Ralph pressed close to the window pane of Mr. Little’s library room but he did not succeed in seeing much. The last match struck revealed to his sight the two men who had acted so suspiciously the day he had seen them hanging around the Overland Express train with Glen Palmer’s grandfather.
If all that he had surmised and discovered was true, it was quite natural that he should come upon them again. Ralph was less startled than surprised. He wondered what their motive could be in visiting the paymaster’s house.
“They are not up to burglary,” the idea ran through his mind. “It must be they are searching among the paymaster’s papers to find out what they can about his system and methods. Yes, that is it.”
Ralph saw the man who had struck the matches draw from his pocket a tallow candle, evidently intending to light it. His companion had pulled up the sliding top of a desk and was reaching out toward some pigeon holes to inspect their contents. Just then an unexpected climax came.
The foot of the young railroader slipped on a patch of frozen grass as he pressed too close to the window. Ralph fell up against this with a slight clatter. The man with the match turned very sharply and suddenly. He glared hard at the source of the commotion. He must have caught sight of Ralph’s face before the latter had time to draw back, for he uttered a startled ejaculation.
With a bang the desk top fell back in place, the match went out, and the man with the candle fired it wildly at the form at the window with sufficient force to penetrate the pane with a slight crash.
Ralph drew back, some fine splinters of glass striking his face. It was totally dark now in the room into which he had peered. He could catch the heavy tramping of feet in flight and a door slammed somewhere in the house.
“Hey, there--what are you up to,” challenged Ralph, sharply, as he stood in a puzzled way debating what was best to do. He turned about, to face a powerfully-built man, cane in hand, storming down upon him from the front of the house.
“It is you, Mr. Little?” inquired Ralph quickly.
“Yes, it’s me. Who are you? Oh, young Fairbanks,” spoke the paymaster, peering closely at Ralph.
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought I heard a pane of glass smash--”
“You did. Hurry to the rear, Mr. Little.”
“What for?”
“I’ll cover the front.”
“Why--”
“Two men are in your house. They were just at your desk when I discovered them.”
“Two men in the house!”
“I can’t explain now, but it is very important that we prevent their escape.”
“Burglars! We were all over to supper at wife’s folks--”
“Spies, fits the case better, sir--some rival road spite work, maybe. It’s serious, as I shall explain to you later.”
“There they are. Hey, stop!”
Two figures had cut across the lawn from the rear of the house.
“They are the same men,” declared Ralph, and both he and the paymaster put after them.
The fugitives paid no attention to the repeated demands of the paymaster to halt. They crossed a vacant field and suddenly went clear out of sight.
“They’ve dropped over the wall guarding the north tracks,” said Ralph.
“And we’ll follow!” declared Mr. Little dauntlessly.
At this point the north branch of the road ran down a steep grade and was walled in for over a thousand feet. Ralph dropped onto the cindered roadbed. Mr. Little more clumsily followed him.
“Where now?” he puffed, as he scrambled to his feet.
“There they go,” said Ralph, pointing towards two forms quite plainly revealed in the night light.
“I see them,” spoke the paymaster. “They’re caged in.”
“Unless they take to the tunnel.”
“Then we’ll take to it, too,” insisted Mr. Little. “I’m bound to get those men.”
Ralph admired the pluck and persistency of his companion. The paymaster was a big man and a brave one. He had the reputation of generally putting through any job he started on. The young railroader did not entirely share the hopes of his companion, as he saw the two fugitives reach the mouth of the tunnel, and its gloom and darkness swallowed them up like a cloud.
“The mischief!” roared the paymaster, going headlong, his cane hurtling through space as he stumbled over a tie brace. “I’ve sprained my ankle, I guess, Fairbanks. Don’t stop for me. Run those fellows down. There’s bound to be a guard at the other end of the tunnel. Call in his help.”
Ralph grabbed up the cane where it had fallen and put sturdily after the fugitives. The tunnel slanted quite steeply at its start. It was about an eighth of a mile in length, and single tracked only. Ralph was not entirely familiar with running details on this branch of the Great Northern, but he felt pretty sure that there were no regular trains for several hours after six o’clock.
The men he was pursuing had quite some start of him, and unless he could overtake them before they reached the other end of the tunnel they were as good as lost for the time being. Ralph’s thought was that when he had passed the dip of the tunnel, he would be able to make out the forms of the fugitives against the glare of the numerous lights in the switchyards beyond the other entrance.
The young railroader retained possession of the paymaster’s cane as a weapon that might come in handy for attack or defense, as the occasion might arise.
It was as black as night in the tunnel, once he got beyond the entrance, and he had to make a blind run of it. The roadbed was none too smooth, and he had to be careful how he picked his steps. The air was close and smoky, and he paused as he went down the sharp grade with no indication whatever through sight or sound of the proximity of the men he was after.
It had occurred to him more than once that the men in advance, if they should happen to glance back, would be able to catch the outlines of his figure against the tunnel outlet. As they did not wish at all to be overhauled, however, Ralph believed they would plan less to attack him than to strain every effort to get into hiding as speedily as possible.
Headed forward at quite a brisk pace, the young railroader came suddenly up against an obstruction. It was human, he felt that. In fact, as he ran into a yielding object he knew the same to be a barrier composed of joined hands of the two fugitives. They had noted or guessed his sharp pursuit of them, had joined each a hand, and spreading out the others practically barricaded the narrow tunnel roadbed so he could in no manner get past them.
“Got him!” spoke a harsh voice in the darkness. Ralph receded and struck out with the cane. He felt that it landed with tremendous force on some one, for a sharp cry ensued. The next instant one of the fugitives pinioned one wrist and the other his remaining wrist.
Ralph swayed and swung to and fro, struggling actively to break away from his captors.
“What now?” rang out at his ear.
“Run him forward.”
“He won’t run.”
“Then give him his quietus.”
Ralph felt that a cowardly blow in the dark was pending. He had retained hold of the cane. He tried to use this as a weapon, but the clasp on either wrist was like that of steel. He could only sway the walking stick aimlessly.
A hard fist blow grazed one ear, bringing the blood. Ralph gave an old training ground twist to his supple body, at the same time deftly throwing out one foot. He had succeeded in tripping up his captor on the left, but though the fellow fell he preserved a tenacious grip on the wrist of the plucky young railroader.
“Keep your clutch!” panted the other man. “I’ll have him fixed in a jiffy. Thunder! what’s coming?”
“A train!”
“Break loose--we’re lost!”
Ralph was released suddenly. The man on the right, however, had delivered the blow he had started to deal. It took Ralph across the temple and for a moment dazed and stunned him. He fell directly between the rails.
The two men had darted ahead. He heard one of them call out to hug the wall closely. Then a sharp grinding roar assailed Ralph’s ears and he tried to trace out its cause.
“Something is coming,” he murmured. His skilled hearing soon determined that it was no locomotive or train, but he was certain that some rail vehicle of light construction was bearing down upon him.
Ralph was so dazed that he could barely collect wit and strength in an endeavor to crawl out of the roadbed. With a swishing grind the approaching car, or whatever it was, tore down the sharp incline.
His sheer helplessness of the instant appalled and amazed Ralph. It seemed minutes instead of seconds before he rolled, crept, crawled over the outside rail. As he did so, with a whang stinging his nerves like needles of fire, one end of the descending object met his suspended foot full force, bending it up under him like a hinge.
Ralph was driven, lifted against the tunnel wall with harsh force. His head struck the wet slimy masonry, causing his brain to whirl anew.
Something swept by him on seeming wings of fleetness. There was a rush of wind that almost took his breath away. Then there sounded out upon the clammy blackness of the tunnel an appalling, unearthly scream.
The danger seemed gone, with the passage of the whirling object on wheels that had so narrowly grazed the young railroader, but mystery and vagueness remained in its trail.
“What was it?” Ralph heard one of his late assailants ask.
“A hand car,” was the prompt reply. “She must have struck somebody. Did you hear that yell?”
“Yes--run for it. We don’t know what may have happened, and we don’t want to be caught here if anybody comes to find out what is up.”
Ralph was in no condition to follow the fugitives. For a moment he stood trying to rally his scattered senses. The situation was a puzzling and distrustful one. Abruptly he crouched against the wall of the tunnel.
“The hand car,” he breathed--“it is coming back!”
As if to emphasize this discovery, a second time and surely nearing him that alarming cry of fright rang out. Again reversed, the hand car whizzed by him. Then in less than twenty seconds it shot forward in the opposite direction once more. Twice it thus passed him, and on each occasion more slowly, and Ralph was able to reason out what was going on.
The hand car was unguided. Someone was aboard, however, but helpless or unable to operate it. Unmistakable demonstrations of its occupancy were furnished in the repetition of the cries that had at first pierced the air, though less frenzied and vivid now than at the start.
Finally seeking and finding the dead level at the exact centre of the tunnel, the hand car appeared to have come to a stop. Ralph shook himself together and proceeded for some little distance forward. He was guided by the sound of low wailings and sobs. He landed finally against the end of the hand car.
“Hello, there!” he challenged.
“O--oh! who is it?” was blubbered out wildly. “O--oh, mister! I did not do it. Teddy Nolan gave it a shove, and away it went--boo-hoo!”
Ralph read the enigma promptly. Mischievous boys at play beyond the north end of the tunnel had been responsible for the sensational descent of the hand car. He groped about it now and discovered a tiny form clinging to the boxed-up gearing in the centre of the car.
“You stay right still where you are,” ordered Ralph, as he located the handles of the car and began pumping for speed.
“Oh, yes, sir, I will.”
“It’s probably too late to think of heading off or overtaking those fellows,” decided Ralph, “but I’ve got to get this hand car out of harm’s way.”
It was no easy work, single handed working the car up the slant, but Ralph made it finally. He found a watchman dozing in the little shanty near the entrance to the tunnel. The man was oblivious to the fact of the hand car episode, and of course the same as to the two men who had doubtless long since escaped from the tunnel and were now safe from pursuit. Ralph did not waste any time questioning him. As he was ditching the hand car the ragged urchin who had made a slide for life into the tunnel took to his heels and scampered away.
The young railroader thought next of the paymaster. Ralph made a sharp run of it on foot through the tunnel. He did not find Mr. Little where he had left him, but came across him sitting on a bench at the first flagman’s crossing, evidently patiently waiting for his return.
“Well, what luck,” challenged Mr. Little.
“None at all,” reported Ralph, and recited the events of the past fifteen or twenty minutes.
“That’s pretty lively going,” commented Mr. Little, looking Ralph over with an approving and interested glance. “I managed to limp this far. I’ve wrenched my foot. I don’t think it amounts to much, but it is quite painful. I’ll rest here a bit and see if it doesn’t mend.”
“Shall I help you to the house, Mr. Little?” suggested Ralph.
“Maybe--a little later. I want to know about this business first--the smashed window and those burglars. Come, sit down here on the bench with me and tell me all about it, Fairbanks.”
“They are not burglars,” asserted Ralph.
“What are they, then?”
“What I hurriedly hinted to you some time back--spies.”
“Spies?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I had better tell you the whole story, Mr. Little.”
“That’s it, Fairbanks.”
Ralph began with the queer-acting trio who had first attracted his suspicions several days previous. He did not leave out the details of his interview with the assistant superintendent at Rockton.
“Why, Fairbanks,” exclaimed the paymaster, arising to his feet in positive excitement, “this is a pretty serious business.”
“It strikes me that way, sir.”
“If these two men were not incidental burglars, and nothing is missing at the house, they were after information.”
“Instead of booty, exactly,” responded Ralph, in a tone of conviction.
“And if that is true,” continued the paymaster, still more wrought up, “they show a system of operation that means some big design in their mind. Give me the help of your shoulder, Fairbanks. I’ve got to get to the house and to my telephone right away.”
A detour of the walled-in runway was necessary in order that they might reach Mr. Little’s home. The paymaster limped painfully. Ralph himself winced under the weight of his hand placed upon his shoulder, but he made no complaint. His right arm was growing stiff and the fingers of that hand he had noticed were covered with blood.
By the time they reached the paymaster’s home, his family had returned. Mr. Little led Ralph at once to the library and sank into his armchair at the desk.
“Why,” he exclaimed after a glance at Ralph, “you are hurt, too.”
“Oh, a mere trifle,” declared the young engineer with apparent carelessness.
“No, it’s something serious--worth attending to right away,” insisted the paymaster, and he called to his wife, introduced Ralph, and Mrs. Little led him out to the kitchen.
In true motherly fashion she seated him on a splint bottomed chair at the sink, got a basin of hot water and some towels, some lint and a bottle of liniment, and proceeded to attend to his needs like an expert surgeon.
Where Ralph’s hand had swept the steel rail when his assailant in the tunnel had knocked him off his footing, one arm had doubled up under him, his fingers sweeping a bunch of metal splinters. These had criss-crossed the entire back of his hand. Once mended up, Ralph was most solicitous, however, to work his arm freely, fearing a wrench or injury that might temporarily disable him from road duty.
“I’ve got the superintendent over the ’phone,” said Mr. Little, as Ralph reëntered the library. “He’s due at an important lodge meeting, and can’t get here until after nine o’clock. See here, Fairbanks,” with a glance at the injured hand which Ralph kept to his side in an awkward way, “you’d better get home and put that arm in a sling.”
“I think myself I’d better have a look at it,” acknowledged Ralph. “It feels pretty sore around the shoulder.”
“You have a telephone at your house?” inquired the paymaster.
“Yes, sir.”
“I may want to call you up. If I don’t, I feel pretty sure the superintendent will, when we have talked over affairs.”
Mr. Little insisted on his hired man hitching up the family horse to drive Ralph home. Mrs. Fairbanks at a glance read pain and discomfort in her son’s face as he entered the sitting room. Ralph set her fears at rest with a hasty explanation. Then after resting a little he told her all about his adventures of the evening.
“It seems as if a railroader must take a double risk all the time,” she said in a somewhat regretful tone.
“It’s a part of the business to take things as they come, mother,” observed Ralph. “It’s a fight nowadays in every line where there is progress. The Great Northern is in the right, and will win, and it is my duty to help in the battle.”
When he came to look over his injured arm Ralph found a pretty bad bruise near the shoulder. His mother declared that it would need attention for some days to come.
“By which you mean, I suppose,” remarked Ralph with a smile, “that you want to coddle me off duty. Can’t be done, mother. I must stay on deck as long as I can pull a lever. Ouch!”
Ralph winced as he happened to give his arm a twist.
“You may change your mind by morning, my son,” observed Mrs. Fairbanks, with a slight motherly triumph in her tone.
When Ralph arose the next day he remembered those words. His arm was so stiff he could scarcely bend it at the elbow, and his hand was badly swollen. He had just finished breakfast when there came a ring at the telephone, which Ralph answered.
“That you, Fairbanks?” sounded the voice of the paymaster.
“Yes, Mr. Little.”
“How is that arm of yours this morning?”
“Not quite as well as I would like it to be.”
“I called you up to tell you that you will probably hear from the general superintendent this forenoon,” continued Mr. Little.
“About last night’s affair I suppose?”
“In a line with that, yes. He was with me for over three hours last night, and he’s pretty well stirred up. Your injured arm will be a good excuse for canceling your run for a few days.”
“But I have no idea of canceling my run,” declared Ralph. “I’ll have that arm in working shape when the Overland pulls out today.”
“I’m giving you a hint, that’s all,” answered the paymaster. “I feel pretty sure the superintendent intends to schedule you for special duty.”
Ralph came out of the house with a thoughtful look on his face. His arm was in a sling and he quite looked the invalid. His mother followed him to the door.
“You see, I was the wisest,” spoke Mrs. Fairbanks.
“Yes, mother, you predicted that I wouldn’t feel quite so spry this morning as last night. All the same, if it wasn’t for the word just sent me by the general superintendent, you would see me on the regular Overland trip.”
“It wouldn’t be right,” dissented Mrs. Fairbanks. “Suppose your arm gave out at a critical moment of your run?”
“I shouldn’t let it,” declared Ralph. “It puzzles me, though--the word from headquarters.”
“It was rather strange,” assented his mother.
“The superintendent simply ’phoned me that I was to remain on the invalid list for a day or two. He said he was going to Rockton, and would be back tomorrow morning, and would expect me then at a conference at ten o’clock. In the meantime all I need to do, he said, was to hang around town, show myself about the yards and the general offices, but to be sure to wear my arm in a sling.”
“He has some purpose in view in that last direction, believe me, Ralph,” said Mrs. Fairbanks.
“Yes,” replied the son thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to guess out a certain system in his methods. I shouldn’t wonder if something lively were on the programme. Well, I’ll try and put on the enforced vacation as the superintendent suggests. Hello, there’s a fine hullaballoo!”
Ralph walked down the steps and to the street to trace the cause of a great outcry beyond the cottage grounds. As he passed through the gate he made out a haggard looking urchin standing on the planking of the crossing crying as if his heart would break.
“Why, it’s Ted Rollins, our little neighbor who lives over near the flats,” said Ralph, recognizing the ragged and begrimed lad.
The latter was half bent over as if squinting through the cracks in the sidewalk. Then he would let out a yell of distress, dig his fingers into his eyes, resume his looking, and wind up with a kind of frenzied dance, bewailing some direful disaster at the top of his voice. Ralph approached him unobserved.
“Hello, there,” he hailed, “what’s the trouble here?”
“I’ve lost it!” wailed the little fellow, without looking up. “It slipped out of my ha-a-and.”
“What did?”
“A nickel.”
“A nickel?”
“Yes, I earned it, and it rolled down one of those cracks in the sidewalk.”
“Which one?” inquired Ralph.
“Don’t know which one--boo-hoo! and say--it was for you.”
For the first time the weeping lad, glancing up through his tears, recognized Ralph. He instantly dug his hand down into a pocket and began groping there.
“What was for me?” asked Ralph, “the nickel?”
“No, not the nickel, that was for me. The note was for you, though, that I got the nickel to fetch--that I don’t get the nickel for fetching, though I fetched it,” added Ted Rollins dolefully. “That’s it.”
The lad brought out a folded creased slip of paper wet with his tears and grimed with contact with his fingers. He extended this to Ralph.
“For me, eh?” he inquired wonderingly.
“Yes, ‘Ralph Fairbanks,’ he said. He asked me if I knew Ralph Fairbanks, and I said you bet I did. ‘Why,’ says I, ‘he’s a regular friend of mine.’”
“That’s right, Ted,” said Ralph.
“Then he gave me the nickel and the note.”
“Who did?”
“The boy.”
“What boy?”
“The one I’m telling you about. I never saw him before. He was down near the elevator tracks where the old switch tower shanty is, you know.”
“Why, yes, I know,” assented Ralph, “but I can’t imagine who the note can be from. Oh, I understand now,” added Ralph, his eye brightening as he opened the note and caught a glimpse of the signature. “Here, Ted, there’s a dime for your faithfulness, and maybe you can find a chum with a big axe who will pry up a few of those sidewalk spikes, and if you find the lost nickel you can have that, too.”
“You’re a capital fellow, Ralph Fairbanks,” cried the delighted little urchin. “If you ever run for president of the Great Northern, my sister says the whole town will vote for you.”
“Thank you, Ted,” laughed the young railroader, “but they don’t elect railroad presidents that way.”
“Dad says you’ll get there, anyway.”
“Thank you again,” said Ralph, and as Ted darted away he gave his full attention to the note. It ran:
“Ralph Fairbanks:“Will you please come to the place where the bearer of this note will direct you, and oblige. I have some money for you.--Glen Palmer.”
“Ralph Fairbanks:
“Will you please come to the place where the bearer of this note will direct you, and oblige. I have some money for you.
--Glen Palmer.”
“Well, well,” said Ralph in a pleased way, “this is pretty quick action on the part of our young chicken raiser. Of course I’ll go. Glen Palmer is straight, as I thought he would be. I’m curious to know how he came out with his investment, and doubly curious to learn something about that mysterious old grandfather of his.”
Ralph did not need any guide to reach the elevated tracks and the old switch tower shanty alluded to by Ted Rollins. The spot had been a busy one before they straightened out a lot of useless curves and changed the main line a half mile farther south. The old main tracks, however, were still used for switching and standing freights, and there were several grain elevators in the vicinity. It was now a remote and isolated spot so far as general traffic was concerned.
Ralph crossed over a stretch of bleak prairie, leaped a drainage ditch, and started down a siding that was used as a repair track. Just as he reached the end of a freight car he hastened his steps.
Not fifty yards distant two animated figures suddenly filled his range of vision. They were boys. One was Glen Palmer. The other Ralph was amazed to recognize as Ike Slump.
Glen had a broken-off broom in one hand and a bag pretty well filled over his shoulder. He was warding off the approach of Slump, who seemed bent on pestering him from malice or robbing him for profit. Ralph ran forward to the rescue of his young protege, who was no match in strength or size for the bully.
He was not in time to prevent a sharp climax to the scene. Glen swung the heavy bag he carried around to deal his tormenter a blow. Slump either drew a knife or had one concealed up his sleeve all along. At any rate he caught the circling bag on the fly. The knife blade met its bulging surface and slit it woefully, so that a stream of golden grain poured out.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” burst out Glen Palmer, indignantly.
“Strangers pay toll around here, or I know the reason,” derided bad Ike Slump.
“Just drop that, Slump,” spoke Ralph, stepping forward.
“Humph!” growled Ike, retreating a step or two and looking rather embarrassed. “I didn’t expect you.”
“I see you didn’t,” observed Ralph. “This petty business doesn’t seem to accord very well with your high pretentions of last evening.”
“He has wasted all my grain!” cried Glen, tears starting to his eyes. “He said I’d have to pay toll to the gang, whatever that is, if I came around here gathering up chicken feed, and the flagman yonder has given me permission to sweep out all the cars after they have emptied at the elevators.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ralph, reassuringly. “I will see to it that you are not interfered with, that your rights are respected after this.”
“Huh!” scoffed Ike, and then with a great start and in a sharp change of voice he shouted out, “Hello, I say, hello!”
Ike stood staring fixedly at Glen at the moment. The latter in rearranging his disordered attire for the first time had removed the broad peaked cap he wore. The instant he caught Ike’s piercing glance fixed upon him, Glen flushed and in great haste replaced the cap, quite screening his face and turned away.
“Aha!” resumed Ike, continuing to stare at Glen. “Why, when, where--drat me!” and he struck his head with his hand, as if trying to drive out some puzzling idea. “Say, I’ve seen you before. Where? I never forget faces. Wallop me! but I know you, and--”
Just then Slump was walloped. The flagman at the shanty one hundred feet away had evidently witnessed the tussle between the two boys. That he was a friend to Glen was indisputable, for coming upon the scene from between two lines of freight he pounced on Slump, whacking him smartly about his legs with his flag stick.
“You pestering loafer, out of here,” he shouted, “or I’ll break every bone in your body,” and Slump ran down the track precipitately.
He paused only once, at a safe distance from pursuit. It was to shake his fist at the watchman, then to wave it in a kind of threatening triumph at Ralph, and then to make a speaking trumpet of his hand and to yell through it.
“I know that boy, don’t you forget it, and I’ll see you later.”
Ralph wondered a good deal at this demonstration. Then he turned to Glen.
“Why,” he exclaimed, noticing that the face of the latter was as white as chalk and that he was trembling all over. “What’s the matter, Glen?”
“I--that--is that fellow upset me,” stammered Glen, failing to meet Ralph’s scrutinizing glance.
“Something more than that, Glen,” insisted Ralph. “You act half scared to death. Do you know Ike Slump?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet him before?”
“Never,” declared Glen strenuously.
Ralph had to be satisfied with this. Glen turned from him as if to hide some emotion or embarrassment. He began tying up his bag so as to cover the slit made in it by Slump’s knife and scooped up the scattered grain.
“Wait till I get this gathered up and I want to talk with you,” he said.
A new figure came lounging leisurely down the track as the watchman proceeded to his shanty. Ralph recognized Dan Lacey, a ne’er-do-well who had tried about every department of railroad service inside of two years and had failed signally in every attempt.
He was a good-natured, indolent fellow, perfectly harmless and generally popular. He halted in front of Ralph with a speculative glance at Glen Palmer.
“Howdy, Fairbanks,” he hailed. “Say, pet of yours yonder, I understand.”
“Who--Glen Palmer?”
“Yes, that’s his name.”
“He seems to be a fine young fellow I helped out a little.”
“Always doing that. Know him pretty well?”
“Hardly at all.”
“Well,” drawled Lacey taking in Glen with a continuous analyzing glance, “he’s a cracker jack.”
“What do you mean, Lacey?”
“Telegraphy. I’ve seen some pretty swell operators in my time, but that kid--say, believe me, Fairbanks, he’s got the last one of them backed clear off the board.”
“Explain yourself, Lacey,” directed the young railroader.
“Nothing to explain--it’s exactly as I say. That lad’s a wonder.”
“At telegraphing, you said.”
“At telegraphing, I mean.”
“How do you know?”
“Heard him, saw him.”
“When, where?”
“Just a little bit ago up at the old switch tower. You know they left one or two broken instruments there when they moved the general outfit. Wires down, but one or two good sharp keys still in place. I was snoozing on the bench outside. Suddenly--click! click! Then the regular call. Then the emergency--say, I thought I was back at Dover with old Joslyn Drake, the crack operator of the Midland Central. You know I put in a year at the key. Not much at it myself, but you bet your life I can tell fine work. Why, that lad ran the roll like a veteran. Then he began on speed. I crept closer. There he was, thinking no one saw him, rattling the key till it pounded like a piston on a sixty mile an hour run.”
Ralph was a good deal astonished. Glen was a pretty young fellow to line up in the way that Dan Lacey described. Then a kind of vague disagreeable idea came into the mind of the young railroader. He recalled the old grandfather and his two villainous associates, for such they had proved themselves to be the evening previous.
“Things are dovetailing in a queer sort of way,” reflected Ralph. “Perhaps a little investigation will give me a clew as to those fellows who slipped me in the tunnel.”
When he had gathered up the scattered grain Glen Palmer glanced uneasily all about him as if looking for Ike Slump. Then he became his natural self.
“I’m awfully glad to see you,” he said to Ralph, “although it seems as if there’s a fight or a smashup, or some outlandish thing on the books every time I meet you.”
“Well that doesn’t matter so long as you come out of it all right, eh, Glen?” propounded Ralph brightly.
“You’re a good champion in the nick of time,” declared Glen. “I wanted to see you, so I took the liberty of sending for you.”
“Why didn’t you come up to the house?”
“Oh, no! no!----” began Glen with a start. “That is--I don’t go to town much. I’ve got some money for you. There are ten dollars. I’ll have the balance Saturday.”
Ralph accepted the bank bills which Glen extended.
“I’ll hand this to Mr. Fry,” he said. “You don’t need to pay it now, though, Glen.”
“Oh, yes, I want to get out of debt as fast as I can.”
“You’re starting out the right way to do it. Pretty quick action you got on your chicken deal, it seems to me.”
“Oh, that was luck,” explained Glen, brightening up. “There was one special lot among the chickens, about twenty-four of them. They were in a tier of the car that wasn’t battered in the smash up. We got them all out safe and sound. They are of a rare breed--they call them Blue Cochins.”
“Valuable?”
“I didn’t know till after we got them down to the farm. A man driving by noticed them. They have black eyes instead of the usual red ones, and he said they were very scarce. The next day he came down and offered me five dollars each for two settings of their eggs. Think of it--nearly a half a dollar an egg. I delivered them yesterday, and the man said there are any number of people who would buy the eggs if they knew I had them, and about the choice breed.”
“Why, this is interesting,” said Ralph.
“Say, can’t you come down and see my layout?” inquired Glen eagerly. “I’d be dreadfully glad.”
“Why, I might,” replied Ralph thoughtfully, consulting his watch.
“There’s our chance, if you will,” said Glen, grabbing the arm of his companion and indicating a short freight train just pulling off from a side switch. “It’s three miles and a half to the farm, and that train goes within a short distance of it.”
They ran for the train. It was composed of empties with a caboose attached. Aboard of this the boys clambered and sat down on the rear platform.
“I come down here for the sweepings every morning,” said Glen. “To-day and one other day in the week there isn’t much to get. One day I got over two bushels and a half, though.”
“That’s pretty fine,” commented Ralph.
“It’s a big item in my feed bill, I can tell you,” declared Glen. “I’ve got a new arrangement in view, too--the grain inspector at Stanley Junction.”
“Yes, I know him,” nodded Ralph.
“Well, my good friend the flagman here introduced him day before yesterday, and he told me that all those little bags containing samples are thrown into a big bin and dumped into the dust heap when they’re past inspection. After this he’s going to have them left in the bin, and I’m going to arrange to have a cartman call once a week and haul the stuff out to the farm.”
“Friends everywhere, eh, Glen,” said Ralph encouragingly.
“I’m so glad!” murmured his companion in a low grateful tone.
The young railroader calculated that he could visit the farm and get back to Stanley Junction by noon time. At the end of a three miles’ jerky run the train slowed down at a crossing and Ralph and Glen left it.
“There’s the place,” said the latter, as they reached the end of a grove, and he pointed to an old, low-built ruin of a house just ahead of them.
“They call it Desolation Patch around here. It’s in litigation somehow, and no one has lived in it until we came for several years, they tell me.”
“It does look rather ragged, for a fact,” said Ralph. “How did you come to pick it out, Glen?”
“Oh, it was just the place I was looking for. You see,” explained the boy in a slightly embarrassed way, “my grandfather is sort of--queer,” and Glen pointed soberly to his head.
“Yes, I understand,” nodded Ralph.
“I didn’t want to take him to a town where he might be noticed and mightn’t feel at home. Then there were reasons which--yes, some reasons.”
Ralph did not ask what they were. The farm embraced some twenty acres. Its improvements were mostly rickety, broken down barns and sheds. These seemed to be utilized in the chicken industry to the last foot of available space, the interested visitor noticed. An enclosure formed of sections of old wire netting held over a hundred of the feathery brood, and some of the boxes obtained from the wreck had been made into brooding pens.
Then Ralph laughed outright as he noticed two, four, half a dozen chickens limping about cheerfully with a stick taking the place of one broken or missing foot, and at others with a wing in splints.
“What do you think of it?” inquired Glen eagerly.
“I think you’re a rare genius,” declared Ralph, slapping his companion heartily on the shoulder.
“There are some neighbors beyond here who have been awfully kind to us,” proceeded Glen. “They gave us an old cooking stove and other kitchen things, and now that we have the chickens and eggs we can trade in the neighborhood for most everything we want. We have plenty to eat--oh, you did a big thing the day you went bail for me on this chicken deal.”
Glen went into details about his business when they reached the house. He showed Ralph a book in which he had enumerated his various belongings. Then he made an estimate of what sixty days’ chicken farming would result in. The exhibit made Ralph dizzy. It was fowls and eggs and multiples of fowls and eggs in exact but bewildering profusion.
“You’re heading right, that’s sure,” applauded Ralph. “What’s that room for?”
Ralph was glancing into an adjoining apartment with a great deal of curiosity and interest. He had never seen such a room before. It held two rudely-constructed tables, and attached to these were some old telegraph instruments, just like the abandoned ones down at the old division tower shanty. Pieces of wire ran to the ceiling of the room, but no farther. On the wall above one of the tables was a great sheet of paper covered with a skeleton outline system.
Somewhere Ralph had seen a picture of a rude frontier train dispatcher’s office. This was almost a perfect counterpart of it. He fixed his eyes in questioning wonderment on his companion. Glen looked somewhat embarrassed and flushed up. Then with an affected laugh he said:
“This is my grandfather’s den.”
“But--the telegraph instruments, the wires?”
“Why, grandfather was once a telegrapher, a famous----” He checked himself. “This is his hobby, and I fixed up things to please him.”
“How about yourself?” asked Ralph, with a keen glance at his companion, recalling what Dan Lacey had told him back at the switch shanty.
Glen eyed him steadily for a moment. Then his eyes faltered.
“My grandfather has taught me a lot about telegraphy,” he admitted.
Ralph walked over to the chart on the wall. The young engineer had learned his Morse alphabet early in his railroad career, and knew something of the system in vogue along the line.
As his eye studied the rude scrawl made with a red pencil, Ralph at once discerned that its dotted lines denoted three divisions of a railway system. From separate dots he traced a line of towns. Above each was a designation, an initial, a double initial, sometimes an additional numeral.
“The mischief!” muttered the young railroad engineer under his breath, “this doesn’t look much like a plaything outfit. Why, that is a perfect transcript of the routing chart in the train dispatcher’s office at Stanley Junction.”
A great flood of dark suspicion crossed Ralph’s mind at the discovery of the road chart. A dozen quick questions arose to his lips. Before he could speak, however, there was a hail from the outside.
“Hey, there, young fellow!”
Glen ran out to the road where a farm hand on horseback had halted. Ralph followed him.
“About your old man,” spoke the visitor.
“My grandfather, yes,” said Glen breathlessly.
“You told us to sort of keep an eye on him. He came down to our place about an hour ago to get some butter. Scruggins, who lives just beyond here was going to Centerville. Your old man said he wanted to go there, too, to see the new swinging signal bridge over the railroad.”
“Oh, but you stopped him.”
“I was away when it happened, and he would not listen to ma. Scruggins said he would bring him back all right.”
“Oh, I must stop him! I must overtake him!” cried Glen in such poignant distress that Ralph was surprised. “Grandfather was away nearly two days before, and pretty near got lost, and I was worried to death. I must go after him, indeed I must! Excuse me, won’t you,” he pleaded of Ralph.
“I will see you again soon,” answered Ralph.
“Do--sure,” said Glen. “I have lots to tell you.”
The farm hand rode on his way and Glen ran down the road on foot at great speed. Ralph went back slowly to the open house. Once more he inspected the telegraph room. Then with a good deal of thoughtfulness he started homeward.
“There’s something queer about all this business,” ruminated the young railroader. “That boy’s grandfather was certainly in with the two men who escaped from me in the tunnel. He is an expert telegrapher. So is Glen. Ike Slump had something up his sleeve about Glen. That chart of the road has the regular telegraph signal on it. What does this all mean?”
Ralph could not believe that Glen was a schemer or anything of that sort. For all that, there was a decided mystery about him. He seemed to be afraid of Slump, appeared to shun the town and its people. Why was he wandering all about the country with a helpless old man? Why had he flushed up and acted embarrassed when Ralph had asked him several pointed questions?
“Glen must certainly be questioned about the two men who had his grandfather in tow,” decided Ralph, “for those fellows must be located and watched. I wish Bob Adair was here. He would soon let light in on the whole affair. I’d rather he would do it, for I feel very friendly towards Glen and I don’t like hurting his feelings by seeming to pry into his private business.”
Ralph rested a few minutes on the porch when he reached home and then started down town. He was in a certain state of suspense, for the orders of the general superintendent were vague and unsatisfactory. Something was working, Ralph felt, in which he was to take an active part. The paymaster had indicated that affairs were being stirred up. Idleness and suspense worried the young railroader, however, and he anxiously awaited the coming interview with his superior officer.
Ralph went down to the roundhouse and met many of his friends. Old Forgan, the fireman, described the disgust and dejection of Fogg at having a new running mate. Everybody had heard that Ralph had a layoff on account of a fall disabling him, and his arm in the sling won him a good deal of friendly sympathy. He made a tour of the general offices to learn that Mr. Little was laid up at home with a lame foot, and that the general superintendent was out of town.
Ralph had the free run of the general offices, as the saying went. He was ambitious, energetic and popular, and the busiest man in the service had a pleasant nod and a kindly word for him as he went around the different departments. When he arrived at the train dispatcher’s office, the young railroader went in and sat down.
Ralph was in one of the most inviting places a man can get into, especially if he is interested in the workings of a big railway system.
The thought came to him, as he sat watching the men who held in their keeping the lives of thousands of passengers, that not all the credit for a good swift run was due to the engineer and train crew. He smiled as he recalled how the newspapers told every day of the President or some big functionary out on a trip, and how at the end of the run he stopped beside the panting engine, and reaching up to shake the hand of the faithful, grimy engineer, would say:
“Thank you so much for giving us a good run. I don’t know when I have ridden so fast before,” or words to that effect.
The reader of such items never thinks the engineer and crew are mere mechanical agents, small cogs in a huge machine. They do their part well, but the little office of the train dispatcher is a red-hot place where they have a red-hot time, where one tap of the sounder may cover the fate of numberless extras, specials and delayed trains.
The young engineer took particular notice of the dispatcher’s office on the present occasion. This was because so much of pending trouble seemed to involve the wire system of the Great Northern. The wire tapping episode, the prototype routing chart at the chicken farm, had aroused suspicion in his mind. Then, too, Ralph had often had a fondness and an admiration for this branch of the service. At one time, in fact, he had studied telegraphy with the purpose in view of following it up, and old John Glidden, a fast friend of his, had invited him to the dispatcher’s office and had taught him a great many useful things in his line.
Glidden was the first trick dispatcher and was not on duty just now. Ralph nodded to two subordinates at their tables, and snuggled back into his comfortable seat with the time and interest to look over things.
The interior of the dispatcher’s office was not very sumptuous. There was a big counter at one side of the room. This contained the train register, car record books, message blanks and forms for various reports. Against the wall on one of the other sides was a big blackboard known as the call board. Ralph read here the record of the probable arrival and departure of trains and the names of their crews. Also the time certain crews were to be called.
About the middle of the room in the recess of a bay window was the dispatcher’s table. Ralph only casually knew the man in charge. His name was Thorpe, a newcomer, and an expert in his line, but gruff and uncivil in the extreme, and he had few friends. In front of him was the train sheet containing information exact and absolute in its nature of each train on the division. On the sheet was also a space set apart for the expected arrival of trains from the other end and one for delays. Glidden had once gone over one of these sheets with Ralph with its loads, empties and miscellaneous details, and Ralph knew that the grim, silent man at the table must know the precise location of every train at a given moment, how her engine was working, how she had done along the road, and all about her engineer and conductor.
Ralph spent nearly a half an hour in the dispatcher’s room. Then he went down to the depot. An extra was just leaving for the west. He paused to have a cheery word with the engineer and fireman, whom he knew quite well. They were getting ready for the orders to pull out, when the three of them stared hard at a flying form coming down the track.
“Hello,” observed the engineer, “it’s Bates.”
“Yes, the second trick man in the dispatcher’s office,” nodded the fireman. “Wonder what’s up with him?”
“Something is,” declared Ralph, “according to his looks and actions.”
Bates came puffing up white and breathless. Evidently he had just got out of bed, half dressed himself, put on a pair of slippers, no coat, no hat, and he seemed to ignore the cold and snow amid some frantic urgency of reaching the departing train.
“Say!” he panted, approaching the fireman who was giving No. 341 the last touch of oil before they pulled out, “thank heaven you haven’t gone!”
“Hey?” stared the engineer.
“Don’t pull out for a minute.”
“Why not?”
“I think there’s a mistake in your orders.”
“What’s the matter with you?” snapped back the fireman with affected gruffness. “I hain’t got no orders. Come here, till I oil the wheels in your head.”
“You must come up to the dispatcher’s office,” insisted Bates urgently, and the engineer followed him wonderingly. Ralph, tracing something unusual in the episode of the moment, kept them company.
The chief dispatcher was standing by the counter. He glanced sharply at Bates with the words:
“What’s up, kid? Seen a ghost? You look almost pale enough yourself to be one.”
“No,” quavered Bates in a shaky tone. “I haven’t seen any ghosts, but I am afraid I forgot to notify that track gang just west of here about this extra.”
The chief went to the order book and glanced at the train sheet.
“Oh, bosh!” he said. “Of course you notified them. Here it is as big as life. Look out for extra west engine 341 leaving Stanley Junction at 1:21 P. M. What do you want to get a case of rattles and scare us all that way for. Say, I’d ought to run down your spinal column with a rake. Don’t you know there are other dispatchers in this office besides yourself--men who know more in a minute about the business than you do in a month? Don’t you suppose that order book would be verified and the train sheet consulted before sending out the extra. Say, don’t you ever show up with such a case of rattles again.”
Bates expressed an enormous sigh of relief. As he came down to the platform, however, Ralph noticed that he was shaking from head to foot.
“Did you ever work up there?” inquired Bates in a solemn tone.
“No,” answered Ralph.
“Then don’t. Just wake up once after you’ve left the key, and get thinking you’ve forgotten something, and--nightmare? Fairbanks, it’s worse than the horrors!”
“You understand me, Fairbanks?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Drake.”
“You have helped us out of trouble before this and I believe you can be of inestimable service in the present instance. We are sorry to lose a first-class engineer, but we need you somewhere else, and need you badly.”
They were seated in the private office of the superintendent of the Great Northern, that august official and the young engineer of the Overland Express, and a long, earnest and serious colloquy had just ended.
“From what I have told you and from what you have personally discovered, it is more than apparent that a plot is on foot among our train dispatchers to cripple the running time of the road for the benefit of the opposition.”
“There is little doubt of that, I think,” said Ralph.
“There is a leak somewhere, and it must be stopped.”
“It is my opinion that investigations should begin at the fountain head,” submitted Ralph.
“That is just where we shall begin. It may be a hard, even a dangerous task. We look to you, Fairbanks, for results.”
It was the third day after Ralph’s adventure in the tunnel. Not much had happened of active importance during that time. Ralph had met the superintendent on three different occasions. The present one was a definite culmination of a series.
The young railroader felt very much pleased at the confidence placed in him by the railroad head. It stirred his pride because it had all come about naturally. The superintendent had told him that after a little preliminary work he was to be made chief dispatcher of the Western division of the road. It was a grand promotion, both in importance and salary, enough to satisfy the most ambitious person working for a rapid rise.
Ralph had been sent to the home of the paymaster by the superintendent, and there was a colloquy there. Bob Adair, the road detective, was called in from the other end of the line, and Ralph told him the story of Glen Palmer and his grandfather, leaving the officer to work out himself whatever mystery might surround the two.
In plain words, somebody was tampering with the train dispatching service of the road. Some one on the inside was giving out important information. Cross orders had gone over the wires in a mysterious way and could not be traced. There had been two bad freight wrecks, and twice the Overland Express had been caught in a tangle brought about by vague contradictory orders and had come in many hours late.
As to those who were suspected of being responsible for this state of affairs Ralph was apprized in his talks with the superintendent. The plans to trap them and fasten the proofs of conspiracy upon them were all outlined to the young railroader. Ralph had blocked out just what he was expected to do, but that day as he was led to the office of the train dispatcher by the superintendent he knew that he had no easy task before him.
Glidden was in charge as they came into the place. The two trick men under him and the copy operators were busy at their tables. Mounted on a roll in front of Glidden was the current official time card of the division. From the information contained thereon he had evidently just finished his calculation for time orders, meeting points and work trains.
“Good morning, Glidden,” said the superintendent. “I spoke to you yesterday about our friend, Fairbanks here.”
The gruff dispatcher nodded brusquely. He liked Ralph and the latter knew it. Ralph also knew that Glidden was one of the “true blues” of the office.
“His arm is not strong enough to pull a lever, but he’s in shape to tackle a key, and knows how to do it.”
“Glad,” vouchsafed Glidden tersely.
“All right. Set him at work.”
“Come on,” said Glidden, and he opened the little office gate and Ralph stood within the charmed precincts of the train dispatching circle.
“You’ve had some experience, I understand,” resumed Glidden, after some bustling about. “I suppose you know what an O. S. report is?”
“The one sent in by operators of the various stations as trains arrive and depart.”
“Exactly, and the ‘Consists’?”
“The conductors’ messages giving the exact composition and destination of every car in the train.”
“You’ll do,” nodded Glidden. “Now, then, I have an inkling you and I are booked for something special at the relay station to-night, so you needn’t work yourself out. Just for practice, though, and to prove how smart you are, show the kind of stuff you are made of by tackling that.”
Glidden threw down a train sheet before Ralph, and following it a copied telegram. Then he strode away, with the words:
“Make out a schedule for this special, giving her a clean sweep from end to end with the exception of No. 8.”
“Very well, Mr. Glidden,” said Ralph quietly. “How soon do you want it?”
“Take your time,” was the short reply, while a chuckle sounded deep down in the throat of the dispatcher.
Ralph set his lips grimly. He realized that for a green hand he had been given an arduous task. He knew much about the service, however, and had not watched, studied and absorbed during the past two days for nothing. He was fully determined that this special should have “a run for her money.” If she ran on his schedule, no train load was going away with the idea that the Great Northern was not the swiftest road of the bunch if he could help it, and Ralph had a big idea that he could.
Glidden sent over a copy operator, a young fellow who agreed to do the copying while Ralph made the schedule. There was a whimsical twinkle in his eye, but Ralph dauntlessly started in at his work.
The special in question was to be whooped through that afternoon, the run was one hundred and two miles, with plenty of sidings and passing tracks, and besides, old Dan Lacey, with engine No. 86, was on, so he could be sure of a run that was a hummer.
The superintendent came into the office for a moment to see what Ralph was at, and said carelessly:
“Tear things loose, Fairbanks. There’s a Congressional Railroad Committee aboard of that special. Make ’em all car sick.”
Ralph took the train sheet and familiarized himself with its every detail. Down its centre was printed the names of all the stations on the division and the distances between them. On either side of the main column were ruled smaller columns, each one of which represented a train. The number of each train was at the head of the appropriate column, and under it the names of the conductor and engineer and the number of loads and empties on the train.
All trains on the division were arranged in three classes, and as Ralph knew had certain rights. Trains of the first class were passengers. The through freight and combination freight and passenger made up the second class. All other trains, such as local freights, work trains and construction trains, composed the third class.
Ralph began his calculating on the basis of the invariable rule in force on all railroads, that trains running one way have the exclusive right over trains of their own and inferior classes running in the opposite direction. Ralph began his work by framing up the initial order:
“Order number 29To G. N. E.--all trainsG. N. R. R. (Western Division)Dispatcher’s officeD. S.Special east engine No. 86 will run from Rockton to Dover, having right of track over all trains except No. 8 on the following schedule:Leave Rockton 3:12 P. M.
“Order number 29To G. N. E.--all trainsG. N. R. R. (Western Division)Dispatcher’s office
D. S.
Special east engine No. 86 will run from Rockton to Dover, having right of track over all trains except No. 8 on the following schedule:
Leave Rockton 3:12 P. M.
There Ralph paused.
“Stuck,” insinuated his copy operator with a grin.
“No, only thinking,” declared Ralph.
Here was where the figuring came in, along with the knowledge of the road, grades and the like, in which Ralph was by no means lacking, for he knew familiarly nearly every foot of the way out of Rockton. He studied and used up lots of gray matter and even chewed up a pencil or two. Ralph read his schedule carefully and handed it to the second trick operator. The latter knitted his brows for a moment and then slowly said:
“For a beginner that’s the best schedule I ever saw.”
“Thank you,” bowed Ralph modestly.
“It’s a hummer, without a doubt. To prevent the lives of the Congressional Committee being placed in peril, though, I think you had better make another.”
“Think so?” questioned Ralph blankly.
“You see,” went on the operator solemnly, “you have only allowed seven minutes between Lisle and Hull, while the time card shows the distance to be six miles. Dan Lacey and his engine 86 are capable of great bursts of speed, but they can’t fly. Then there’s the through. She’s an hour late from the south today. What are you going to do about her. Pass them on one track, I suppose?”
“He’s guying you, Fairbanks,” spoke a gruff but pleased voice at Ralph’s shoulder. “Lacey can make the spurt without a quiver, and as you probably noticed the late through is cancelled for transfer at Blakeville. You’ll do.”
Ralph picked up a good deal of general information that day. He perfected himself in the double-order system. This covered the giving of an order to all trains concerned at the same time. A case came up where the dispatcher desired to make a meeting point for two trains. The order was sent simultaneously to both of them. Ralph had a case in point where a train was leaving his end of the division and wherein it was necessary to make a meeting point with a train coming in. Before giving his order to his conductor and engineer he telegraphed to a station at which the incoming train would soon arrive. From there the operator repeated the message back word for word, giving a signal that his red board was turned. By this means both trains received the same order and there would be no doubt about the point at which they were to meet.
Time orders, slow orders, extra orders, annulment orders, clearance orders--Ralph found that any one gifted with a reasonable amount of common sense and having practical knowledge of the rudiments of mathematics could do the work successfully. Beneath all the simplicity of the system, however, the young railroader realized that there ran a deep undercurrent of complications that only long time and a cool head could master.
All of a sudden sometimes some train out on the road that had been running all right would bob up with a hot box or a broken draw head, and then all the calculations for a new train would be knocked awry.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the superintendent came into the office and made a gesture towards Ralph which the latter understood perfectly. He nudged Glidden as he passed him, who blinked up at him intelligently. Then Ralph went home.
It was just after dusk that the young dispatcher left the cottage. It had set in a cold tempestuous night with blinding snow eddies, and Ralph wore a protecting storm coat, and carried a good lunch in one of its capacious pockets.
He walked about a mile across town until he came to the limits crossing, and stood in the shelter of a flagman’s shanty for a few minutes. Then a sharp whistle greeted his ears. He strained his vision and made out a dim form loitering near a big heap of ties.
“Mr. Glidden?” spoke Ralph, advancing to meet this man.
“That’s what,” responded Glidden, in his usually snappy way. “All ready?”
“Yes.”
“It’s all arranged. The regular men have been called off for the night. You take the relay station, and I’ll be on duty at the tower station beyond, catching the messages that fly over the wires, and see if we can’t nail the people who are making the Great Northern all this trouble.”