Ralph, the Train Dispatcher: or, The Mystery of the Pay Car. Chapman Allen
There’s reasons why I can’t work in the towns like other boys. You can give me work, though-you can just set me on my feet.”
“How can I do that?” inquired Ralph, getting interested.
“By buying me those chickens. I’ve got the place for them, I’ve got the time to attend to them, and I know just how to handle them. Why,” continued the speaker excitedly, “there’s nearly two hundred in prime trim gathered in a little thicket over yonder, and there’s double that number among the wreckage, besides those that are hurt that I can nurse and mend up. If you will buy them for me, I’ll solemnly promise to return you the money in a week and double the amount of interest in two.”
“You talk clear and straight and earnest, my lad,” here broke in the claim agent. “What’s your name?”
“Glen Palmer.”
“Do you live near here?”
“Yes, sir-in an old abandoned farmhouse, rent free, about a mile north of here.”
“With your folks?”
“No, sir, I have no folks, only an old grandfather. He’s past working, and, well, a-a little queer at times, and I have to keep close watch of him. That’s what’s the trouble.”
The claim agent took out his note book.
“Look here,” he spoke, “if Fairbanks will vouch for you, I’ll tab off the chickens to you at fifteen dollars, due in thirty days.”
“O-oh!” gasped the lad, clasping his hands in an ecstacy of hope and happiness. “I’ll be sure to pay you- Why, with what I know I can do with those chickens, I could pay you ten times over inside of a month.”
“Mr. Fry,” said Ralph, studying the boy’s face for a moment or two, “I’ll go security for my friend here.”
“Say-excuse me, but say, Mr. Fairbanks, I-I-”
The boy broke down, tears chocking his utterance. He could only clasp and cling to Ralph’s hand. The latter patted him on the shoulder with the encouraging words:
“You go ahead with your chicken farm, Glen, and if it needs more capital come to me.”
“If you only knew what you’ve done for me-for me and my old grandfather!” faltered Glen Palmer, the deepest gratitude and feeling manifested in tone and manner.
Ralph felt sure that the lad had a history. He did not, however, embarrass him with any questioning. He liked the way that young Palmer talked and bustled about as soon as the word was given that his proposition was accepted. With an eager face he announced that he had a plan for getting the chickens to his home, and darted off at breakneck speed, waving his hand gratefully back at Ralph a dozen times.
Ralph and the claim agent reached the dummy to find Cohen hanging around it in great mental distress. Fry invited him to ride in the cab, and tormented him by talking about his bargain clear back to the roundhouse. Then he relieved Cohen’s distress, which bordered on positive distraction, by releasing him from his contract.
Mrs. Fairbanks greeted Ralph with her usual loving, kindly welcome when he reached home. The old family cottage was a veritable nest of comfort, and the young engineer enjoyed it to the utmost. There was always some special favorite dainty awaiting Ralph on his return from a trip, and he had a fine appetizing meal.
“We had a visitor today, Ralph,” said Mrs. Fairbanks, as they sat chatting in the cozy sitting room a little later.
“Who was that, mother?”
Mrs. Fairbanks with a smile handed her son a card that had been lying on the mantle. Ralph smiled, too, as he looked it over.
“H’m,” he said. “Quite dignified, ‘Mr. Dallas,’ our old friend Zeph, eh? What’s this mysterious monogram, cryptogram, or whatever it is, way down in the corner of the card?”
“It looks like two S’s,” suggested Mrs. Fairbanks.
“Oh, I can solve the enigma now,” said Ralph with a broader smile than ever. “It is ‘S. S.,’ by which Zeph means and wants mystified others to half guess means ‘Secret Service.’ There’s one thing about Zeph, with all his wild imaginings and ambition along the railroad line, he sticks to his idea of breaking in somewhere as an active young sleuth.”
“We think a lot of Zeph, Ralph, and we mustn’t forget that he did some bright things in helping that poor little orphan, Ernest Gregg, to health and happiness.”
“Yes, Zeph deserves great credit for his patience and cleverness in that affair,” admitted Ralph warmly, “only the line he is so fascinated with doesn’t strike me as a regular business.”
“How about Mr. Adair, Ralph?” insinuated his mother.
“That’s so, Bob Adair is the finest railroad detective in the world. If Zeph could line up under his guidance, he might make something practical of himself.”
“I think he has really done just that.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said Ralph, and watching the glowing embers in the grate in a dreamy fashion he mused pleasantly over his experience with the redoubtable Zeph, while his mother was busy tidying up the dining room.
It was a good deal of satisfaction for Ralph to recall Zeph Dallas to mind. Zeph, a raw country youth, had come to Stanley Junction in a whole peck of trouble. Ralph had always a helping hand for the unlucky or unfortunate. He became a good friend to Zeph and got him a place in the roundhouse. Zeph made a miserable failure of the job. The height of his ambition was to be a detective-like fellows he had read about.
Zeph finally landed, as he expressed it, with both feet. The son of a prominent railroad official became interested in hunting up the relatives of a forlorn little fellow named Gregg. He had plenty of money, and he hired Zeph to assist him. The latter showed that he had something in him, for his wit and energy not only located the wealthy relative of the orphan outcast, but upset the plots of a wicked schemer who was planning to rob the friendless lad of his rights.
“What did Zeph say about Mr. Adair, mother?” inquired Ralph, as Mrs. Fairbanks again entered the sitting room.
“Nothing clear,” she explained. “You know how Zeph delights in cuddling up his ideas to himself and looking and acting mysterious. He was very important as he hinted that Mr. Adair depended on him to ‘save the day in a big case,’ and he said a great deal about a ‘rival railroad.’”
“Oh, did he, indeed?” murmured Ralph thoughtfully.
“Zeph told me to advise you, very secretly he put it, to look out for trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Particularly, he said, in the train dispatcher’s department.”
“Hm!” commented the young engineer simply, but his brow became furrowed with thought, and he reflected by spells quite seriously over the subject during the evening.
Fogg had forgotten all about his fears of the day previous when he reported at the roundhouse the next morning. He grinned at his young comrade with a particularly satisfied smirk on his face, and made the remark:
“You see before you, young man, a person full of the best chicken stew ever cooked in Stanley Junction. I say, Fairbanks, if you’d kind of slow up going past Bluff Point we might grab off enough more of those chickens to do for Sunday dinner.”
“We? Don’t include me in your disreputable pilferings, Mr. Fogg,” declared Ralph, “you may get a bill for the two fowls you so boastingly allude to.”
“Hey.”
“Yes, indeed. In fact,” continued Ralph with mock seriousness, “I don’t know but what I may have a certain interest in enforcing its collection.”
The young engineer recited the episode of the salvage sale of the chickens to Glen Palmer.
“Quite a windfall, that,” commented Fogg. “Another fellow to thank his lucky stars that he ran up against Ralph Fairbanks. Sort of interested in this