CHAPTER XV.STRIKING A JOB.
A shout went up. For the first time since his entrance into the roundhouse Old Slugs was whipped. He had browbeaten and bullied everybody except the foreman, and now this clean, boyish-looking stranger had defeated him in a square fight.
Such a thing had seemed beyond the range of possibility, but it had happened.
“Here comes the foreman!”
Some one uttered the words, and there was a scattering as a dark-faced man was seen walking swiftly toward the group.
Old Slugs started to get up, but he fell back limply, as if all the strength had been beaten out of him.
The victor calmly took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off his knuckles. He scarcely seemed to be breathing heavily after his recent exertions.
The foreman came up and looked the youth over.
“I don’t know how you did it,” he said; “but it was a pretty job, young man. I saw the whole thing from start to finish.”
“I am sorry it occurred, sir,” was the calm retort; “but if you saw it all you know I was not to blame.”
The foreman nodded.
“Hall attempted to bully you—I know. I’ll discharge him.”
“Not on my account, sir. It strikes me that he has received punishment enough. I am satisfied, and you may be sure I shall make no complaint.”
The foreman looked the defeated wiper over.
“Get up!” he growled. “Go wash the blood off your face and go to work again, if you are able. I should have fired you if this gentleman had requested it.”
The wiper succeeded in getting upon his feet, but he staggered a bit as he walked away.
Something like a grim smile passed over the face of the foreman.
“He has received a good lesson,” nodded the man. “It was what he deserved, and I’m glad you were able to give it to him. You are a wonder for a boy.”
“I am hardly a boy, sir.”
“Well, you are hardly more than that. Did I hear you say you were looking for work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of work?”
“Any kind that I can get.”
“Why, there is no work in here that you would do. You are not a machinist?”
“No, sir.”
“Know anything about locomotives?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s no use to talk to you. The only work for an inexperienced man in this place is that of wiper, and you would not like that kind of work.”
“I must do something. Can you give me a place as wiper?”
The foreman lifted his eyebrows and again surveyed the youth critically.
“It can’t be that you understand what wipers have to do. It is the lowest and dirtiest work on a railroad.”
“I presumed so.”
“They have to wipe engines, turn the table, shovel ashes, wash out boilers and tanks, help the machinists to lug and lift, and do a hundred other things equally unpleasant.”
“But there is a chance for promotion?”
“Oh, yes, for good men; but it comes slow. A man must wipe long enough to become familiar with every part of an engine, and know how one is run before he can get anything better. Even then there may be two or three others waiting ahead of him, and he is likely to lose his courage before he gets an opportunity to fire.”
“But engine wipers stand a show of becoming firemen?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you would give me a chance as wiper, sir.”
“But you will not stand the work.”
“Won’t I? I am strong, and I think I can stand it.”
“I do not mean that way. You will become disgusted and quit before you have worked a day.”
“Try me.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Frank Merriwell.”
“You have never done any hard work. Your hands show that.”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t understand why you want such a job.”
“Because I must do something, and I think I would like to become a locomotive engineer.”
“Why are you forced to work, Mr. Merriwell? You look like a young man of means.”
“I have lost every dollar I had in the world. I was in college, but the loss of my fortune forced me to leave. When I knew I must do something, I resolved to try to get a job on a railroad. That is all, sir.”
“Parents living?”
“My mother is dead.”
“And your father?”
“I know not where he is.”
“Hum! You’ve had hard luck. But you are not fit to become a wiper. Why, the men would not give you any peace. They would regard you as a dude, and worry you to death.”
The youth smiled.
“I think I can take care of myself, sir,” he said, with quiet confidence. “Haven’t I proved that?”
“By George! I really believe you can! And you seem to be in earnest. I shouldn’t like to bother with you ifyou are going to get sick in a few hours or a day or two and leave your work. Too many such chaps start in here.”
“I give you my word that you need not fear that I will leave within a day, or a week—or a month.”
“I hardly think you will. If you have the right sort of stuff in you you will work up. I began as wiper, as did the master mechanic and nearly all the engineers on this road. There are some good men among them, too.”
“I believe that.”
“Have you any relatives to support—brothers, sisters, or anything like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Drink?”
“Not a drop.”
“That’s good. You stand all the better chance. Drink is what keeps many a good man down. Of course, if a man wants to take a little beer occasionally, no one can really object to that. I suppose you take some beer once in a while?”
The face of the youth flushed.
“I told you, sir, that I do not drink anything.”
“All right, all right. I thought perhaps you would not consider that drinking. Don’t usually ask men these questions, but I’m interested in you.”
The youth said nothing.
The foreman seemed to hesitate, and it was plain that he was not yet fully convinced that it was worth while to bother with this clean, dainty-looking stripling.
The applicant seemed to think that he had said quiteenough, and he did not urge his case at all, but stood there waiting.
The sound of hammering was to be heard in the roundhouse. Another engine ran in on the table outside, and some wipers swung it round. Then the engine ran out again upon the tracks, instead of backing into the house.
Old Slugs, his face patched up with plaster, came back and went to work on the engine he had been cleaning. He moved slowly, as if he felt sore in every limb.
The foreman smiled the least bit as he watched the man. He nodded his head, and there was an expression of satisfaction on his dark face. Then he turned to Frank Merriwell.
“A fellow who could whip Martin Hall should have grit enough for anything,” he said. “Come back to-morrow morning, prepared for work. You shall have a job.”