Ralph on the Overland Express/9
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 haf had an opportunity to straighten things out. Is 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 summerhouse 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.