 CHAPTER XII. IN A BAD FIX AND OUT. Good evening, young man. With a start Jack turned toward the quietly open door of the telegraph room to discover a short, dark, heavily bearded man over whose eyes was pulled a soft grey hat. "'I suppose you don't have many visitors at the station at this time of night?' said the stranger, entering. "'No, but you are quite welcome. Have a chair!' responded Jack courteously. To the young operator's surprise the stranger drew the chair immediately before him, and seating himself, leaned forward secretively. "'My name is Watts.' He began in a low voice. And I've come on business. For you are the lad who worked out that ghost mystery here, and caused the capture of the freight robber, aren't you?' "'Yes,' confirmed Jack, in further wonder. "'I thought so. I heard as much. I know a clever lad when I see one. And that was one of the cleverest bits of detective work I ever heard of.' Declared Mr. Watts with a winning smile. If the railroad detectives had done their work as well, the whole freight-stealing gang would have been landed. As it was, none of the rest were caught, were they?' Instead of being pleased, the man's flattery and ingratiating manner had ruffled Jack, and briefly he answered, "'No, sir.' "'No, I knew that already. I was one of them myself.' At this startling statement Jack stared. "'I beg your pardon, sir,' he exclaimed. "'I was a member of that gang myself,' repeated Jack's strange caller, again smiling broadly. "'Don't you think I looked the part?' So saying he pushed his hat back from his face. Jack had no doubt of it. The small dark eyes were repellent with low cunning and greed. Instinctively he half turned to cast a glance toward the door. At once the smile disappeared, and the self-confessed lawbreaker threw open his coat and significantly tapped the butt of a revolver. "'No, you just sit still and listen,' he ordered sharply, but immediately again smiling at it. "'Though there needn't be anything of this kind between two who are going to be good friends. "'Listen. What I called for was this. We want another man in the gang in place of Joe Corey. That is the man you caught. And we decided to invite you.' Jack fairly caught his breath. "'Why, you must be joking or—or crazy, eh? Not quite. I was never more serious in my life. "'Listen.' The speaker leaned forward earnestly. "'After you're spoiling our little ghost-game here, the rarer people would never look for us starting in again at the same place. Never in the world, would they? And likewise, after you're causing the capture of Corey, they would never in the world suspect you of working with us. Do you see the point?' "'And all you would have to do would be to keep your ears closed and not hear any noises out in the freight room at night. And for doing that,' concluded the lawbreaker, "'we will give you a regular salary of twenty-five dollars a month. We'll send it by mail, or bank it for you at any bank you name, and no one will know where it comes from. What do you say?' Jack drew back indignantly. "'Most certainly not,' he began. And suddenly he hesitated. As the freight robber had said, the authorities had been unable to obtain a single clue to the whereabouts or identity of the remainder of the freight-stealing gang. Should he accept the man's offer, came the thought. Undoubtedly, sooner or later, he would be able to bring about the capture of every one of them. Immediately following, however, there recurred to Jack one of his mother's warnings. That even the appearance of evil is dangerous always, as well as wrong." "'But this would be quite different,' Jack argued to himself, to cause the capture of criminals. And what possible danger could there be in it? No one would believe for an instant that I would go into such a thing seriously,' he told himself. "'All right, Mr. Watts,' he said aloud. "'I'll do it.' "'Good! It's a go!' The freight-stealer spoke with satisfaction and, rising, grasped Jack's hand. "'I told you I knew a clever boy when I saw one. And that means a wise one.' "'Well, that's all there is to it, excepting the money matter. Where will we send that, here?' Jack responded with an effort. "'Yes, you may as well send it to me here.' "'All right, look for it at the end of the month,' said Watts, proceeding to the door. "'Remember, you are dumb. That's all. Good night!' Jack's sense of honour was not long in convincing him that he had made a mistake in entering into such a bargain, even with a law breaker. A dozen times during the days that followed he would have given anything to have been able to wipe out the agreement. Unhappily this dissatisfaction with himself was to prove but a minor result of the misstep. Only after he had relieved the day operator at the station a week later he was surprised by the appearance of one of the road detectives and with him a stranger. "'Good evening, O'er,' said the detective, in a peculiar tone, "'let me make you acquainted with Sheriff Bates.' Jack started and glanced from one to the other. "'Is there anything wrong?' he asked. "'Very slightly. Your little game is up. That's all. Your older partner has given the thing away, and we have just found the watch in your room at the boarding-house.' Announced the detective. "'Given the thing away—the watch—why, what do you mean?' exclaimed Jack in alarm. "'Oh, come!' Watts is squealed, and we found the watch hidden, just as he said, in the mattress of your bed up at the house. In a flash Jack saw it all. Watts's offer had been a trap—a mere trap to get him into trouble, probably in revenge. He sprang to his feet. "'It's not true. It's false—whatever it is, it's false. I did see Watts, and he asked me to go in with them, but I only agreed so as to learn who they were, so we could capture them.' To his utter dismay the two officers only laughed, dryly. "'No, no, that's quite too thin,' declared the detective. Read this.' Blankly Jack took the letter in red. Chief Detective, Middle-Western Railroad, Dear Sir, the young-night operator at Midway Junction has joined the freight-stealing gang that Corey belonged to, and if you will look under the mattress in his room at the railroad boarding-house, you will find a watch and chain of the lot we stole at Claxton two weeks ago. I gave it to him last Friday night. I came to Midway by the Eastfield freight, and when I saw another operator in the station office, I started up towards the boarding-house and met Orr coming down. I mentioned this to show my story as all straight. I heard he was going to give us away as soon as he had got enough loot himself, and claim he only went in with us to get us. That is why I am showing him up. Yours truly, W. Watts." And the day operator had worked for him that Friday evening, while he was at the landlady daughter's birthday party, and he had come down to the station at about the time the Eastfield-night freight came in. Jack sank back in the chair, completely crushed. "'Change your mind, eh?' remarked the sheriff sarcastically. Jack shook his head, but said nothing. What could he say?" "'If it is false as you claim, how do you explain our finding the watch in your room?' demanded the detective. "'I don't know. Someone must have put it there.' "'Very likely. It wouldn't have crept upstairs and got under the bed itself. And I suppose you will deny also that you saw Watts on the night of the party, despite the fact that he could not otherwise have known the unusual hour you came down to the station that night. Eh?' "'I never saw him after the night he called here,' affirmed Jack earnestly, but hopelessly. "'Well, you will have to prove it,' declared the sheriff, and to Jack's unspeakable horror, he was informed he must be taken into custody. Needless to say, the news of Jack's arrest and of his early trial at Eastfield, the county seat, came as a tremendous shock to Alex at Exeter. Of course he thoroughly disbelieved in Jack's guilt, despite the net of circumstantial evidence which, according to the newspapers, had been woven about his friend, and morning and afternoon he read and reread the papers in the hope of something more favorable to Jack developing. It was through this close reading that Alex finally came upon the discovery that was to draw him into the case himself, and to have so important a bearing on the outcome of the trial. Early in the evening, preceding the date set for the hearing, Alex, before starting work on his wire, was studying the paper as usual. For the second time he was reading the letter from the man Watts that had had such serious results for Jack. Suddenly as he read Alex started, again read a portion of the letter, a moment thought deeply, and with a cry sprang to his feet and hastened to the chief dispatcher's desk. Mr. Allen, he said excitedly, in this letter Watts says he reached midway junction that Friday night by the Eastfield freight, and that he met and gave Jack ore the watch after that. Now I remember distinctly that it was Jack who reported the arrival of the Eastfield freight that night. She was twenty minutes late, and I recall asking if she was in sight yet, and his reply that she had just whistled. That means Jack was back at the station before the time at which Watts claims he met him. Ward, why in the world didn't you think of this before? The chief exclaimed, It's the most important piece of evidence your friend could have. Call Eastfield right away on the long distance, and get ore's lawyer and tell him. Watts hastily did so, and a few minutes after he heard the lawyer's voice from the distant town and quickly told his story. To his surprise the lawyer for a moment remained silent, then said slowly, Of course I would like to believe that. In fact, it would make an invaluable piece of evidence, practically conclusive. But really now, how could you be sure it was ore you heard? What possible difference can there be between the ticks made over a telegraph wire by one distant operator, and those made by another? Why all the difference in the world sometimes, sir, declared Jack. Any operator would tell you that. I would recognize Jack ore's sending anywhere I heard it. But the lawyer at the other end was still incredulous. Well, he said at last, if the jury was made up of telegraph operators, perhaps your claim might go. As it is, however. Say, I have it, cried Alex. Let me give a demonstration right there in court of my ability to identify the sending of as many operators as we can get together, including Jack ore. Could you arrange that? The lawyer was interested at last. But could you really do it? Are you really that sure? I am absolutely positive, declared Alex. Then you come right ahead, was the decisive response. Come down here by the first train in the morning, and bring two or three other operators and the necessary instruments. If you can prove what you claim, I'll guarantee that your friend is clear. Hurrah! then he is clear!" cried Alex joyously. Accompanied by three other operators from the Exeter office and with a set of telegraph instruments and a convenient dry battery, Alex reached the courtroom at Eastfield at ten o'clock the following morning. The trial, which had attracted a crowd that packed the building to its capacity, already had neared its conclusion. Jack's demeanor and that of his father, who was beside him, quickly informed Alex that matters were looking serious for his chum. Confidently he waited, however, and at last the court clerk arose and called his name. The preliminary questions were passed, and Jack's attorney yet once proceeded. Now Alex, he said, this letter here, which has been put in evidence, declares that the writer, Watts, went to Midway Junction by the Eastfield Freight on the Friday night in question, and that he then met the defendant coming down to the station from his boarding-house and gave him the watch. Have you anything to say to this? Yes, sir. Jack Orr was at the telegraph instruments in the Midway Junction station several minutes before the Eastfield Freight reached there that night. It was he who reported her coming over the wire to me at Exeter. The lawyer for the prosecution looked up with surprise, then smiled in amusement while Jack and his father started and exchanged glances of new hope. You are positive it was the defendant you heard over the wire? asked Mr. Brown. Positive, sir. If necessary, could you give a demonstration here in court of your ability to identify the defendant's transmitting on a telegraph instrument? Yes, sir, I could. When the lawyer for the other side arose to cross-examine Alex, he smiled somewhat derisively. You are a friend of the defendant, are you not? He asked significantly. Yes, sir, and so know his sending over the wire unusually well, responded Alex cleverly turning the point of the question. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders and put the next question with sarcasm. And now, do you mean to stand there and tell this court that the clicks, the purely mechanical clicks, made over a telegraph wire by an operator miles away, will sound different to the clicks made by any other operator? I do, said Alex quietly, and I am ready to demonstrate it. Oh, you are, are you, and how, pray? Three other operators from the Exeter office are in the courtroom with a set of instruments and a battery. Let them place the instruments on the table down there, blindfold me, then have them and Jack Orr by turns write something on the key. I'll identify every one of them before he sends a half dozen words. A wave of surprise, then smiles of incredulity passed over the crowded room. Very well, agreed the lawyer readily, set up the instruments. The three Exeter operators came forward, and the prosecutor, producing a handkerchief, himself stepped into the witness-box and proceeded to bind Alex's eyes. That done, to make doubly sure, he turned Alex face to the wall. When the lawyer returned to the counsel-table the proceedings were momentarily interrupted by a whiskered consultation with his assistant, at the end of which, while the spectators wandered, the latter hastened from the room. He, as to the junior counsel's mission, was quickly forgotten, however, as the prosecutor then called Jack Orr to the table beside the telegraph instruments, and stood Jack and the three Exeter operators in a row before him. Now, said he in a low voice, each of you, as I touch you, step quietly to the key and send these words. Do you know who this is? A moment the lawyer paused, while spectators, judge and jury, waited in breathless silence, then reaching out, he lightly touched one of the Exeter men. Do you know who this is? Clicked the sounder. All eyes turned toward Alex. Without a moment's hesitation he answered, Johnson! The operator nodded, and a flutter passed over the courtroom. Huh! A guess! Declared the prosecutor audibly, and still smiling confidently, he touched another of the Exeter operators. The instruments repeated the question. Bradley! said Alex promptly. The flutter of surprise was repeated. Quickly the prosecutor made as though to touch the third Exeter man, then abruptly again touched Bradley. Bradley again! said Alex. A ripple-like applause swept over the crowded room. With tightening lips the prosecutor turned again toward the third Exeter operator. At the moment the door opened and he paused as his assistant reappeared with him two young ladies. The newcomers were operators from the local commercial telegraph office. At once Jack's lawyer, recognizing the prosecution's purpose, was on his feet in protest, for of course the young women were utter strangers to the blindfolded boy and the witness stand. The judge promptly motioned him down, however, and with a smile of anticipated triumph the prosecutor greeted the two local operators, and whispering his instructions to one of them led her to the telegraph key. In a silence that was painful the sounder once more rattled out its inquiry. Do you know who this is? Alex started, hesitated, made as though to speak, again paused, and suddenly cried, That's a stranger, and it's awfully like the light jumpy-sending of a girl. A spontaneous cheer broke from the excited spectators. Silence, silence, shouted the judge. It was not necessary to repeat the order, for the disconcerted prosecutor, whirling about, had grasped Jack warred by the arm and thrust him toward the key. The final test had come. Jack himself realized the significance of the moment, and for an instant hesitated trembling. Then determinately gripping himself, he reached forward, grasped the key, and sent, Do you know—or, or, that's—cried Alex. With a shout the entire courtroom was on its feet, women waving their handkerchiefs, and men cheering wildly, again and again. And equally disregarding the etiquette of the court, Alex tore the handkerchief from his eyes, and, leaving down beside Jack, fell to shaking his hand as though he would never let go, while Jack vainly sought to express himself, and to keep back the tears that came to his eyes. Ten minutes later, with order restored, Jack was formally declared not guilty, and with Alex on one side and his father on the other left the room free and vindicated. Well, good-bye, my lad! said Mr. Orr, as he and Alex that evening dropped Jack off their returning train at Midway Junction. And I suppose it is unnecessary to warn you against understandings with such men as Watts in the future, no matter for what purpose. Hardly, Dad, responded Jack earnestly, no more agreements of any kind for me, unless they are on the loveless kind of level, no matter who they are with, or for what purpose. End of Chapter 13 Part 1 of The Young Railroaders. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Young Railroaders by F. Lovell Coombs. Chapter 13 Part 1. Professor Click, mine-reader. Some months previously Alex and Jack had arranged to take their two weeks' vacation at the same time, and to spend one week at Hadowville, Jack's home, and the other at Bickston. The long-looked-for Monday-headed length arrived, early that morning Jack had joined Alex at Exeter, and the two boys aboard the Eastern Mail were now well on their way to Hadowville. For some minutes Alex's part in the animated conversation of the two chums had waned. Presently, plucking Jack's sleeve, he quietly directed his companion's attention to the double seat across the aisle of the car. Jack, watch that soldier's fingers! He said in a low voice, What's the matter with him? The soldier in question, in the uniform of an infantry regular, sat facing them beside a stout, elderly gentleman. Opposite the first soldier was a second in a similar uniform, and sharing the seat with the latter, and facing the old gentleman, was a decidedly pretty young girl. It was the first soldier's left hand, however, which attracted the boy's particular attention. Resting in his lap, and partly concealed by a newspaper, the hand was so doubled that the thumb stood upright, and this latter member was bobbing and wagging up and down, now slowly, now quickly, in most curious fashion. Perhaps it sang Vitus's dance, ventured Jack. But that affects the whole body! Or at least the whole limb, doesn't it? Jack, who sat next to the window, leaned slightly forward. The other soldier is watching him. He said, Maybe the fellow with a wiggling thumb is out of his mind, and this one is taking him somewhere. He's watching his hand. Silently the boys continued to regard the curious proceeding. Suddenly the thumb became quiet. There was the rattle of a paper in the hands of the second soldier, and in turn his thumb became affected with the wagging. In a moment the boys understood. The two soldiers were army signalers, and were carrying on a silent conversation, using their thumbs as they would a flag. Jack and Alex looked at one another and laughed softly. We're bright, hey! Alex remarked. Let us watch when the other starts again. We can't see this chap's hand well enough. And see if we can read it, suggested Jack. That one-flag signal system is based on the telegraph dot and dash code, you know, and it's not likely they're speaking of anything private, only amusing themselves. The paper opposite again covered the first soldier's hand, and observing closely, after a few minutes the boys were able to interpret the strokes of the wagging thumb with ease. They corresponded precisely to the strokes of a telegraph sounder, and of course were very much slower. Not much. I saw her first, they read. You have three girls at Kay now. Get out. I'll tell Maggy O'Rourke, and she'll pick your eyes out. No, sir, you can have the two old maids just back of you, and the fat party with the red hair. That's your taste, anyway. If you spoke, she'd freeze you so you'd never thaw out. The two boys exchanged glances and chuckled in amusement. Say, look at the gaudy nose on that old chap across the aisle, went on the wagging thumb. Talk about danger signals. They ought to hire him to sit on the cowcatcher, foggy nights. I wouldn't like to pay for all the paint it took to color it. Plain whiskey, I guess. You can see what you are coming to if you don't look out. What's the matter with that baby back there? Is the woman lynching it, or is it lynching the woman? It's not, either. It's just like your high tenor, singing the soldiers farewell. Only better, more in tune. Yes, if they knew what we'd been saying about them, there'd be a riot. I wouldn't give much for your hair when the two old ladies behind got through with it. At this point, unable to resist the temptation, Alex Nudge Jack drew a pencil from his pocket and, slightly tapped on the middle of the seed-arm, the two letters of the telegraph laugh high. The soldier opposite started, looked quickly over, caught the two boys twinkling eyes, and coloring laughed heartily. Properly then he raised his thumb and wagged, You young rascals, I'll have you in the guard house for stealing military information. Who are you? Alex replied, using his thumb as he had seen the soldier do, and the animated exchange of signals which followed continued until a whistle from the engine announced to stop, and the soldier wagged, We get off here. Goodbye. Glad to have met you, he said, smiling as he and his companion passed them. Glad to have met you, responded the boys heartily, and to have got on to the signalling. It may come in useful some day. Alex sadded, Good day. That's just what I was thinking myself, Al, declared Jack. We must practice it. Following the disappearance of the outgoing passengers, a group of newcomers appeared at the farther car door. Here comes someone I know, Jack observed. The big man in front, Burke, a real estate agent. The tall, heavy-featured man passed them and took the seat immediately behind. He didn't speak to you, commented Alex. I'm glad he didn't, he's no friend, just knew him, I meant. Responded Jack. He is a proper shark, they say. I know he practically did a widow out of a bit of property just back of ours. And here is another, same business from the next town, and not much better. Jack went on, as a short, bustling, sharp-featured man appeared. The man behind them stood up and called, Hi there, Mitchell, here. The newcomer waved his hand, came forward quickly, and also dropped into the seat at the rear of the two boys. Nice pair of hawks, said Jack. I'll bet they're hatching up something with a shady side to it. I'd be tempted to listen, if I could. As the train was again under way, Jack had no opportunity of overhearing what was being said behind them. A few miles farther, however, they came once more to a stop, and almost immediately he pricked up his ears and nudged Alex. Don't believe the ignorant adult knows the real value of butter and eggs. It was the deep voice of the bigger man, Burke. He's one of those queer ducks without any friends. Lives there all by himself, doesn't read the papers, only comes to town about once a month. No, there's not one chance in ten of his waking up and getting on to it. You always were a lucky dog, declared the other. If you land it, you ought to clear fifty thousand inside of five years. A hundred. I intend holding for a cold hundred thousand. There has been talk of the town building a steam plant already, but water is, of course, a way ahead of that, and they are sure to swing to it, and this fall is the only one within ten miles of Hadowville. Didn't I tell you? exclaimed Jack in a whisper, doing somebody out of something, whatever it is. You might build the plant yourself and hold the town up for whatever you wished, the second speaker went on. Yes, I could, but I prefer the ready cash. That has always been my plan of doing business. No, I figure I'm disposing of the farm just as it stands, either to the town or a corporation, for an even hundred thousand. Does that give you a clue, Jack? Alex asked. Jack shook his head. At the next remark, however, he sharply gripped Alex's arm. What fall has a stream there? Forty feet, and the lake back of it's nearly a mile long and a half mile wide. The rumble of the train again drowned the voices of the two men, but Jack had heard enough. It's old Uncle Joe Potter, his farm, he said with indignation. Now I understand. The old farmer apparently doesn't know its value as an electric power plant site, and Burke is trying to get hold of it for a song. Let us put the old man on to him, Alex immediately suggested. I'll talk the matter over with Father and see what he says, said Jack. But here comes the good old town. He broke off with boyish enthusiasm. Look, there is the creek and the old swimming-hole at the bend. I'll bet I've been in there a thousand times. And see that spire, that's our church. Our house is just beyond. Come on, let's be getting out. Catching up their suitcases, the boys passed down the aisle. As they halted at the door, they glanced back and saw that their neighbors of the next seat were following them. The two men were still talking, and coming to a stand behind the boys, the latter caught a further remark from Burke, apparently referring to the Potter Farm deal. Rode asked in him to town this evening. He was saying, I'll give him a bit of good time to-night, and put him up at one of the hotels. And, unless something unexpected happens, I'll guarantee I'll have the thing put through by noon to-morrow. I hope you do," responded his companion. And I hope you don't, exclaimed Jack beneath his breath, and I may do something more than hope. Twenty minutes later, after a joyous welcome from his father and mother and sister Kate, and the cordial reception extended Alex, Jack was seated at his old corner of the vine-hidden veranda, recounting the conversation they had overheard between the two real estate men. Before Mr. Orr had ventured an opinion in the matter, however, the subject was temporarily thrust aside by the appearance of a party of Kate's girlfriends, evidently much disturbed over something. When on running forward Kate's voice was quickly added to the excited conversation, Jack followed to greet the girls and learn the cause, and returned with the party to the veranda. Now what do you think of this? he exclaimed with tragic horror. Professor Robison, the world-renowned mind-reader, though I never heard of him before, owing to his inability to arrive, will not be able to present at the girls' club's song-fight tonight. Did you ever? But it's no laughing matter, said Kate following the introduction of her friends to Alex. He was the feature of our program tonight, and I simply can't see what we're going to do. Many of the people will be coming just to hear him. Jack, couldn't you help us out? asked one of the other girls, half seriously. You used to pretend you were a phrenologist and all that kind of thing at school, I remember. No thanks, Mary. I've gotten over all that sort of foolishness. Jack responded, expanding his chest and speaking in a deep voice. I leave that for you younger folks. A small laughing riot followed this pompous declaration, and at its conclusion Jack carried Alex off to introduce him to his pigeons and chickens and other former treasures of the backyard. Some minutes later Jack was dilating on the rich under-color of his pet Buff Orpington hen, when Alex, with an apology, abruptly broke in. Say, Jack, what kind of a crowd do they have at these girls' club affairs? Very swell? Well about every one in the church goes, and quite a few farmers usually come in from out of town. They are as swell as anything we have here, I guess. The Sunday school room is usually well filled. Why? I was just wondering whether we couldn't help the girls out, and have a little fun out of it into the bargain. Remember the soldiers on the train? Now why couldn't we? And there with Alex briefly sketched his plan. Jack promptly tossed the hen back into the coop. Great, Al! We will! It will be all kinds of a lark! I think there is just the stuff we'll need up in the garret. Come on, we'll break the joyful tidings to the girls. I'd rather you played the part, though, said Alex as they returned toward the veranda. You, of course, know every one. That will make no difference according to this plan. If I am in full view, too, that will add to the mystery, and help keep up the fun. The folks will be breaking their heads to learn who it is on the platform. No, it's settled. You are the distinguished professor, and frenoo—what do you call it? The girls on the veranda were still in dejected debate as the boys reappeared. Ladies, we've got this thing fixed for you! announced Jack. We have just wirelessed and engaged that world-famous thought-stealer, bumpologist and general seer, Professor Mohammed Klick of Constantinople, to plug up that hole in your program tonight. He stated that it would give him great pleasure to come to the assistance of such charming young women, etc., and that he could be counted upon. You too mean things, exclaimed Kate. We saw you with your heads together out there laughing. This is no joking matter at all. We are serious, Jack protested. Positively. You go ahead and announce that owing to an attack of Krupp or any other reason, Professor Robison will not be able to appear. But that Professor Klick is kindly consented to substitute, and we will look after the rest. Do you really mean it? cried the girls. On our word as full-grown gentlemen, responded Jack. But we're not going to explain. Come on, Alex, until we have further debate with the distinguished Turk up in the garret. He probably has arrived by this time. Whatever doubts Kate had as to the seriousness of the boys' intentions, they had not only been dissipated by noon but a given place to lively curiosity and expectation. Alex and Jack had devoted the entire morning to their mysterious preparations, had made numerous trips to the church's school-room, to the stores, had borrowed needles, thread, mucilage, had turned the library-shelves upside down in a search for certain books, and once, coming on them unawares, she had surprised them practicing strange incantations with their fingers. It was late in the afternoon that the serious, and what was to prove the most important, feature of the evening's performance developed. On a return trip to the dry goods-store, Jack drew Alex to a halt with an exclamation and pointed across the street. Burke, the real estate man, was walking slowly along with a shriveled-up little old gentleman in dilapidated hat, faded garments, and top boots. The victim, said Jack with deep disgust, old Uncle Joe Potter. Look at him sporting along with a cigar in his mouth, one of Burke's cigars. The boys paralleled the oddly assorted pair some distance, and it could readily be seen that Burke was doing his best to win the old man's confidence, and that the latter already was much impressed with the attention and deference shown him by the well-dressed agent. If we could get the old man alone, said Alex. Not much chance, I'm afraid. Now that he has him in hand, Burke probably won't lose sight of him until he has closed his bargain. Remember what he said just before we left the train, about giving the old chap a good time to-night, and putting him up at one of the hotels? Alex halted. Give him a good time. Say, Jack, why shouldn't we give him a good time at the girls' club entertainment to-night? And then why shouldn't we? Jack uttered a shout and struck Alex enthusiastically on the back. Al, you've hit it! You've hit it! Bully! Here, give me those complimentary tickets Kate gave us, and I'll go right after them, before they make any other arrangements. You wait. Jack was running across the street in a moment, and drawing up alongside the two men he addressed them both. Excuse me, Mr. Potter, Mr. Burke, but wouldn't you like to take in our girls' club entertainment to-night? It's going to be really quite good, good music and fun, and a bit of a T-social in between. I'm sure you would enjoy it, he declared, addressing himself to the older man. One of the features of the program is a chap who claims he can read people's thoughts. Of course, nobody thinks he can, but he will make lots of fun. The old man smiled and looked at his companion. It's up to you, Mr. Potter, responded Burke genially. If you think you would enjoy it, why, I would. Your taste is good enough recommendation for me. Then, let us go! said the old gentleman, putting his hand into his pocket. No, this is my treat! interposed Burke grasping the tickets. Here you are, lad, and keep the change. Thank you, sir! said Jack, and with difficulty restraining a shout, he dashed back toward Alex waving his hat above his head as a token of victory. The scene of the girls' club entertainment, the church school room, was filled to the doors when the program began that evening. I'm going to be anxious about Mr. Burke and the old man, though, observed Jack, who with Alex had been standing near the entrance, and remarking on the good attendance. A moment after the door again opened and Jack started forward with an expression of relief. They had come. Good evening, Mr. Potter, Mr. Burke, he said. Shall I find you a seat? Yes, and a good one now, requested the real estate man. I've saved too well to the front, responded Jack. This way, please. Now, Alex, he said, returning, it's up to us. The mind-reading number on the program was at length reached. The chairman arose. I am very sorry to say, ladies and gentlemen, he announced, that Professor Robinson, who is next on the program, was unexpectedly not able to keep his engagement. However, in his place, we have secured the services of Professor Mahmoud Klick of Constantinople, astrologer, phrenologist, mind-reader, and general all-round seer, and I'm sure you'll find him no less instructive in entertaining. Despite this assurance, in the silence which followed there was a distinct note of disappointment, even displeasure, for it was obvious that the flowery title of the substitute concealed some local amateur. End of Part 1 of Chapter 13. Disappointment, however, quickly gave place to a flutter of interest when the rear door opened, and preceded by Jack Orr, there swept down the aisle a tall, venerable figure in flowing robes, white-bearded, spectacled, and crowned with a tall conical hat bearing strange hieroglyphics. When on Jack stepping aside and taking an unobtrusive front seat, the age of professor mounted the platform and solemnly surveyed his audience. Titters, then a burst of laughter, swept over the school room. The long yellow robe was covered with grotesque caricatures of cats, frogs, dogs, cranes and turtles, interspersed with great black question marks. The famed oriental turned about toward a table, and the laughing broke out afresh. In the center of his back was a large cat's head, with wonderfully squinting eyes. When the cat slowly closed one distorted optic in a wink, then smiled, there was an unrestrained shout of merriment, and those who were not excitedly inquiring of one another the identity of the seer settled back in their seats expectantly. Placing the table at the front of the platform, the professor again faced the audience, and with dignified air and deep tragic voice addressed them. Ladies and gentlemen, the chairman have spoke. I am mammoth click, the great seer, the great mine-read, the great bump-read, the great profess, laughter. I am the seventeen son of the seventeen son of the seventeen son, and also have I bring for do the magic pass, thrusting a hand within his robe, Tom's terrible, the son of Tom, the son of Tom. The hand reappeared and placed on the table a tiny black kitten. The burst of laughter which created this was renewed when the tiny animal began making playful passes at a spool on a string which the dignified professor held before it, remarking, See, the magic pass! Now Tom's terrible will answer the question, and show he understands the English, the magician announced, at the same time swinging the spool out of the kitten's sight. Tom, how old are you? The spool was swung back. The kitten began again hitting at it, solemnly the professor counted to twenty, and wished the spool away. Twenty-year, correct! You see, ladies and gentlemen, Zivenerabouquette, he cannot make mistake! he observed amid laughing applause. Now Tom, tell us some utter ting! How old is the chairman, indicating the dignified elderly man at the farther end of the platform? Five? Correct! You see, he always is right, yes! Now Tom, how old is the revered Mr. Borden? Seven? Correct again! When the laughter which followed this demonstration had subsided, the professor took up a new line. Earlier in the evening a certain John Peters, one of the town's foppish young gallants, and who now occupied a prominent front seat, had widely announced the fact that he was present for the express purpose of showing the mind-reader up. At him, accordingly, the first quip was directed. Now Tom, tells the audience, how many girls have Mr. John Wilberforce Peters? was asked. What? None. For the spool being held out of sight, the kitten gazed before it stolidly, without raising a foot. Well, how many does he think he have? The spool being returned, the kitten tapped it ten times, paused, and struck it eight more, while the resulting wave of amusement grew, and the overdressed object glowered threateningly at the figure on the platform. And how many will he marry? What? Not one? Well, well, commented the seer to further hearty laughter. Now tell us about some of the young ladies, the professor went on. How many bows has Miss K.O.? While Kate Orr bridled indignantly the spool was lowered, and the kitten tapped several times on one side, several times on the other, then, to an outburst of laughing and clapping, sat up and began hitting it rapidly with both paws. I was unable to keep seek out, announced the seer, but apparently about C.75. Miss O. she is popular with the young men, yes. And now, Tom, continued the magician, how many special lady-friend have Mr. Cumming, an extremely bashful member of the choir? Twenty-two. And how many young lady are in sequire? Twenty-two. Ah! A strange coincidence! Observed the learned professor amid much merriment. With similar quips and jokes the mind-reader continued, then giving the kitten into the charge of a little girl in a front seat, announced, Now I will read see head. Will some small boys please come up and bring their heads in bumps? Cumming finally brought a half-dozen grinning youngsters of eight or ten to the platform. From the pocket of the last two respawns protruded the unmistakable cover of a dime novel. Him the professor seized first, and having gravely examined his head, announced, Ladies and gentlemen, for this boy I predict a great future. Never have I seen such sign of literary taste. Yes, he will be great, unless he go west to kill the Indian and the Indian see him first. Unturning to the head of the second boy, the phrenologist started, looked more sharply, and slowly straightening up, announced, Ladies and gentlemen, I have made the great discovery. This boy some days you will be proud to know. Never have I seen such a lovely bump, for eats a pie, and any kind of pie he will name. He don't care, he will eat it. And so to continued laughter he went on, finding remarkable cake bumps, holiday bumps, and picnic bumps, and proportionately under developed school and chore bumps, with the exception of one glowing example which finally proved to have been developed by a baseball bat. Then came the mind-reading. Placing a small blackboard on the front of the platform, facing the audience, the professor seated himself in a chair ten feet behind it, and invited some one to step to the board and write, All I ask is, announced the mind-reader, Please write not too fast, and fixie mind on what you write. And by ze thought-wave will I tell it, letter by letter. The first to respond wrote the name of his father, a doctor. Expecting only some humorous guess as to what was written, the audience was somewhat surprised when the professor spelled out the name correctly, only adding the humorous touch of mud hastily corrected to M.D. And as others followed with figures, and more difficult names and words, the interest of the audience began to take on a new tone. The last of the first party which had stepped forward to write was the overdressed young man Alex had poked some fun at, and who was bent on showing him up. He wrote, You are a faker. Explain to the audience how I do it, Zen, Mr. Peters, retorted the professor. In some confusion Peters sought his seat, and the minister approached the board. The interest of the audience had now become serious and silent, even Kate Orr, though knowing there was trickery somewhere, was nonplussed. For Jack, in the front row, appeared as immovable and as frankly interested as those about him. Loosely folded in his lap was a newspaper which for a moment attracted Kate's suspicious eye, but watching closely she saw not the hint of a movement that might have been a signal. The minister's first word was the name Hosea. This was promptly called off, and the writer went on with others, gradually more difficult. Finally, in rapid succession, one under the other, he wrote, Zedekaya, Aholibah, Nebuchadnezzar. As readily the figure on the platform announced them, and the reverend gentlemen turned away with an expression frankly puzzled. Pardon me, Mr. Professor, but since this is genuine mind-reading, what course you could read just as well with your eyes blindfolded, could you not? Would you kindly give a demonstration that way? It was Peter's. There was immediate clapping at the suggestion and calls of, Yes, yes, do it blindfolded. In alarm Kate from her seat gazed toward Jack. To her surprise he was one of the most energetic in clapping the proposal. The professor himself, however, was plainly disconcerted to the particular delight of Peter's and his circle of friends, who, as the mind-reader continued to hesitate, clapped more and more loudly. Finally the seer arose. Well, ladies and gentlemen's, if you wish, certainly, though I do read just as good with my eyes open. This negative statement brought further derisive laughter in clapping from Peter's and his friends, which was added to when the professor continued, Will some young lady be kind enough to lend me ze handkerchief, ze tiny little wum with plenty holes all round? Peter's was again on his feet. Here is one! It was a large, dark neckerchief, obviously brought for this very purpose. As Peter's stepped forward and mounted the platform the professor removed his spectacles with apparent reluctance. Suddenly smiling, Peter's through the folded kerchief over the mind-reader's eyes, saw that it fitted snugly and tied it. Now we've got you, Mr. Smart, of Constantinople! He whispered derisively. Have ze good time and laugh while you may! Responded the professor, and raising his voice, he asked, Will some one kindly bring ze glass water? In reading, it is dry. It was Jack, started to his feet, passed down the room and returned with the desired water. Watching, Kate expected to see a consultation between the two boys as to some way out of the apparent difficulty. Jack however merely placed the glass in the extended hand and received it back without the exchange of a syllable. Not only that, he returned to the back of the hall, and instead of resuming his seat at the front, mounted to a window-ledge at the rear. Well, I am ready, announced the professor, and I make ze suggestion that Mr. Peter's himself writes he first. The latter was speedily at the board. As he wrote, a silence fell. Previously the professor had called off each letter as written. This time there was no response. With a smile that gradually broadened to a laugh, Peter's finished an odd Indian name and asked, A thought ways haven't gone astray already, have they, Mr. Professor? Haven't been frightened off by a mere handkerchief, surely? I was wondering how to pronounce it, came the quiet response. I'll spell it instead, it is M-U-S-Q-U-O-D-O-B-O-I-T. Peter's stared blankly. Not more blankly than the majority of the audience, however, including Kate herself. She turned toward Jack. He appeared as surprised as Peter's. Indeed if there was anything suspicious it was that Jack appeared a trifle over astonished. As the burst of applause which followed the first surprise was succeeded by a wave of laughter, Kate turned back to discover Peter's, very red in the face, drawing on the board a picture. As she looked a grotesquely ugly face took shape. The face completed, there was a renewed burst of merriment when Peter's topped it with a fool's cap, and on that sketched rough hieroglyphics. Now whose picture have I drawn? He demanded loudly. Well, you tried to draw mine, responded the Professor, dropping into normal English, but as the dunce's tie is far up the back of his collar, I leave the audience to decide whose it is. At this there were shouts and shrieks of laughter, and Peter's hurdly feeling and finding his own tie far out of place, through the chalk to the floor and dashed back to his seat amid a perfect bedlam of hilarity. The uproar soon subsided, however, for not one in the crowded room but was now thoroughly wonderstruck at the demonstration. Some of the older people began to step forward, writing the most difficult names they could think of, meaningless words, groups of figures. A teacher chalked a proposition in algebra. Without error all were called out promptly. The climax was reached when one of the church elders advanced to the board and while writing fixed his eyes on something in his half-opened hand. Without hesitation the blindfolded unknown announced, Mr. Story is writing the name of one of the Apostles but is thinking of a penknife. The clapping which followed was scattered in brief. It's simply uncanny, exclaimed one of Kate's neighbors. Kate, glancing back toward Jack, shook her head. Up there, in full view, she could not possibly see how he could have anything to do with it. At this point the minister again stepped forward. "'Will you answer a few questions?' he scrawled. "'We've pleasure, Mr. Borden.' "'How old am I?' "'Forty-nine, Nick September.' The minister ran his fingers through his hair, perplexedly. "'How old is Mrs. Borden?' There was a slight pause, then in gallant tones came the answer, "'Twenty-two!' Amid a renewal of laughter and much clapping from the ladies, the minister was about to turn away when on second thought he turned back and wrote, "'Name the twelve Apostles.'" For the first time the learned seer displayed signs of uneasiness. After some stumbling, however, he completed the list. With a twinkle in his eyes the preacher inscribed a second question. Name Joshua's captains. Professor Click cleared his throat, ran his fingers down his beard, moved uneasily in his chair, and at length, while a smile began to spread over the room, shook his head. "'But I'm thinking of them, hard!' said the minister, chuckling. The professor was again about to shake his head, when suddenly he paused, then replied boldly, "'Shem, Ham, Hezikaya, Hittite, Peter, Goliath, Solomon, and Pharaoh!' It was during the shouts of merriment following this ridiculous response that Kate's mystification began to dissolve. Glancing again toward her brother, she saw that, despite a show of laughing, there was an uneasiness in his face, similar to that shown by the professor, and when presently she saw him cast a covertly longing eye toward a pile of Bibles in the next window, she turned back to the platform silently laughing. She thought she had discovered the source of the thought waves. The success of the brazenly invented answer to the last question, meantime, had quite restored the professor's confidence, and as the minister went on he continued to respond in the same ridiculous fashion, claiming on the minister's protest that he was only reading the thought waves as they came to him. And finally the pastor laughingly gave it up. At the next and final demonstration, mystification of another kind came to the observant Kate. Rising to his feet the mind reader announced that he would now inform a few of the stronger thinkers before him the subject of their thoughts, and both in his manner and tone Kate noted an unmistakable nervousness. Glancing toward Jack, she saw that his face also was grave, and with a stirring of apprehension of she knew not what, she waited. The first thought which reaches me, began the professor, is from Miss Mary Andrews. Miss Andrews thinks her pretty toke is on straight. It's not quite. I think one pin is coming out. Following this laughingly applauded reading, the speaker informed Miss James that she was thinking her lace collar was not loose behind. Which was quite correct. As also was Mr. Story's impression that there was not a long blonde hair on his coat collar, there was not. Then Kate distinctly saw the speaker take a deep breath. Mr. Joseph Potter is a strong thinker. He proceeded, I read several thoughts from Mr. Potter. The old farmer, to whom the whole performance had appeared as nothing less than magic, leaned out into the aisle, breathless and staring. It seems to me, Mr. Potter, the mind reader went on, it seems to me you were thinking about some important business deal, some big deal concerning land. The old man's mouth opened. Also, it seems to me that this land may be worth a great deal more than... There was an exclamation, a commotion, and Burke, the real estate man, was on his feet. A moment he stood staring as though doubting his ears, then catching up his hat he said in a loud voice, Come, Mr. Potter, we must go. That other engagement, you know, I had forgotten it. The old man sprang up and brushed Burke aside. Go on, go on! He cried toward the figure on the platform. The startled audience gazed from one to another. Several arose. It seems to me, resumed Alex quietly, that there is a waterfall on your farm and that... Hold on there, hold on! The words came in a shout, and, springing into the aisle, Burke strode toward the platform, purple with rage. What do you mean? What are you doing? Who is this man? He demanded, at the top of his lungs, I demand to know, what does he mean by? Swiftly hobbling down the aisle behind him, the old man attempted to pass, roughly Burke pushed him back. The minister stepped forward. Mr. Burke, what do you mean? What does this man here mean by, by... Yes, by what, Mr. Burke? By making reflections against me, shouted Burke, I demand an explanation, I... But my dear sir, I am sure nothing was said. The old man dodged by, ran to the edge of the platform and cried in a thin, high voice, Do you mean my farm? My farm that Burke wants to buy? There was a momentary silence, during which here and there could be heard long, in-drawn gasps. Then abruptly Alex tore the bandage from his eyes, swept off the hat and beard, and stepped to the front. There need be no further mystery about this, he declared in a grimly steady voice. On the train this morning, Jack Orr and I accidentally overheard. From Burke came a scream, he sprang forward with raised fists, faltered, and suddenly whirling about, dashed down the aisle for the door, and out, and in the breathless silence which followed Alex completed his explanation. As the old man climbed the platform's steps and extended a shaking hand, the applause that burst from every corner of the room fairly rattled the windows, and as the uproar continued, and Alex sprang hastily to the floor, he was surrounded by a jostling, enthusiastic crowd of strangers from whom in vain he sought to escape. Some minutes later, enjoying tea and cake in a circle which included the minister, the latter smilingly remarked, But you haven't yet explained the rest of the mysterious doings, Master Alex. Aren't you going to enlighten us all around? Or to keep it a secret, eh? Well, if you will promise us another exposition, I'm sure we will agree not to press you," declared the minister, heartily. And as a matter of fact, save Kate. No one has yet solved the mystery, not even the janitor, although uncutting the grass a few days later he picked up beneath one of the school-room windows an unaccountable piece of fine copper wire. CHAPTER XIV THE LAST OF THE FRATE THIEVES No, I've not after you this time! Laughingly responded Detective Boyle to Jack's half-serious inquiry on recognizing his visitor at the station, one evening a month later, as the road detective, who on the previous memorable occasion, had called in company with the sheriff. Instead I want your assistance! Do you know, he asked, seating himself, that your friends the freight thieves are operating again on the division? No, said Jack in surprise. They are, and they have evolved some scheme that is more baffling even than the haunting trick you spoiled for them here last spring. Every week they are getting away with valuable stuff from one of the night-frates between Claxton and Eastfield, while the train is actually en route, apparently. That sounds incredible, I know, but it is the only possible conclusion to come to, since the train does not stop between those places, and I made sure the goods each time were aboard when it left Claxton. Jack whistled. That does look a problem, doesn't it? But where do I come in, Mr. Boyle? Last evening, while thinking the matter over, the trick the thieves used here at the junction recurred to me. The man shipped in a box. It came to me. Why couldn't that same dodge be played back against them in this case? Oh, I see! Have yourself shipped in a box, and stolen by them! Clever idea! exclaimed Jack. Not so bad, I think, myself. Well, in the country between Claxton and Eastfield, where it is my theory the gang has its headquarters, there are no telephone or telegraph lines, and it struck me it would be a good plan to take along some of them with me who, in case of things going wrong, could make his way back to the railroad and cut in on the wiring call for help. And naturally you were the first one I thought of. Do you want the job? asked the detective. I jump at the chance! Jack agreed, eagerly. It'd be more fun than enough. But Mr. Boyle, how do you know that the boxes are taken to the freight thieves' headquarters, unopened, and not broken into right at the railroad? I figure that out of the number and size of the packages they have taken each time, just a good load for a light wagon. And any way you can see that that would be their safest plan. If they broke up boxes near the track they would leave clues that would be sure to be found sooner or later and put us on their trail. And through a friend in the wholesale dry goods business at Claxton, who I'll see down there to-night, the detective went on, I can make practically sure of our being stolen together. The thieves have shown a partiality for his goods, and by having our boxes attractively labeled silk and placed just within the car door there will be little chance of the robbers passing us by. My plan is to bring it off to-morrow night. Would that suit you?" concluded the detective. Yes, sir. That is, if I can get away, for it will take all night, I suppose. Yes, there will be no trouble about your getting off, though. I spoke to Alan before I came down," said Boyle, rising. All right, it is arranged. You take the five-thirty down to-morrow evening with the necessary instruments, and I'll be at the station to meet you. Good night! As Boyle had promised, Jack had no difficulty in arranging to be off duty the following night, and early that evening he alighted from the train at Claxton to find the railroad detective awaiting him. The instruments, eh? queried Boyle, indicating a parcel under Jack's arm as they left the station. Yes, sir, and I have some wire in a file in my pocket. That's the ticket, and everything here is arranged nicely. We will head for the warehouse at once. Here's the other bolt of silk, Mr. Brook. The detective announced a few minutes later, as they entered the office adjoining a large brick building. All ready for us? Hmm. He's a pretty small bolt, isn't he? commented the merchant, eyeing Jack with some surprise. A trifle, but he makes up for size and quality, declared the detective while Jack blushed. He is the youngster who solved the ghost riddle and spoiled the same gang's game at Midway Junction. The merchant warmly shook Jack's hand. I'm glad to meet you, my boy, he said. After that I can readily believe what Boyle says. Yes, I am all ready. This way, please, he requested. Following the speaker Jack and the detective found themselves in a large shipping room. As they entered, a workman with a pot and ink brush in his hand was surveying lettering he had just completed on a good-sized packing case. Here are the goods, Judson. Announced the merchant. Already, sir! The workman responded, eyeing Jack and the detective curiously. Did you substitute boards with knot holes? Mr. Brook asked. Yes, sir! This is the door," said the man, indicating two wide boards at one end. I use both wooden buttons and screw hooks on the inside as you suggested. Good! The detective examined the box. You've made a good job of it, he commented. I suppose this is the boys? He added, turning to a smaller box, on which also were the words silk, valuable. With lively interest Jack examined the case. Get in and let us see how it fits! Suggested the merchant. Jack did so. Fine! He announced. I could ride all night in it easily, either sitting or lying down curled up on my side. Detective Boyle glanced at his watch. You may as well stay right there, Jack, he said. We will start just as soon as the wagon is ready. It's ready now. Then go and bring the tray around. The merchant directed. As the man left, the detective produced and headed Jack a small pocket revolver. Here, take this, Jack," said he. I hope you'll not have to use it, but we must take all precautions. Now to box you in. So saying, the detective fitted the door of Jack's box into place, and Jack on the inside secured it with the hooks and wooden buttons, and announced, OK. The detective then entered his own box, and with the merchant's assistance closed the opening. As he tested it there was a rattle of wheels without, and the big door rumbled open. A few minutes later the two boxes of valuable silk had been slid out onto the truck, and the first stage of the strange journey had begun. As planned it was dusk when the two boxes reached the freight depot. The station agent himself met them. Everything OK, Boyle? He whispered, OK. Places right before the door with a lettering out. The detective directed. The agent did as requested, and with a final, good luck, closed and sealed the car door just as the clanging of a bell announced the approach of an engine. A crash and a jar told the two unsuspected travelers that their car had been coupled. There was a whistle, a rumble, a clanking over switch points, and they were on their way. The wheels had been drumming over the rail joints for perhaps half an hour, and the disappearance of the light which had filtered through the car door had announced the fall of darkness when there came a screeching of breaks. Where do you suppose we are now, Mr. Boyle? asked Jack from his box. It's the grade just north of Axford Road. When we hit the upgrade two miles beyond we may begin to expect something. It was long here, I figured, that the—what's that? Both listened. One of the breakmen, isn't it? Suggested Jack. What is he doing down on the edge of the car roof? The next sound was of something slapping against the car door. Suddenly the detective gave vent to a cry that was barely suppressed. Jack! I've got it! I've got it at last! He whispered excitedly. The freight thieves had bought up one of the breakmen. He lets himself down to the car door by a rope, opens it, and throws the stuff out. Jack's exclamation of delight at this final revelation of the heart of the mystery was followed by one of consternation. But won't we get an awful shaking up if we're pitched off going at full speed? He said in alarm. We may. We'll have to take it. It's all in the game, you know. Heard boil grimly? Sit tight and brace hard, and it'll not be so bad, though. Sh! Here he is. There was a sound defeat scraping against the car door, a rattle as the seal was broken in the clasp freed, then a rumble and the sudden full roar of the train told the two in the boxes that the door had been opened. Swinging within the intruder closed the door behind him and lit a match. Peering from a knot hole, Jack saw that the detective's gas was right. It was a breakman. As Jack watched the man produced and lit a dark lantern and turned it on the cases before him, Jack held his breath as the light streamed through the cracks of his own box. Just to order, muttered the breakman audibly. And the bigger one, too, I'll not have to haul any out. Then to Jack's momentary alarm, then amusement, the man seated himself on the box above him. Presently as Jack was wondering what the trainman was waiting for, from the distant engine came the two long and two short toots for a crossing, and the man started to his feet. With his eye to the knot hole, Jack watched. Again came a whistle and a creaking of breaks. Immediately the breakman slid the door back a few inches, flashed his lantern four times, muffled it, and ran the door open its full width. The critical moment had come. Gathering himself together, Jack braced with knees and elbows. The trainman seized the box, swung it to the door, and tipped it forward. The next instant Jack felt himself hurled out into the darkness. For one terrible moment he felt himself hurtling through space. Then came a crackle of branches. The box whirled over and over, again plunged downward, and brought up with a crash. A brief space Jack laid dazed in a heap, head down. But he had been only slightly stunned, and recovering, he righted himself, and found with satisfaction that he had suffered no more than a bruise of the scalp and an elbow. He had not long to speculate on his whereabouts. From near at hand came a sound of breaking twigs and a voice. "'Here's one,' it said. Only with difficulty did Jack avoid betraying himself. It was the voice of the man Watts. "'What is it?' inquired a second voice. Through a crack a light appeared. "'Syuk!' announced Watts. "'A good weight, too!' he added, tipping the box. "'Catchold!' The packing case was caught up, and rocked and jolted. Jack felt himself carried for what he judged a full quarter mile. As men slowed up a gleam of moonlight showed through the knot hole and peering forth he discovered a tree-lined road and a two-horse wagon. Sliding the box into the rear of the wagon and well to the front, the men disappeared. The weight that followed was to Jack the most trying experience of the evening. Had the detective safely landed, was there not a possibility of the larger box having been shattered, or sufficiently broken to reveal its true contents and disclose the plot to the freight robbers? From what then would be his fate? These and many other disquieting possibilities passed through Jack's mind, causing him several times as the minutes went by to finger the hooks and buttons which would permit of his escape. Finally snapping twigs, then heavy stumbling footfalls allayed his anxiety, and the two men reappeared, staggering under the box containing the officer. With difficulty the unsuspecting thieves raised the heavy packing case to the tail-board of the wagon. "'It won't go in,' said Watts' companion. "'Push this way a little,' Watts directed. "'I can't—look out!' There was a scramble and the box crashed to the ground. At the same moment came a muffled exclamation, and Jack caught his breath. Was it the detective? If so, had the others overheard it?' With relief, however, he heard Watts, who apparently was the chief of the gang, call his companion a mule, and order him to catch hold again. The box this time was successfully slid aboard, and at once the two men climbed to the seat, and the wagon rumbled off. As they rattled along over a badly kept road, Jack gave his close attention to the passing scenery, as his limited view permitted, in order that he might be able to find his way back to the railroad if it should prove necessary. This did not promise to be difficult. On either side the dim moonlight showed an unbroken succession of trees, and also that the robbers were continuing in one direction, apparently due south. For what seemed at least two miles they proceeded. Then appeared a small clearing, and with a quickening of the pulse, Jack felt the wagon slow up and turn in. They were at their destination. A forbiddingly suitable place for its purpose it was. Standing out darkly on the crest of a rise, two hundred yards back, was a low shanty-like house, in which appeared a single gleam of light. Between, to the road, stretched a desolate, moonlit prospect of stumps, decaying logs, and brush piles. On either side the woods formed a towering wall of blackness. Rocking and pitching, the wagon made its way up a ruddy corkscrew lane. They reached the house, and the door opened, and a tall, unpleasant looking woman appeared and greeted the men. "'Good luck, eh?' she remarked briefly. "'Sure. Don't we always have good luck?' responded Watts. "'Is supper ready?' "'Yes. U.N.'s better come in before you opens them boxes,' said the woman. "'All right.' Passing on the wagon came at last to a halt before a good sized barn. The two men leaped to the ground, and while one of them opened the large side doors, the other proceeded to back the wagon to it. As the two freight thieves then unhooked and led their horses to the stable, there came to Jack's ear as a welcome tapping. "'Are you all right, lad?' whispered the detective. "'Yes. OK, sir.' Though a bit nervous. Jack acknowledged. "'Keep cool, and we'll soon have them where we want them. As they're going into supper first we'll not leave the boxes till then. That'll give us just the opportunity we want to look around and arrange things nicely. Sh! Here they come.' "'Gatch old!' said Watts. Jack heard the detective's box slide out, and up from Watts the staggering steps of the men across the barn floor and a thud as the box was dropped. At what then immediately followed Jack for a moment doubted his senses. What was the voice of Watts saying quietly and coldly? "'Now my clever friend in the box kindly come out.' They had heard Boyle's exclamation when the box had fallen. Scarcely breathing, Jack listened. Would the detective give himself up without a—' There was a muffled report, instantly a second, louder, then silence. "'Will you come out now?' demanded Watts. To Jack's horror there was no response. Watts repeated the order, then called on his companion for an axe, and there followed the sound of blows and splintering wood. Now haul him out.' Terror-stricken, Jack listened. Suddenly there came the sound of a scramble, then of a terrific struggle. The detective was all right. It had been only a ruse. Uttering a suppressed hurrah, Jack began hurriedly undoing the unfastenings of his door to get out to the detective's assistance. Before he had opened it, however, there was the sound of a heavy fall and a triumphant shout from Watts. Properly Jack paused, debated a moment, and restored the fastenings. He would wait. Perhaps they would bind Boyle and leave him in the barn. A moment later Jack regretted his decision. Through the knot-hole he saw the detective led by, his arms bound behind him, and one of the freight robbers on either side. The voices and footsteps died away in the direction of the house, and Jack fell to wondering what he should do. Before he had decided he heard the voices of the men returning. Apprehensively he waited. Had they any suspicion of his presence in the second packing case? While he held his breath and grimly clutched his revolver, they slid his box to the rear of the wagon, lifted it out, and deposited it on the barn floor. "'Gone to have a look at it. Make sure it hasn't some livestock in it, too,' inquired the second man. Jack's heart stood still. "'No, it's all right,' declared Watts confidently. "'We'll have supper first.' And to Jack's unspeakable relief they passed out and closed the barn door. Everything until from the house had come the slamming of a door. Jack once more freed the fastenings within the box, slipped the board aside, again listened a moment and crawled forth. As he stood stretching his cramped limbs, he glanced about, a tear of what looked like bolts of cloth in the moonlight beneath one of the barn windows caught his eye. He stepped over. "'It was silk, silk such as he had seen in the warehouse at Claxton.' Instantly there came to Jack a startling suggestion. As quickly he decided to act upon it. "'They may never catch on,' he told himself delightedly, and in any case it will give me a good start back for the railroad for help.' Glancing from the barn window to make sure all was quiet in the direction of the house, he drew his box into the moonlight, took out the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, and proceeded to remove the hooks and buttons and all other signs of the door. Then quickly he filled the box with bolts of silk from the pile beneath the window. That done he found a hammer and nails, and muffling the hammer with his handkerchief, as quietly as possible nailed the boards into place. Triumphantly he slid the box to its formal position on the floor. "'I think that will fool you, Mr. Watts,' he said with a smile, and catching up the telegraph instruments he turned to the door. On the threshold he started back. The two men, and two others, were returning from the house. In alarm Jack looked about for a way of escape. Across the barn was a smaller door. He ran forward on tiptoe, darted through, and found himself in the stable. Passing quietly on to the outer door, which the cracks in moonlight revealed, he waited until the four men had entered the main barn, then slipped forth, and keeping in the shadows, ran toward the house. A beam of light streamed from one of the rear windows. Jack made for it, and cautiously approaching, peered within. The woman he had seen at the door was at a table, washing dishes, her back toward him, and just beyond, facing him, and bound hand and foot in a big arm-chair, was the detective. For some minutes Jack tried in vain to attract the officer's attention. Then the woman obligingly stepped into the pantry with some dishes, and quickly Jack gave a single tap on the window-pane. Boyle looked up instantly, started, smiled, then nodded his head in the direction of the railroad. Jack held up the parcel containing the telegraph instruments. The detective nodded again, and in the moment Jack was off. It was an exhausting run over the rough, little-used road, now darkened by the overhanging trees, but at length Jack recognized the point at which he had been carried from the woods, and turning in he soon found himself at the railroad. Hurrying to the nearest telegraph pole, he swarmed up to the cross-tree and quickly filed through the wire on one side of the glass insulator. The broken wire fell jangling to the rails. Connecting an end of the wire he had brought with him to the wire on the other side of the pin, Jack slid to the ground, made the connections with the instrument, and the relay clicked closed. At once someone on the wire said, "'Who had it open? What did you say?' "'Alex!' exclaimed Jack, at once recognizing the sending, and was about to break in when the instrument clicked. "'Seventeen just coming, C.X.' "'Claxston, and seventeen just what we want!' Quickly interrupting, Jack said, "'C.X. Hold seventeen, hold her!' "'Then, to X. This is Jack, Al. I'm in the woods about four miles from Claxston. We found the freight thieves, but they have boiled prisoner. Ask the chief to have seventeen take on a posse at C.X. and rush them here. I'll wait here and lead them back. If they are quick, they'll capture the whole gang.' "'Okay! Okay! Good for you!' Shot back, Alex.' The wire was silent a moment, then Jack heard the order go on to Claxston as desired. Twenty-five minutes later, waiting in the darkness on the track, Jack saw the headlight of the fast-coming freight. The engineer, on the lookout, discovered him, pulled up, and a moment after Jack was off through the woods, followed by two officers and several of the train crew. When they reached the farm, lights were still moving about in the barn. Stealthily, the party made for it, and surrounded it. "'How would you like to lead the way in, Jack?' whispered the sheriff as they paused before the door. That would be only fair after the trick-whats played on you.' Jack caught at the idea, delightedly, and all being ready, boldly threw open the barn door and entered with drawn revolver, followed by the sheriff. The four occupants were so completely taken by surprise that for a moment they stood immovable about a box of dry-goods they had been repacking. "'How do you do, Mr. Watts?' said Jack, smiling. "'This is my friend the sheriff, and the barn is surrounded. I think you would be foolish not to give up.' "'Yes, hands up!' crisply ordered the sheriff, and slowly the four pairs of hands went into the air, and the entire balance of the long successful gang of freight thieves were prisoners. It was Jack himself who rushed off to the house and freed Detective Boyle. A half hour later, with one of the robbers' own wagons filled with a great quantity of recovered stolen goods, the sheriff escorted his prisoners back to the railroad, and before daylight they were in the jail at Eastfield. Jack received considerable attention because of his part in the capture, and the affair still forms one of the popular yarns among trainmen on that division of the Middle Western. 15 The Young Railroaders by F. Lovell Coombs Chapter 15 The Dude Operator Alex Ward, like most vigorous manly boys of his type, had a fixed dislike for anything approaching foppishness, especially in other boys. Consequently, when on reporting at the Exeter office one evening, he was introduced to Wilson Jennings, Alex treated him with but little more than the necessary courtesy. For the newcomer, an operator but little older than himself, was distinctly a dude. From his patent leather shoes and polka-dotted stockings to his red and yellow-banded white straw hat. His carefully pressed suit was the very latest thing in light checked gray. He wore a collar which threatened to envelop his ears, and his white tie was of huge dimension. Also he possessed the fair pink and white complexion of a girl. Alex was not alone in his derisive attitude toward the stranger. Eventually following the appearance of the night chief, Mr. Jennings nodded every one a good evening and parted, and immediately there was a general roar of laughter in the operating room. Where did he fall from? Whose complexion-powder is he advertising? Did you get on to his picture-socks? Were some of the remarks bandied about. When the chief announced that the new operator was from the east and was being sent to the little foothills tank-station of Bonepile, there was a fresh outburst of hilarity. Why, that cowboy outfit near there will string him up to the tank-spout! Declared the operator on whose wire Bonepile was located, it's a toughest proposition on the wire. On the quiet that is just why Jordan is sending him, the night chief said. Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of finding himself, so to speak. He'll certainly find himself there, then, if there's anything left to find when the ranch crew get through. Laughed the operator. I'd give five real dollars to see that show and walk back. At that you might have to walk back if you wagered your money on the outcome. Responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. Clothes don't make a man, neither do they un-make one. The dude may surprise us yet. After the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings' surprise when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone. Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown dry-goods box depot, the water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east, the limitless stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste some adventure in the Great West. However, here he was, and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his way in to the tiny operating-room and on into the bunk-kitchen living-room behind. For here, a hundred miles from anywhere, the operator's board and lodging was provided by the railroad. Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view. It was the welcoming committee of the Bar-O Ranch, the outfit referred to by the operator at Exeter. With a final whoop, the cowman thundered up to the station platform and dismounted. Anna Jones, a huge, heavily mustached ranchman over six feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash. "'Pardna, welcome to our city!' he shouted. The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead, there was a strange quiet. The following Bar-O's faltered and exchanged glances. Probably the western had not at last fallen down on its first obligation at Bomepile. For since the coming of the rails they had regarded the station operator as a sort of social adjunct to the ranch. The keeper of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport, and if this latest change of operators had brought them, Muskoka spoke again and the worst was realized. "'Well, you gal-face little dude!' the Kalman crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka's broad shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn. Muskoka settled forward on his elbows. "'Are you real operator?' he inquired. In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself, Wilson responded in the affirmative. "'Actual, real, male operator?' the cluster of bronze faces gaffod loudly. "'But you don't play cards, do you?' Muskoka asked incredulously. "'Now I'll bet you don't. Or smoke. Or chew. Or any of them wicked. Here are some cigarettes the other man laughed. Hopefully the boy extended the package to have it snatched from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and the box flipped ceiling-word. In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the Kalman-aspide Wilson's new, brilliantly banded hat. In a trice, Muskoka's long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew. The hat sailed high in the air. There was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony. "'There, all proper millinerid, de la bonpile,' said Muskoka, "'and don't mention it.' "'Now give me that white-wash fence you have around your ears.' The boy shrank further back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for the telegraph key. In a moment the big Kalman's pistol was out. "'Back in your chair. Give me that white fence,' he commanded. Wumbling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The Kalman stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it. "'There,' he announced, returning it, "'much better. That's bonpile fashion. Put it on!' Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of Kalman roared at the result. "'Now,' proceeded Muskoka, "'that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I think it looked better inside out. Try it!' Wilson again turned desperately toward the key. The Kalman banged on the table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers rolled to his knees, a spectacle that set the cowboy staggering and shouting about the platforming convulsions of laughter. In fact, the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full, the ranchman decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requested of Wilson that he wave his hat and give three cheers for the citizens of bonpile. They mounted their ponies and scampered away. Hastening into the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically calling Exeter. Before Ex had responded, however, the boy paused and sat back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes. Yes, sir, I wager they sent them down here to do this! He said aloud. Suddenly he arose and began removing the turned coat. I'll stick it out here for two weeks, if they lynch me! declared the dude grimly. It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard train. On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. Why, it's the night of Dan Haggerty's dance! He pointed out indignantly. Doesn't the superintendent know that? The superintendent didn't and didn't care, was the response to the wired protest. The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an old understanding. Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain and stormed out the door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Barrow Ranch. Half an hour later Muscoca Jones appeared. Good evening! I'm sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir. Apologize, Wilson. Good evening, Willie! Don't mention it! was the Big Cowman's scornful response. Then having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over the lad's neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthest corner of the room and promptly fell fast asleep. Some time after darkness had fallen the young telegrapher dozing in his chair at the instrument table was startled into consciousness by the sound of approaching hoof-beats. With visions of Indians or robbers he sprang to the window to discover a dim, tall figure dismounting on the platform. In alarm he turned to call the sleeping guard, but momentarily hesitating, looked again. The figure came into the light of the window and with relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the Barrow Cowman. Hello, kid, said the newcomer, entering. Where's old Muscogee? Good evening. Over there asleep, sir. I suppose you knew he was taking Mr. Smith's place, guarding the gold until the train came in? Sure, yes. I was there when Bill came up. He crossed to the side of the snoring-jones and kicked him sharply on the sole of his boots. Muscogee, get up! He shouted, Here's something to help keep out the chills. Man and more sharply he kicked the sleeping man, while the boy looked on, smiling. Suddenly the smile disappeared and the lad's heart leaped into his throat. He was gazing into the black round muzzle of a pistol, and beyond it was a face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively his staring eyes flickered toward the box of bullion. Yep, that's it! But wink an eye again and you get it! Said Burns coldly, advancing. Now get back there up again the corner of the table and stand, so if anyone comes along you'll appear to be leaning there conversing. Go on, quick! Dazed cold with fear the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf of hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his side. As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy's left leg to the leg of the table, Muscogee's snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand, but the snoring presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment Iowa returned to the boy. Now move, remember, and I shoot! He repeated, warningly, to make sure I'm going to fix up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you, and don't you as much as shuffle your hoof! Recovering the bundle of thongs he strode back to the sleeper. As previously the man's back had been turned, Wilson had shot a frantic glance about him. In their sweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had resulted, but as the renegade's back was again turned his eyes again dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him. His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, and the danger of it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp on the wall opposite was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow, and his left hand, he tried it, yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand itself was free. His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka's contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication. With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it. Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem, and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried, Hands up, Burns! I gotcha! Quick, I'll shoot! The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half raised. Quick, up, up, cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the hands wavered. Then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended. For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top of his voice he cried, Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up! Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused anxiously to watch results. Muskoka! Muskoka! shouted the lad. The snoring continued evenly, unbrokenly. Iowa indulged in a dry laugh. Save your wind, kid! He said, I fixed a drink he took before he came down. At this news the boy's heart sank. But look here, kid! Iowa turned carefully, hands still in the air. Look here! Can't we square this thing up? You got the drop on me, OK, and with a blame little pea-shooter! He added, catching a glimpse, as he thought, of the end of a small black barrel, but nevertheless continuing his attitude of surrender. You got the drop, and you're a smart kid, you are. But can't we fix this thing up? You take half, say? I'll be glad to let you in, honest, and know what it ever think you was in the game. Come! What do you say? Though apparently listening the young operator was in reality urgently casting about in his mind for other expedience. Obviously it would be too dangerous to attempt to reach with the fingers of one of his bound hands the thongs holding his left leg to the leg of the table. He might reveal the pipe, or drop it, and neither could he reach the telegraph key to get in touch with someone on the wire. And in any case, how could that help him? For the next train was not due for two hours, and it did not seem possible he could carry on his bluff that length of time. But think as he would the wire seemed the only hope. Could he not reach the key in some way? The solution came as Iowa ventured a short step nearer and repeated his suggestion. At first sight it seemed as ridiculously impossible as the bluff with the pipe, but quickly the boy weighed the chances and determined to take the risk. Now, Mr. Iowa, he said, you are to do just exactly what I tell you step by step, so much and no more. If you make any other move, if I only think you are going to, I shall shoot. My finger is pressing the trigger constantly, and I guess you can see that at this range, though my hold on the gun is a bit cramped, I could not miss you if I wanted to. Listen now. You will come forward until you can reach the chair here by sticking out your foot. Then you will push it back along the table to the wall, and turn it face to me. Then you will sit down in it. After that I'll tell you some more. Go ahead, and remember, my finger always pressing the trigger. As burns came forward infinitely puzzled, the boy turned slowly so that the muzzle of the pipe continued to cover the would-be bullion-thief. Gingerly Iowa reached out with his foot and shoved the chair back to the wall, and turning, backed into it and sat down. Under the shadow of a grin on his face he demanded, What next? Now slowly let your left arm down at full length on the table. There. Hand is on the key, isn't it? Now, continued Wilson, who never for an instant allowed his eyes to wander from the man's face, now feel with your fingers at the back of the key and find a screwhead standing up. Which one? There are two or three, said Iowa craftily. No, there are not. There's just one, and I give you three to find it, said the young operator sharply. One, two, oh, go on, I got it! exclaimed Iowa angrily. Below the screwhead is a binding nut. Loosen it and turn it left-wise. Found it? Now take hold of the screwhead again and turn it to the left. It turns free, doesn't it? Sure. Turn it about four times completely around. Now the binding nut again down the other way till it's tight. Got it? Now hold your fingertips over the black button at the inner end of the key and hit down on it smartly. There was a click. That's it. It is plenty of play, hasn't it? Looks up and down and about an inch. That's what you mean. Rowled Iowa still puzzled. But what? I'm going to give you a lesson in telegraphy, and you are going to— Iowa saw and exploded. Well, of all the—say what do you think? All right! Sharply, bravely, though inwardly stealing himself for catastrophe, the lad counted one, two, again he won. Oh, go on! Spluttered Iowa through gritting teeth, and the boy resumed. Hit the key a sharp wrap. Pretty good. Now, two wraps, one right after the other. Good. Now, those are what we call dots. Remember. Now press the key down, hold it for just a moment, and let it come up again. Very good. You could learn telegraphy quickly, Mr. Burns. That is what we call a dash. With the situation apparently so well in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to enjoy it. Now I have you do what I've been aiming at, and remember always, my finger is constantly pressing the trigger. Now then, feel just the side of the key button below. The little button of a lever. Got it? Press it from you. There was a single sharp upward click of relay and sounder. The key was open, ready for operation. Now listen, I want you to make the letter X, a dot, a dash, then two more dots right together, and keep repeating till I stop you. Still under the spell of the fancied revolver and the boy's unfaltering gaze, the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked out a painfully deliberate but fairly readable X. It was an idle half-hour, and when the dispatcher at Exeter heard his call he glanced up from a magazine, listened a moment, and impatiently remarking, some idiot student, returned to his reading. But steadily, insistently, the repetition of X's continued, and at length he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded, Who? Sign! Clumsily came the answer, be. Bone pile! Now what's happening down there? It doesn't sound like the new operator, either. The wire again clicked open, and slowly, in the same heavy hand, the mystified and then amazed dispatcher read, Help, held up after gold, tied to table, got drop on him, making him send, be. The dispatcher grasped his key. Good boy! Good boy! He hurled back. Keep it up for twenty-five minutes, and we'll get help to you. There's an extra engine at H, waiting for ninety-two. I'll start her right down. And therewith he whirled off into an urgent succession of H's. But through young Jennings' strange feet in telegraphy, Help was nearer even than the unexpected sucker from Hillside. Despite the sleeping draft Burns had administered to Muskoka Jones, the unaccustomed clicking of the telegraph instruments had begun to arouse the big cowmen. When finally, in climax, came the lightning whir of the dispatcher's excited response, he gaffed into consciousness, and suddenly found himself sitting upright, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle before him. The next moment with a shout he was on his feet in the middle of the floor, and the nerve-strung boy had fainted. As the lad sank forward, his pistol fell from his hand and rolled into the light. From Burns came an inarticulate cry. His jaw dropped, his eyes started in his head. Muskoka hauled it in his stride, wet his lips, and muttered incredulous words of admiration and amazement. Then in a moment he had cut Wilson free and stretched him on the floor. It was Iowa who broke the silence. Rising with compressed lips he held toward Muskoka the butt of his pistol. Here, shoot me with my own gun! He said hoarsely. I deserve it! Muskoka considered. Naw! he decided at length. Leave your gun as a present for the kid, and, turning and indicating the door, git! Thus was it the young dude-operator proved himself, and came into possession of a handsome, pearl-handled Colts revolver, and, early the following morning, from a committee of the borough cowmen headed by Muskoka Jones, a fine, high-crowned, silver-spangled Mexican sombrero, to take the place of the hat they had destroyed, and as a mark of esteem for the pluckiest little operator ever sent to bone-pile. More important still, however, the incident won Wilson immediate esteem at division headquarters, where one of the first of the operators to congratulate him was Alex Ward.