. They found a comfortable hotel, had an early breakfast, and by seven o’clock were on their way westward.
“Now we are almost on the border,” remarked Roger, as they stopped at a place called Del Rio. He was studying a railroad map. “At the next place, called Viaduct, we will be on the Rio Grande, with Mexico just across from us.”
“It isn’t such a very grand river after all,” remarked Dave, when they came in sight of the stream. “It looks more like a great big overgrown creek to me.”
“You can’t compare these rivers with the Hudson or the St. Lawrence, Dave. But I suppose at certain seasons of the year this river gets to be pretty big.”
Soon their train rolled into Molona and the youths alighted. The station was a primitive affair, consisting of a small platform and a building not over ten feet square.
Word had been sent ahead that they were coming, and among the several Texans and Mexicans who had gathered to watch the train come in, they found a middle-aged man on a burro with two other burros standing behind.
“Are you the young fellows for the Mentor camp?” he questioned, as Dave and Roger approached him.
“We are,” returned our hero, quickly. “Did you come for us?”
“I did. Mr. Watson sent a wire that you were coming, so the boss sent me here to get you, thinking you wouldn’t know the way. Porter and Morr, I believe–but which is which?”
“I am Dave Porter,” answered Dave, “and this is my chum, Roger Morr.”
“Glad to know you. My name is Frank Andrews. I am from Scranton, Pennsylvania. I suppose you can ride?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Roger. “We did more or less riding when we were out on Star Ranch.”
“Good enough! Some of the young fellows who come out here can’t ride at all, and they have some trouble getting around, believe me! This, you know, is the country of magnificent distances,” and Frank Andrews laughed.
“How many have you in the camp here?” questioned Dave, after he and Roger had mounted the two waiting burros and were riding off beside the man from the engineering camp.
“There are twenty of us in the engineering gang, and I think they have about seventy to eighty men in the construction camp, with forty or fifty more on the way. You see, they have been bothered a great deal for hired help lately on account of the trouble with the Mexican bandits and revolutionists. Lots of men are afraid to come down here to work for fear some bandits will make a raid across the border and shoot them down.”
“Have you had any trouble lately?” questioned Roger, quickly.
“We had trouble about two weeks ago. A couple of dirty Mexicans came into camp and were caught trying to steal away that night with some of our belongings. One of the fellows got a crack on the head with a club, and the other we think was shot in the side. But both of them got away in the darkness.”
“That’s interesting, to say the least,” remarked Dave, drily. “I guess we’ve got to sleep with our eyes open, as the saying is.”
“You’ve certainly got to watch yourself while you’re down here,” answered Frank Andrews. “There is more talk about trouble than anything else, but the talk gets on some of the men’s nerves, and we have had one civil engineer and two helpers leave us just on that account. They said they would prefer to work somewhere in the United States where they wouldn’t be worried thinking the greasers might attack them.”
As the party rode along they had to cross a bridge which was comparatively new, and their guide explained that this structure was one erected by the Mentor Company. Then they went over a slight rise, and finally came into view of a long row of one-story buildings with several rows of adobe houses behind them.
“Here we are at the camp!” announced the guide. “The engineering gang lives and does business in these houses here, and those huts at the back are used by the construction gangs.”
It was all so new and novel to Dave and Roger that they were intensely interested. With their guide they rode up to the main building and dismounted. In a moment more they found themselves inside and confronted by Mr. Ralph Obray, the head of the camp.
“Glad to see you,” he said, shaking hands after they had introduced themselves. “We are rather short of helpers just now; so you’ll find plenty to do. I understand Mr. Ramsdell has given you a first-class recommendation. I hope that you’ll be able to live up to it,” and he smiled faintly.
“I’m going to do what I can, Mr. Obray,” answered Dave.
“And so am I,” added Roger.
Frank Andrews had already told them that a man with a wagon would be sent down to the station for their trunks and suitcases, all of which had been left in charge of the station-master. The youths were taken to one of the buildings not far from the office, and there assigned to a room containing two cots.
“Of course, this isn’t the Biltmore Hotel or the Waldorf Astoria,” remarked Frank Andrews, with a grin. “If you stay out here you’ll have to learn to rough it.”
“We know something about roughing it already,” answered Dave. “If the other fellows can stand it I guess we can.”
“You won’t find it so bad when you get used to it,” answered the man. “Of course, it’s pretty hot during the day, but the nights are quite comfortable. We’ve got a first-class colored cook, so you won’t find yourselves cut short on meals.”
“That’s good news,” answered the senator’s son. “I always thought that a good meal covered a multitude of sins,” and at this misquotation Frank Andrews laughed heartily.
The man had already been despatched to get the baggage, and after it arrived Dave and Roger proceeded to make themselves at home, each donning such clothing as they saw the others of the engineering corps wearing.
“It’s good-bye to boiled shirts and stiff collars,” said Roger, “and I’m not sorry for it.”
“Nor am I,” returned Dave. “I’ll feel much more like working in this comfortable outfit.”
Almost before they knew it, it was noon, and presently they saw a number of men, some of them quite young, coming in to dinner. Through Frank Andrews they were introduced to all the others, and then placed at one of the tables in the mess hall where a helper of Jeff, the cook, served them with a meal which, if not exactly elegant, was certainly well-cooked and substantial.
“I want you two young men to stay around the offices for the rest of this week,” announced Mr. Obray to them after the meal. “That will give you a chance to familiarize yourselves with what we are doing in the way of constructions in this vicinity. Then next week you can go out with the gang and begin your regular field practice.”
The youths soon found that practical work in the office was quite different from the theoretical work done under Mr. Ramsdell. Still their tutor had instructed them faithfully, so that they soon “caught on,” as Roger remarked.
When they did not understand a thing they did not hesitate to ask questions, and they found the other persons present very willing to explain and to help them. There was a spirit of comradeship throughout the whole camp that was as comforting as it was beneficial.
“It isn’t everybody for himself here,” explained Frank Andrews. “It is one for all. You are expected to do all you can for the other fellow, and in return it’s understood that he will do all he can for you.”
“It’s a fine method,” answered Dave; “and I don’t wonder that the Mentor Construction Company is making such a success of its undertakings.”
One day our hero asked Frank Andrews if he knew William Jarvey. At the question the man drew down the corners of his mouth and shook his head in disgust.
“Yes, I know Bill,” he answered. “He’s over in the offices at San Antonio mostly, but he occasionally comes out here on business for Mr. Watson. I must say I don’t like him very much, and I don’t think the other men do either. He’s a fellow who likes to drink now and then, and I understand he often gambles. That is, when he has the money. He’s usually strapped long before pay-day comes around.”
“I thought he might be that sort of fellow,” answered Dave.
“He got into a row with Mr. Watson while we were at San Antonio,” put in Roger, and related a few of the particulars.
“If Bill doesn’t look out he’ll lose his job, and it will be too bad,” answered Frank Andrews, “because he won’t be likely to get another such easy berth in a hurry. He gets good money for what little he does. He hired with the company as a first-class bookkeeper, but I understand he is only ordinary when it comes to handling big masses of figures.”
“Well, I didn’t like him when I met him, and I’d be just as well satisfied if we didn’t meet again,” said Dave.
But Dave’s wish was not to be gratified. He was to meet William Jarvey in the future, and that meeting was to bring with it a great surprise.
CHAPTER XXIV
A MIDNIGHT ALARM
“Well, Dave, we have been in this camp just a month to-day. How do you think you like it?”
“I like it first-rate, Roger–in fact, better than I first thought I would. All the engineers and assistants are so kind and helpful.”
“That’s what they are,” returned the senator’s son. “And I think we are getting along famously. Do you know, I am actually in love with the construction of this new Catalco bridge. I think it’s going to be a dandy when it’s completed.”
“Not only a dandy, Roger, but, unless I miss my guess, it will be a monument to the skill and ingenuity of the Mentor Construction Company. I’ve been reading up on all kinds of bridges, and I think the construction of this particular bridge goes ahead of most of them.”
“One thing is sure–Mr. Obray is very proud of the way things are going. I heard from Andrews that some of the other construction companies thought we would never be able to build this bridge the way it is going up.”
The talk between the two chums was held in the evening after work for the day had come to an end. Dave and Roger stood on an elevation of ground surveying the unfinished bridge–or rather chain of bridges–which spanned a river and the marshland beyond. It had been a great engineering feat to obtain the proper foundations for the bridge where it spanned the marshland, and make them impervious to the floods which came with great force during certain seasons of the year.
The first week at the camp had been spent in the offices, but all the other time had been put in with the engineering gang that was superintending the construction of the far end of the bridge, and also the laying out of the railroad route through the hills and cuts beyond. The work had proved fascinating to the chums, and they were surprised to see how quickly the time passed.
Dave and Roger had made a number of friends, but none more agreeable than Frank Andrews. Andrews occupied a room close to their own, and often spent an evening with them.
About the end of the second week they had received word concerning William Jarvey. The bookkeeper in the offices at San Antonio had had a violent quarrel with Mr. Watson and had been discharged. He had gone off declaring that his being treated thus was unjustifiable, and that he was going to bring the Mentor Construction Company to account for it.
“I guess he’s nothing but a bag of wind,” was Roger’s comment, on hearing this. “The company is probably much better off to have such a chap among the missing.”
“I don’t see what he can do to hurt the company,” had been Dave’s answer. “He was probably discharged for good cause.”
Although so far away from home, it must not be supposed that Dave and Roger had forgotten the folks left behind. They had sent numerous letters telling of their various experiences and of what they hoped to do in the future. In return Roger had received one letter from his father and another from his mother, and Dave had gotten communications from his sister Laura and from Jessie, and also a long letter from Ben.
Of these the letter received from Jessie was to our hero the most important, and it must be confessed that he read it a number of times. The girl was greatly interested in all that he had told her about his work, and she said she hoped he would become a great civil engineer, and that she certainly trusted he would not have any trouble with the Mexicans.
The letter from Ben Basswood had been rather a disheartening communication. Ben wrote that his father did not seem to regain his health as rapidly as the doctor had anticipated, and that nothing new concerning Ward Porton or Tim Crapsey had been uncovered. Ben added that he had written to the authorities in New York City concerning Porton and had received word back that they had been unable to locate the former moving-picture actor.
“I believe the loss of those miniatures has had its full effect on Mr. Basswood,” remarked Dave, when speaking of the matter to his chum. “I suppose it makes him feel blue, and that retards his recovery.”
“More than likely,” answered Roger. “A person can’t very well throw off a heavy spell of sickness when he is so depressed in spirits. It’s too bad! And I suppose Mrs. Basswood feels dreadful to think she was the one to let the fortune slip out of their hands.”
“No doubt of it, Roger. Of course, it’s easy enough to blame her, and I suppose a great many of their neighbors do. But, just the same, place yourself in her position–worried half to death over the sickness of her husband–and you might have done the same thing.”
It was a warm evening and the chums took their time in returning to the camp, knowing supper would not be served until a little later. During the day several shots had been heard at a great distance to the southward, and some of the civil engineers had wondered if some sort of a scrimmage was taking place on the other side of the Rio Grande.
“If a fight is in progress I hope it doesn’t extend to this neighborhood,” remarked one of the engineers, in speaking of the matter. “We’ve got troubles enough of our own–getting this bridge right–without having the greasers interfering with our work;” and he gave a grim laugh.
When the chums arrived in camp they found that the day’s mail had come in. There was a Washington newspaper for Roger containing an address delivered in the Senate by Senator Morr, and also a long letter for our hero from Ben.
“Well, here is news at last!” cried Dave, as he scanned the communication. “Come on out here, away from the crowd, Roger, and I’ll read it to you;” and then he led the way to a corner and acquainted his chum with the contents of the letter, which was as follows:
“I know you will be interested to learn that we have at last heard from that rascal, Tim Crapsey, who, with Ward Porton, got the miniatures from my mother. Crapsey sent a very badly written letter to my father, stating that he and Porton had parted company, but that he had the most of the miniatures,–in fact, all but six of them.
“Crapsey wrote that he was in the city of New York, and had the miniatures in a safe place, and that he would return them to us for fifteen thousand dollars. We were to insert a personal advertisement in one of the New York newspapers if we were willing to accept his offer, and then he would send us word how the exchange of money for the miniatures could be made.
“Of course, as you know, my father is still sick. He didn’t have anything like fifteen thousand dollars in cash to offer Crapsey, and besides that Mr. Wadsworth and your Uncle Dunston thought it was altogether too much money to offer a thief like that. In fact, your uncle was of the opinion that they should only try to lead Crapsey on, so that they could capture him. But my father, backed up by Mr. Wadsworth, at length agreed to put up five thousand dollars in order to get the miniatures back, and an advertisement was inserted in the newspapers to that effect.
“We waited two days for a reply, and then came a scrawl on a bit of paper signed by Crapsey, stating that he was having trouble of another kind and could not for the present keep on with his negotiations. After that my father inserted another advertisement asking for more information, but up to the present time no additional word has come in.
“My father does not know what to make of it. Your folks and Mr. Wadsworth are of the opinion that either Crapsey was trying to fool them and got scared or else that the rascal has been caught by the police for some other crime and is trying to conceal his identity. They are divided on the question as to whether to believe Crapsey when he wrote that he and Porton had parted company–they are half inclined to believe that Porton is still with him, and that the whole scheme was framed up by Porton.”
“That is certainly interesting news,” remarked Roger, after both had perused the letter a second time. “And it settles one thing–and that is that Tim Crapsey must have been in New York with Ward Porton at the time we saw the latter.”
“Exactly, Roger. And it also proves beyond a doubt that that pair were really the thieves. Previous to this we only supposed such to be the fact–we really couldn’t prove it.”
“Oh, I was sure of it all along, Dave.”
“So was I, Roger. But you know in a court of law it is one thing to know a thing and another to be able to prove it.”
The two young civil engineers discussed the letter all through the evening meal and even for some time later. Then, however, Roger turned to his newspaper, to read with care the address that his father had delivered. Dave was also interested in this.
“I’d like to be in the Senate some time when your father was speaking,” he remarked to his chum. “It must be a great sight to see such a body as that when it is in session.”
“It is, Dave,” answered his chum. “And people come thousands of miles to see it.”
Before retiring for the night Dave penned a letter to Ben, and also sent a letter to Jessie, and another to his Uncle Dunston which was meant for the entire household. Roger spent the time in a communication to his mother, and also in a long letter to Luke Watson.
The night proved to be unusually warm, for the breeze which was usually stirring had died down completely. Dave fell into a fitful doze, from which he awoke about midnight to find his mouth and throat quite parched.
“I guess I’d better get up and get a drink,” he told himself, “and then I may be able to sleep better. Phew! but the thermometer has certainly been going up the last few days.”
He arose to his feet and walked out of the room into the hallway of the building, where in one corner there was a water-cooler. He had just finished drinking a glass of water when a sound from outside reached his ears. There was a shout from a distance, followed almost instantly by a rifle shot.
“Hello! what can that mean?” he cried.
A moment later came more shouts, this time a little closer to the camp. Then two more rifle shots rang out sharply through the midnight air.
“Something is wrong, that’s sure!” exclaimed the youth. Rushing back into the bedroom he shook Roger vigorously. At the same time he heard others getting up and calling to each other, wanting to know what the shouts and shots meant.
“What do you want, Dave?” asked the senator’s son, sleepily.
“Get up, Roger!” answered our hero, quickly. “Hurry up! there is something going on outside! I just heard a number of yells and several rifle shots.”
“You don’t mean it, Dave!” and now Roger was on his feet with a bound. “Maybe it’s the greasers.”
“I don’t know what it is, Roger. But I guess we had better slip into our clothing. Maybe somebody is– Listen!”
Dave broke off short, and both strained their ears to hear what was taking place outside. They heard a confused shouting, followed by several yells. And then came a volley of shots–five or six in number.
“It’s an attack! That’s what it is!” cried the senator’s son. “I’ll bet some of those Mexican bandits are coming over here! Oh, Dave! what do you suppose we had better do?”
“I don’t know, except that we had better slip on our clothing and get our pistols,” answered Dave. “This looks as if it might be serious.”
“Up, boys! Up!” came the cry from somebody outside. “Get your guns and your pistols! The Mexican raiders are coming this way!”
