Ralph of the Roundhouse: or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man

CHAPTER IX-AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

Ralph soon drew the attention of his friends, and in a few minutes Will Cheever and his companion had made their way into the old factory.

Both looked startled as they entered the room, and serious and anxious as Ralph hurriedly told of his discovery and theory.

"It looks as if you were right, Ralph," said Will as he looked closely at the silent form on the floor.

"Poor fellow!" commented Will's companion. "He must have been lying here all alone-all through that storm, too-since yesterday afternoon."

"He isn't dead," announced Will, but still in an awed tone. "What are you going to do, Ralph?"

"We must get him out of here," answered Ralph. "If one of you could bring the cot over from the clubhouse, we will carry him there."

Will sped away on the mission indicated. When he returned, they prepared to use the cot as a stretcher. The strange boy moved and moaned slightly as they lifted him up, but did not open his eyes, and lay perfectly motionless as they carefully carried him down the stairs, across the ballfield, and into the clubhouse.

There was a telephone there. Ralph hurriedly called up a young physician, very friendly with the boys, and whose services they occasionally required.

He arrived in the course of the next fifteen minutes. He expressed surprise at the wet and draggled condition of his patient, felt his pulse, examined his heart, and sat back with his brows knitted in thoughtfulness.

"Who is he?" inquired the doctor.

"I don't know," answered Ralph. "He is a stranger to Stanley Junction. From his clothes, I should judge he is some poor fellow from the country districts, who has seen hard work," and Ralph told about the first sensational appearance of the stranger at the depot the morning before, and the details of his accidental discovery an hour previous in the old factory.

"Your theory is probably correct, Fairbanks," said the young physician gravely. "That blow on the head is undoubtedly the cause of his present condition, and that baseball undoubtedly struck him down. Lying neglected and insensible for twenty-four hours, and exposed to the storm, has not helped things any."

"But-is his condition dangerous?" inquired Ralph in a fluttering tone.

"It is decidedly serious," answered the doctor. "There appears to be a suspension of nerve activity, and I would say concussion of the brain. The case puzzles me, however, for the general functions are normal."

"Can't you do something to revive him?" inquired Will.

"I shall try, but I fear returning sensibility will show serious damage to the brain," said the doctor.

He opened his pocket medicine case, and selecting a little phial, prepared a few drops of its contents with water, and hypodermically injected this into the patient's arm.

In a few minutes the watchers observed a warm, healthy flush spread over the white face and limp hands of the recumbent boy. His muscles twitched. He moved, sighed, and became inert again, but seemed now rather in a deep, natural sleep than in a comatose condition.

The doctor watched his patient silently, seemingly satisfied with the effects of his ministrations.

After a while he took up another phial, held back one eyelid of the sleeper with forefinger and thumb, and let a few drops enter the eye of the sleeper.

The patient shot up one hand as if a hot cinder had struck his eyeball. He rubbed the afflicted optic, gasped, squirmed, and came half-upright en one arm. Both eyes opened, one blinking as though smarting with pain.

He wavered so weakly that Ralph braced an arm behind to support him.

"Steady now!" said the doctor, touching his patient with a prodding finger to attract his attention. "Who are you, my friend?"

The boy stared blankly at him as he caught the sound of his voice, and then at the three boys. He did not smile, and there was a peculiarly vacant expression on his face.

Then he moved his lips as if his throat was parched and stiff, and said huskily:

"Hungry."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, puzzled and amused. Ralph himself half-smiled. The demand was so distinctively human it cheered him.

The patient kept looking around as if expecting food to be brought to him. The young physician studied him silently. Then he projected half a dozen quick, sharp questions. His patient did not even appear to hear him. He looked reproachfully about him, and again spoke:

"Fried perch would be pretty good!"

"He must be about half-starved, poor fellow!" observed Will. "Doctor, he acts all right, only desperately hungry. Maybe a good square meal will fix him out all right?"

The doctor moved towards the door, and beckoned Ralph there.

"Fairbanks," he said, "this is a serious matter-no, no, I don't mean the fact that the baseball did the damage," he explained hurriedly, as he saw Ralph's face grow pale and troubled. "That was an accident, and something you could not foresee. I mean that this poor fellow is, for the present at least, helpless as a child."

"Doctor," quavered Ralph, "you don't mean his mind is gone."

"I fear it is."

"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" pleaded Ralph, falling against the door post and covering his face with his hands.

He was genuinely distressed. All the brightness of his good luck and prospects seemed dashed out. He could not divest his mind of a certain responsibility for the condition of the poor fellow on the cot, whose usefulness in life had been cut short by an accidental "lost ball."

"Don't be overcome-it isn't like you, Fairbanks," chided the doctor gently. "I know you feel badly-we all do. Let us get at the practical end of this business without delay. We had better get the patient removed to the hospital, first thing."

"No!" interrupted Ralph quickly, "not that, doctor-that is, anyway not yet."

"He needs skillful attention."

"He's needing some hash just now!" put in Will Cheever, approaching, his face, despite himself, on a grin. "Hear him!"

The stranger was certainly sticking to his point. "Hash with lots of onions in it!" they heard him call out.

"Will it hurt him to eat, doctor?" inquired Ralph.

"Not a bit of it. In fact, except to feed him and watch, I don't see that he needs anything. You can't splint a brain shock as you can a broken finger, or poultice a skull depression as you would a bruise. There's simply something mental gone out of the boy's life that science cannot put in again. There is this hope, though: that when the physical shock has fully passed, something may develop for the better."

"You mean to-day, to-morrow-"

"Oh, no-weeks, maybe months."

Ralph looked disheartened, but the next moment his face took upon it a look of resolution always adopted when he fully made up his mind to anything.

"Very well," he said, "he must be taken to our house."

With the doctor Ralph was a rare favorite, and his face showed that he read and appreciated the kindly spirit that prompted the young railroader's action. He placed his hand in a friendly way on his shoulder.

"Fairbanks," he said, "you're a good kind, and do credit to yourself, but I fear you are in no shape to take such a burden on your young shoulders."

"It is my burden," said Ralph firmly, "whose else's? Why, doctor! if I let that poor fellow go to the hospital, among utter strangers, handed down the line you don't know where-poorhouse, asylum, and pauper's grave maybe, it would haunt me! No, I feel I am responsible for his condition, and I intend to take care of him, at least until something better for him turns up. Help me, boys."

"I'll drop in to see him again, at your house," said the doctor. "I don't think he will make you any trouble in the way of violence, or that, but you had better keep a constant eye on him."

Ralph thought a good deal on the way to the cottage. He felt that he was doing the right thing, and knew that his mother would not demur to the arrangements he had formulated.

Mrs. Fairbanks not only did not demur, but when she was made aware of the particulars, sustained Ralph in his resolution.

"Poor fellow!" she said sympathetically. "The first thing he needs is a warm bath, and we might find some dry clothes for him, Ralph."

The widow bustled about to do her share in making the unexpected guest comfortable. Will Cheever and his companion felt in duty bound to lend a helping hand to Ralph.

They had put the cot in the middle of the kitchen, and quiet now, but with wide-open eyes, its occupant watched them as they hurriedly got out a tub and put some water to heat on the cook stove.

"Swim," said the stranger, only once, and was content thereafter to watch operations silently.

"He's got dandy muscles-built like a giant!" commented Will, as half an hour later they carried the boy into the neat, cool sitting room, and lodged him among cushions in an easy-chair.

Meantime, Mrs. Fairbanks had not been idle. She had prepared an appetizing lunch. The stranger looked supremely happy as Ralph appeared with a tray of viands. He ate with the zest of a growing, healthy boy, and when he had ended sank back among the cushions and fell into a calm, profound sleep.

"Ralph Fairbanks, you're a brick!" said Will. "He don't look much like the half-drowned, half-starved rat he was when you picked him up."

"Knocked him down, you mean!" said Ralph, with a sigh. "Well, mother, we'll do what we can for him."

"We will do for him just what I pray some one might do for my boy, should such misfortune ever become his lot," said the widow tremulously. "He looks like a hard-working, honest boy, I only hope he may come out of his daze in time. If not, we will do our duty-what we might think a burden may be a blessing in disguise."

"You're always 'casting bread on the waters,' Mrs. Fairbanks!" declared Will, in his crisp, offhand way.

To return after many days-light-headed, light-hearted Will Cheever! There are incidents in every boy's life which are the connecting links with all the unknown future, and for Ralph Fairbanks, although he little dreamed it, this was one of them.

CHAPTER X-THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

Will and his friend offered to attend to the broken window in the old factory for Ralph, and the latter was glad to accept the tendered service.

He gave them the price of glass and putty, and a blunt case knife, told them they would find his rule under the window, and as they departed felt assured they would attend to the matter with promptness and dispatch.

Ralph had something on his mind that he felt he could best carry out alone, and after their departure he left his mother quietly sewing in her rocking chair to watch their placidly slumbering guest.

"The boy is a stranger here, of course," Ralph ruminated. "Where did he come from? I hope I will find something among his belongings that will tell."

They were poor belongings, and now hung across a clothes line in the back yard, drying in the warm sunshine.

The coat and trousers were of coarse material, clumsily patched here and there as if by a novice, and Ralph decided did not bear that certain unmistakable trace that tells of home or motherly care.

In the trousers pocket Ralph found a coil of string, a blunt bladed pocket knife, and a hunk of linen thread with a couple of needles stuck in it-this was all.

The coat contained not a single clew as to the identity of the stranger, not a hint of his regular place of residence, whence he had come or whither he was going.

It held but one object-a letter which the boy when pursued by the depot guardians had shown to Ralph the morning previous, and which at that time with considerable astonishment Ralph had observed bore the superscription: "Mr. John Fairbanks."

He had thought of the letter and wondered at its existence, the possible sender, the singular messenger, a score of times since he had attempted to take it from the dead-head passenger of the 10.15.

Now he held it in his grasp, but Ralph handled it gingerly. The envelope was soaking wet, just as was the coat and the pocket he had taken it from. As he removed it from its resting place he observed that the poor ink of the superscription had run, and the letters of the address were faded and fast disappearing.

To open it with any hope of removing its contents intact in its present condition was clearly impossible. Ralph held it carefully against the sunlight. Its envelope was thin, and he saw dark patches and blurs inside, indicating that the writing there had run also.

"I had better let it dry before I attempt to open it," decided Ralph, and he placed it on a smooth board near the well in the full focus of the bright sunshine.

A good deal hinged on that letter, he told himself. It would at all events settle the identity of his dead father's correspondent, again it would divulge who it was that had sent the letter and the messenger, and thus the unfortunate's friends could be found. It would take a little time to dry out the soggy envelope, and Ralph paced about the garden paths, whistling softly to himself and thinking hard over the queer happenings of the past twenty-four hours.

As he passed the window of the little sitting room, he tiptoed the gravel path up to it and glanced in.

His mother still sat in the rocker, but she had fallen into a slight doze, and her sewing lay idle in her lap. Ralph, transferring his gaze to the armchair where they had so comfortably bestowed the invalid, fairly started with astonishment.

"Why, he isn't there!" breathed Ralph in some alarm, and ran around to the entrance by the kitchen door.

At its threshold Ralph paused, enchained by the unexpected picture there disclosed to his view.

The injured boy stood at the sink. He had found and tied about his waist a work apron belonging to Mrs. Fairbanks. Before him was the dishpan half-full of water, and he had washed and wiped neatly and quickly the dishes from the tray.

He arranged the various articles in their respective drawers and shelves, stood back viewing them with satisfaction, removed the apron, carefully hung it up, and went to the open back door leading into the wood shed.

Ralph's alarm for fear that his guest had wandered off or might do himself a mischief, gave place to pleased interest.

It looked as if the strange boy had been used to some methodical features of domestic life, and habit was fitting him readily and comfortably into the groove in which he found himself.

Ralph decided that he would not startle or disturb the stranger, but would watch to see what he did next.

The boy glanced towards the wood box behind the cook stove. In the hurry of the past twenty-four hours Ralph had not found time to keep it as well filled as usual.

His guest evidently observed this, went into the wood shed, seated himself on the chopping log, and seizing the short handled ax there, began chopping the sawed lengths piled near at hand with a pleased, hearty good will.

Mrs. Fairbanks, disturbed by the sound of chopping, had awakened, and with some trepidation came hurrying from the sitting room, anxiously seeking to learn what had become of their guest.

Ralph motioned her to silence, his finger on his lip, and pointed significantly through the open rear doorway.

A pathetic sympathy crossed the widow's face and the tears came into her eyes. Ralph left her to keep an unobtrusive watch on their guest, and returning to the well, found the envelope he had left there pretty well dried out.

He carefully removed the envelope, and placed it in his pocket. Then he as carefully unfolded the sheet within.

An expression of dismay crossed his face. The inside screed had not been written in ink, but with a soft purple lead pencil. This the rain had affected even more than it had the envelope in which it had been enclosed.

At first sight the missive was an indecipherable blur, but scanning it more closely, Ralph gained some faint hope that he might make out at least a part of its contents.

He had a magnifying glass in his workroom in the attic, and he went there for it. For nearly an hour Ralph pored over the sheet of paper which he held in his hand.

His face was a study as he came downstairs again, and sought his mother.

She sat near the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, where she could keep sight of their guest.

The invalid was seated on the door step of the wood shed shelling a pan of peas, as happy and contented a mortal as one would see in a day's journey.

"He is a good boy," said the widow softly to Ralph, "and winsome with his gentle, easy ways. He seems to delight in occupation. What is it, Ralph?" she added, as she noted the serious, preoccupied look on her son's face.

"It is about the letter, mother," explained Ralph. "I told you partly about it. It was certainly directed to father, and some one employed or sent this boy to deliver it."

"Who was it, Ralph?" inquired Mrs. Fairbanks.

"That I can not tell."

"Was it not signed?"

"It was once, but the upper fold and the lower fold of the sheet are a perfect blur. I have been able to make out a few words here and there in the center portion, but they tell nothing coherently."

Mrs. Fairbanks looked disappointed.

"That is unfortunate, Ralph," she said. "I hoped it would give some token of this boy's home or friends. But probably, when he does not return, and no answer comes to that letter, the writer will send another letter by mail."

"The boy may have been only incidentally employed to deliver it," suggested Ralph, "and not particularly known to the sender at all."

"I can not imagine who would be writing to your dead father," said Mrs. Fairbanks thoughtfully. "It can scarcely be of much importance."

"Mother," said Ralph, with an emphasis that impressed the widow, "I am satisfied this letter was of unusual importance-so much so that a special messenger was employed, and that is what puzzles me. A line in it was plainly 'your railroad bonds,' another as plainly refers to 'the mortgage,' the last word heads like 'Farewell,' and there is something that looks very much like: 'to get even with that old schemer, Gasper Farrington.'"

The widow started violently.

"Why, Ralph!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, mother. We may never know more than this. It is all a strange proceeding, but if that poor fellow out yonder could tell all he knows, I believe it would surprise and enlighten us very much, and in a way greatly for our benefit."

"Then we must wait with patience, and hope with courage," said Mrs. Fairbanks calmly.

Ralph felt all that he said. He could not get the letter out of his mind that evening.

They fitted up a little spare room off the dining room for their guest. He went quietly to bed when they led him there, after enjoying a good, supper, never speaking a word, never smiling, but with a pleased nod betokening that he appreciated every little kindness they showed him.

The next morning Ralph Fairbanks went to work at the roundhouse.

CHAPTER XI-ON DUTY

Ralph cut across lots on his way to the roundhouse. He was not one whit ashamed to be seen wearing a working cap and carrying a dinner pail and the bundle under his arm, but cap, pail and overalls were distressingly new and conspicuous, and he was something like a boy in his first Sunday suit and wondering if it fitted right, and how the public took it.

It was too early to meet any of his school friends, but crossing a street to take the tracks he was hailed volubly.

Ralph did not halt. His challenger was Grif Farrington, his arm linked in that of a chum whom Ralph did not know, both smoking cigarettes, and both showing the rollicking mood of young would-be sports who wished it to be believed they had been making a night of it, and thinking it smart.

"What's the uniform, Fairbanks?" cried Grif, affecting a critical stare-"going fishing? Is that a bait box?"

"Not a bit of it. It's my dinner pail, and I'm going to work, at the roundhouse."

"Chump!"

"Oh, I guess not."

"Double-distilled! Make more money going on the circuit with the club. Personally guarantee you ten dollars a week. Got scads of money, me and the old man. Sorry," commented Grif in a solemn manner, as Ralph continued on his way unheeding. "Poor, but knows how to bat. Pity to see a fellow go wrong that way, eh?" he asked his companion.

Ralph laughed to himself, and braced up proudly. Between idle, dissolute Grif Farrington and himself he could see no room for comparison.

Some sleepy loungers were in the dog house, and a fireman was running his engine to its stall. Ralph went over to the lame helper he had seen the day previous.

"I'm to begin work here to-day, I was told," he said. "Can you start me in?"

"I'm not the boss."

"I know that, but couldn't you show me the ropes before the others come?"

"Why, there's an empty locker for your traps," said the man. "When the foreman comes, he'll tell you what your duties are."

"No harm putting in the time usefully, I suppose?" insinuated Ralph.

"I suppose not," answered the taciturn helper. He seemed a sickly, spiritless creature, whom misfortune or a naturally crabbed temper had warped clear out of gear.

Ralph stowed his dinner pail in the locker, slipped on overalls and jumper and an old pair of shoes, and placed the fingerless gloves he had prepared in a convenient pocket.

The lame helper had disappeared. Ralph noticed that the place needed sweeping. He went to where the brooms stood, selected one, and started in at his voluntary task.

He felt he was doing something to improve the looks of things, and worked with a will. He had made the greasy boards look quite spick and smooth, and was whistling cheerily at his work, when a gruff growl caused him to look up.

The foreman, Tim Forgan, confronted him with a lowering, suspicious brow.

"Who told you to do that?" he demanded sharply.

"Why, nobody," answered Ralph. "I like to keep busy, that's all. No harm, I hope?"

"Yes, there is!" snapped Forgan. Ralph surprisedly wondered why this man seemed determined to be at odds with him. He had not fallen in with very cheerful or elevating company. Forgan continued to regard him with an evil eye.

"See here," he said roughly, "I'll have discipline here, and I'll be boss. I'll give you your duties, and if you step over the line, get out. This isn't a playroom, as you'll probably find out before you've been here long."

Ralph thought it best to maintain silence.

"You take that box and can yonder, and go to the supply and oil sheds and get some waste and grease. Slump will be here soon, take your orders from him for to-day."

Ralph bowed politely and understandingly.

"I'll tell you another thing," went on Forgan harshly. "Don't you get to knowing too much, or talking about it. I'll have no spying around my affairs."

Ralph was astonished. He tried to catch the keynote of the foreman's plaint. Suspicion seemed the incentive of his anger, and yet Ralph could trace no reason for it.

An open doorway led from one side of the roundhouse. Ralph picked up a heavy sheet-iron pail and a tin box with a handle. Just then the helper came into view.

"Where do I go for oil and waste?" asked Ralph.

The helper surlily pointed through the doorway. Ralph found himself in a bricked-in passage, slippery with oil, and leading to a narrow yard. On one side was a row of sheds, whose interior comprised bins for boxes filled with all kinds of metal fittings. On the other side were like sheds, full of cans, pails and barrels. From here some men were conveying barrow loads of pails and cans filled with oil and grease, and Ralph went to an open door.

Inside was a grimy, greasy fellow marking something on a card tacked to the wall. Ralph told him who he was, got both receptacles filled, and went back to the roundhouse.

He sat down on a bench and watched a fireman go through the finishing touches on his engine which put it "to sleep." The last whistle sounded, and in through the doorway came Ike Slump.

The latter was a wiry, elfish fellow, usually very volatile and active. On this especial morning, however, he looked ugly, depressed and wicked. He went over to his locker, threw in his dinner pail, put on a pair of overalls, and for the first time observed Ralph.

"Hello!" he ejaculated, taking a step backward, hunching his shoulders, showing his teeth, and lurching forward much with the pose of a prize fighter descending on an easy victim.

"Good-morning, Ike," said Ralph pleasantly.

Ike Slump indulged in a vicious snarl.

"Morning nothing!" he snapped. "What you doing here?"

"I'm going to work here."

"Who says so?"

"The foreman."

"When?"

"Yesterday, and ten minutes ago. In fact, I am waiting to begin under your directions, as he ordered."

"Oh, you are!" muttered Ike darkly, and in hissing long-drawn-out accents. "That's your lay, is it? Well, say, do you see those?"

Ike glanced keenly about him. Then advancing, he strutted up to Ralph, bunched one set of coarse, dirty knuckles, and rested them squarely on Ralph's nose.

Ralph did not budge for a second or two. When he did, it was with infinite unconcern and the remark:

"Yes, I see them, and a little soap and water wouldn't hurt them any."

"Say! do you want to insult me? say! are you spoiling for a fight? say-"

"Keep a little farther away, please," suggested Ralph, putting out one of those superbly-rounded, magnificently-formed arms of his, which sent the bullying Ike back, stiff and helpless as if he was at the end of an iron rod.

"Say-" Ike began on his war dance again. "This is too much!" Then he subsided as he noticed the foreman cross the roundhouse. "No chance now, but to-night, after work, we'll settle this!"

"Just as you like, Ike," assented Ralph accommodatingly-"only, drop it long enough just now to start me in at my duties, or we'll both have Mr. Forgan in our hair."

Ike unclinched his fists, but he continued to growl and grumble to himself.

"A nice sneak you are!" Ralph made out. "Thought you'd be smart! Gave away my tip, didn't you?"

"See here, Ike, what do you mean?"

"I mean I told you I was going to leave, and you promised to hang around and come on deck when I'd had my pay."

"The way things turned out," said Ralph, "there was no occasion for that."

"You bet there wasn't! You just sneaked the word to Forgan double-quick, he told the old man, and I got a walloping, locked up on bread and water yesterday, and all my plans scattered about leaving. You bet I'll cut the job just the same, though!" declared Ike, with a vicious snap of his jaws. "Only, you gave me away, and I'm going to pay you off for it."

"Ike, you are very much mistaken."

"Yah!"

"I never mentioned what you told me to any one."

"Cut it out! We'll settle that to-night. Now you get to work."

Ralph at last understood the situation, but he saw the futility of attempting to convince his obstinate companion of his error.

Besides, the foreman in the distance was watching him from the corner of one eye, and Ike thought it best to apply himself to business.

"You just watch me for an hour or two," he bolted out grudgingly.

Ralph did not spend a happy forenoon. Ike was sullen, grumpy and savage.

He made his helper hold the grease pail when it was unnecessary, till Ralph's arms were stiff, dropping splotches of oil on his shoes. He let the exhaust deluge him, as if by accident, and refused to engage in any general conversation, nursing his wrath the meantime.

He knew how to clean up an engine, although, Ralph divined, in the most slipshod and easiest way that would pass inspection. Ralph was learning something, however, and was patient under the slights Ike put upon him from time to time.

About eleven o'clock there was a lull in active work.

Mr. Ike Slump lounged on the bench, indulging in a smoke and trying to look important and dangerous, both at once. Then, as if casually, he began kneading a fat, juicy ball of waste and grease, poked it under the bench, and said to Ralph:

"There's two switch engines coming in. You can take one of them, and see if you know how to handle it."

"I'll try," announced Ralph.

"When you come to the bell, give her a good, hard rubbing. They'll give you some sand at the supply shed."

"Sand?" repeated Ralph vaguely.

"Sure. Dump it in with the grease in the little pail, and don't fail to slap it on thick and plenty."

Ralph said nothing. He started for the passageway with more thoughts than one in his mind. As he shot a quick glance back of him, he observed Ike leap from the bench, poke out the grease ball, palm it, and disappear from his range of vision.

Ralph went to the supply shed and got a can full of sand. Then he started back the way he had come.

As he did so, he observed the foreman turn into the passage in front of him.

Ralph was due to pass by him, for the foreman was pursuing his way at a leisurely gait, but Ralph did nothing of the sort.

He guessed considerable and anticipated more from the recent suspicious movements of his temporary master, and smiled slightly, allowing the foreman to precede him.

As Tim Forgan stepped through the doorway leading into the roundhouse, that happened which Ralph Fairbanks had foreseen.

His enemy, lying in wait there to "christen" his new work suit as he had threatened, let drive, never doubting but that the approaching footsteps were those of Ralph.

With a dripping swush the ball of waste and grease cut through the air and took the roundhouse foreman squarely in the face.