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[Illustration: For a beginner that's the best schedule I ever saw.]




RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER

OR

THE MYSTERY OF THE PAY CAR

BY

ALLEN CHAPMAN

AUTHOR OF "RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE," "RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER,"
"RALPH ON THE ENGINE," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America




THE RAILROAD SERIES

By Allen Chapman

Cloth. 12mo. Illustrated

    RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE Or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man
    RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER Or, Clearing the Track
    RALPH ON THE ENGINE Or, The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail
    RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS Or, The Trials and Triumphs of
        a Young Engineer
    RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER Or, The Mystery of the Pay Car

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York




Copyright, 1911 by GROSSET & DUNLAP

Ralph, the Train Dispatcher




CONTENTS
    CHAPTER I--THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
    CHAPTER II--THE WRECK
    CHAPTER III--TROUBLE BREWING
    CHAPTER IV--THE WIRE TAPPERS
    CHAPTER V--IKE SLUMP
    CHAPTER VI--IN THE TUNNEL
    CHAPTER VII--DANGER SIGNALS
    CHAPTER VIII--THE OLD SWITCH SHANTY
    CHAPTER IX--A SUSPICIOUS DISCOVERY
    CHAPTER X--THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
    CHAPTER XI--MAKING A SCHEDULE
    CHAPTER XII--AT THE RELAY STATION
    CHAPTER XIII--"HOLD THE LIMITED MAIL!"
    CHAPTER XIV--OLD 93
    CHAPTER XV--CHASING A RUNAWAY
    CHAPTER XVI--THE WRECK
    CHAPTER XVII--A STRANGE MESSAGE
    CHAPTER XVIII--THE SLUMP "SECRET"
    CHAPTER XIX--ON THE LOOKOUT
    CHAPTER XX--A TRUSTY FRIEND
    CHAPTER XXI--A DASTARDLY PLOT
    CHAPTER XXII--HOLDING THE FORT
    CHAPTER XXIII--ONE MINUTE AFTER TWELVE
    CHAPTER XXIV--THE BATTLE OF WITS
    CHAPTER XXV--A WILD NIGHT
    CHAPTER XXVI--AN AMAZING ANNOUNCEMENT
    CHAPTER XXVII--THE STOLEN PAY CAR
    CHAPTER XXVIII--THE "TEST" SPECIAL
    CHAPTER XXIX--"CRACK THE WHIP!"
    CHAPTER XXX--THE PAY CAR ROBBER
    CHAPTER XXXI--QUICK WORK
    CHAPTER XXXII--CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I

THE OVERLAND EXPRESS


"Those men will bear watching--they are up to some mischief, Fairbanks."

"I thought so myself, Mr. Fogg. I have been watching them for some
time."

"I thought you would notice them--you generally do notice things."

The speaker with these words bestowed a glance of genuine pride and
approbation upon his companion, Ralph Fairbanks.

They were a great pair, these two, a friendly, loyal pair, the grizzled
old veteran fireman, Lemuel Fogg, and the clear-eyed, steady-handed
young fellow who had risen from roundhouse wiper to switchtower service,
then to fireman, then to engineer, and who now pulled the lever on the
crack racer of the Great Northern Railroad, the Overland express.

Ralph sat with his hand on the throttle waiting for the signal to pull
out of Boydsville Tracks. Ahead were clear, as he well knew, and his
eyes were fixed on three men who had just passed down the platform with
a scrutinizing glance at the locomotive and its crew.

Fogg had watched them for some few minutes with an ominous eye. He had
snorted in his characteristic, suspicious way, as the trio lounged
around the end of the little depot.

"Good day," he now said with fine sarcasm in his tone, "hope I see you
again--know I'll see you again. They're up to tricks, Fairbanks, and
don't you forget it."

"Gone, have they?" piped in a new voice, and a brakeman craned his neck
from his position on the reverse step of the locomotive. "Say, who are
they, anyway?"

"Do you know?" inquired the fireman, facing the intruder sharply.

"I'd like to. They got on three stations back. The conductor spotted
them as odd fish from the start. Two of them are disguised, that's
sure--the mustache of one of them went sideways. The old man, the
mild-looking, placid old gentleman they had in tow, is a telegrapher."

"How do you know that?" asked Ralph, becoming interested.

"That's easy. I caught him strumming on the car window sill, and I have
had an apprenticeship in the wire line long enough to guess what he was
tapping out. On his mind, see--force of habit and all that. The two with
him, though, looked like jail birds."

"What struck me," interposed Fogg, "was the way they snooked around the
train at the two last stops. They looked us over as if they were
planning a holdup."

"Yes, and they pumped the train hands dry all about your schedule,"
declared the brakeman. "Cottoned to me, but I cut them short. Seemed
mightily interested in the pay car routine, by the way."

"Did, eh," bristled up Fogg. "Say, tell us about that."

"Why, you see--There goes the starting signal. See you again."

The brakeman dropped back to duty, and the depot and the three men who
had caused a brief ripple in the monotony of a routine run were lost in
the distance. For a few minutes the fireman had his hands full feeding
the fire, and Ralph, eyes, ears and all his senses on the alert, got in
perfect touch with throttle, air gauge and exhaust valve.

Ralph glanced at the clock and took an easy position on his cushioned
seat. Everything was in order for a smooth run to twenty miles away. The
Overland Express was on time, as she usually was, and everything was in
trim for a safe delivery at terminus.

Fogg hustled about. He was a restless, ambitious being, always finding
lots to do about cab and tender. His brows were knitted, however, and
every once in a while he indulged in a fit of undertoned grumbling.
Ralph watched him furtively with a slight smile. He knew that his
companion railroader was stirred up about something. The young engineer
had come to understand the quirks and turns and moods of his eccentric
helper, just as fully as those of his beloved engine.

"I say," broke out Fogg finally, slamming down into his seat. "It's
about time for something to happen, Fairbanks."

"Think so?" queried Ralph lightly.

"Been pretty smooth sailing lately, you see."

"That's the way it ought to be in a well-regulated family, isn't it, Mr.
Fogg?"

"Humph--maybe. All the same, I'm an old bird and know the signs."

"What signs are you talking about, Mr. Fogg?"

"Our machine balked this morning when she took the turntable, didn't
she?"

"That was because the wiper was half asleep."

"Thirteen blew out a cylinder head as we passed her--13, an unlucky
number, see?"

"That's an every-day occurrence since the high pressure system came in."

"White cow crossed the track just back a bit."

"Nonsense," railed Ralph. "I thought you'd got rid of all those old
superstitions since your promotion to the best job on the road."

"That's it, that's just it," declared the fireman with serious
vehemence--"and I don't want to lose it. Just as I say, since we knocked
out the sorehead crew of strikers and made the big record on that famous
snowstorm run on the Mountain Division, we've been like ducks in clear
water, smooth sailing and the best on earth none too good for us. It
isn't natural. Why, old John Griscom, thirty years at the furnace, used
to get scared to death if he ran two weeks without a broken driving
wheel or a derail."

"Well, you see we're on a new order of things, Mr. Fogg," suggested
Ralph brightly. "They've put us at the top-notch with a top-notch
machine and a top-notch crew. We must stay there, and we'll do it if we
keep our heads clear, eyes open and attend strictly to business."

The fireman shook his head fretfully and looked unconvinced. Ralph knew
his stubborn ways and said nothing.

The young engineer of the Overland Express was in the heyday of
satisfaction and contentment. He was proud of his present position, and
was prouder still because he felt that he had earned it through sheer
energy and merit. As Fogg had declared, the appearance of the three men
noted had something sinister about it, but the fireman was always
getting rattled about something or other, fussy as an old woman when the
locomotive was balky. Ralph insisted upon enjoying to the limit the full
measure of prosperity that had come to him.

Both had fought hard to secure the positions they now held, however, and
the mere hint of a break in the pleasant programme set them up in arms
instanter. They had chummed together and had learned to love the
staunch, magnificent locomotive that pulled the Overland Express as if
it was a fellow comrade, and would have had a pitched battle any time
with the meddler or enemy who plotted injury to the prize train of the
Great Northern.

All this had not been accomplished without some pretty hard knocks.
Looking back in retrospect now, Ralph could fancy his progress to date
as veritable steps in the ladder of fortune. It had all rounded out so
beautifully that it seemed like a dream. Now the thought of trouble or
disaster reminded him gravely of the foes he had known in the past, and
the difficult places he had battled through in his steadfast march to
the front rank.

Ralph Fairbanks had taken to railroading as naturally as does a duck to
water. His father had been one of the pioneer builders of the Great
Northern. In the first volume of the present series, entitled "Ralph of
the Roundhouse," the unworthy scheme of Gasper Farrington, a village
magnate, to rob Ralph's widowed mother of her little home was depicted.
That book, too, tells of how Ralph left school to work for a living and
win laurels as the best engine wiper in the service.

Ralph's next step up the ladder, as told in the second volume of this
series, called "Ralph in the Switch Tower," led to his promotion to the
post of fireman. The third volume of the series, "Ralph on the Engine,"
showed the routine and adventures of an ambitious boy bound to reach the
top notch in railroad service.

The proudest moment in the life of the young engineer, however, seemed
to have arrived when Ralph was awarded the crack run of the road, as
told in the fourth volume of this series entitled "Ralph on the Overland
Express."

The reader who has followed the upward and onward course of the railroad
boy through these volumes will remember how he made friends everywhere.
They were all the better for his bright ways and good example. It was
Ralph's great forbearance and patience that overcame the grumpiness and
suspicion of the cross-grained Lemuel Fogg and made of him a first-class
fireman. It was Ralph's kindly encouragement that brought out the
inventive genius of a capital young fellow named Archie Graham, and
helped Limpy Joe, a railroad <DW36>, to acquire a living as an eating
house proprietor.

A poor waif named Van Sherwin owed his rise in life to the influence of
the good-hearted young engineer, and Zeph Dallas, a would-be boy
detective, was toned down and instructed by Ralph until his wild ideas
had some practical coherency to them.

Ralph had his enemies. From time to time along his brisk railroad career
they had bobbed up at inopportune junctures, but never to his final
disaster, for they were in the wrong and right always prevails in the
end. They had tried to upset his plans on many an occasion, they had
tried to disgrace and discredit him, but vainly.

In "Ralph on the Overland Express" the young engineer did some pretty
big things for a new man at the throttle. He carried a train load of
passengers through a snowstorm experience that made old veterans on the
road take notice in an astonished way, and he made some record runs over
the Mountain Division that established the service of the Great Northern
as a standard model.

All this success not only ranked in the minds of his enemies, but roused
the envy and dissatisfaction of rival roads. For some time vague hints
had been rife that these rivals were forming a combination "to put the
Great Northern out of business," if the feat were possible, so both
Ralph and his loyal fireman kept their eyes wide open and felt that they
were on their mettle all of the time.

Ralph's last exploit had won him a high place in the estimation of his
superiors. With every train out of Rockton stalled, he and Fogg had made
a terrifying hairbreadth special run to Shelby Junction, defying floods,
drifts and washouts, landing the president of the road just in the nick
of time to catch a train on a parallel rival line.

The event had enabled that official to close an advantageous
arrangement, in which time was the essence of a contract which gave the
Great Northern the supremacy over every line in the district having
transcontinental connections.

The Great Northern had won the upper hand through this timely but not
tricky operation. Naturally, baffled, rival roads had been upset by the
same. A revengeful feeling had extended to the employees of those lines,
and the warning had been spread broadcast to look out for squalls, as
the other roads had given the quiet tip to its men, it was understood,
to take down the Great Northern a peg or two whenever occasion offered.

Of all this Ralph was thinking as they passed the flag station at Luce,
and shot around the long curve guarded by a line of bluffs just beyond.
The young engineer was thinking of home, and so was Fogg, for they were
due in twenty-three minutes now.

Suddenly Ralph reached out for the lever lightning quick, and then his
hand swept sand and air valves with the rapidity of an expert playing
some instrument.

Crack!

Under the wheels of the big locomotive a detonating clamor rang
out--always a vivid warning to the nerves of every wide-awake railroad
man.

"A torpedo--something ahead," spoke Ralph quickly.

"What did I tell you?" jerked out his fireman excitedly. "I felt it in
my bones, I told you it was about time for something to happen."

The young engineer steadied the locomotive down to a sliding halt like a
trained jockey stopping a horse on the race track. The halt brought the
nose of the locomotive just beyond the bluff line so that Ralph could
sweep the tracks ahead with a clear glance.

"It's a wreck," announced the young engineer of the Overland Express.




CHAPTER II

THE WRECK


"A wreck, eh,--sure, I know it! Our turn next--you'll see," fumed Fogg,
as the locomotive came to a stop.

"It's a freight on the out track," said Ralph, peering ahead. "Two cars
over the embankment and--"

"For land's sake!" interrupted the fireman, "whiff! whoo! what have we
run into, anyway?"

A flying object came slam bang against the lookout window not two inches
from Fogg's nose. A dozen more sailed over the cab roof. With a great
flutter half of these dropped down into the cab direct.

"Chickens!" roared Fogg in excitement and astonishment. "Say, did you
ever see so many at one time? Where do they ever come from?"

"From the wreck. Look ahead," directed Ralph.

It was hard to do this, for a second flock of fowls thronged down upon
them. Of a sudden there seemed to be chickens everywhere. They scampered
down the rails, crouched to the pilot, roosted on the steam chests,
lined up on the coal of the tender, while three fat hens clucked and
skirmished under the very feet of the fireman, who was hopping about to
evade the bewildering inrush.

"I declare!" he ejaculated breathlessly.

Far as Ralph could see ahead, stray fowls were in evidence. Feathers
were flying, and a tremendous clatter and bustle was going on. They came
limping, flying, rolling along the roadbed from the direction of a train
standing stationary on the out track. In its center there was a gap.
Thirty feet down the embankment, split in two, and a mere pile of
kindling wood now, were two cars.

The trucks of one of these and some minor wreckage littered the in
track. Freight hands were clearing it away, and it was this temporary
obstruction that had been the cause of the warning torpedo.

A brakeman from the freight came to the passenger train to report what
was doing.

"Palace chicken car and a gondola loaded with boxes in the ditch
beyond," he said. "We'll be cleaned up for you in a few minutes."

"That's how the chickens come to be in evidence so numerously, it
seems," remarked Ralph.

"Say, see them among the wrecked wire netting, and putting for the
timber!" exclaimed Fogg. "Fairbanks, there's enough poultry running
loose to stock an eating house for a year. I say, they're nobody's
property now. Suppose--here's two fat ones. I reckon I'll take that much
of the spoil while it's going."

With a vast chuckle the fireman grabbed two of the fowls under his feet
and dumped them into his waste box, shutting down the cover. The
conductor of the freight came up penciling a brief report. He handed it
to the conductor of the Overland.

"We'll wire from Luce," he explained, "but we may be delayed reaching
there and you may get this to headquarters at the Junction first. Tell
the claim agent there won't be salvage enough to fill a waybill. She's
clear," with a glance down the track.

The Overland proceeded slowly past the wreck, affording the crew and the
curious passengers a view of the demolished freight lying at the bottom
of the embankment. Once past this, Ralph set full steam to make up for
lost time.

It put Fogg in better humor to arrive on schedule. The thought of home
comforts close by and the captured chickens occupied his mind and
dissipated his superstitious forebodings.

When they reached the roundhouse the fireman started straight for home.
Ralph lingered a few minutes to chat with the foreman, and was about to
leave when Fry, the claim agent of the road, came into the doghouse in
great haste.

"Just the man I want to see, Fairbanks," he said animatedly.

"That so?" smiled Ralph.

"Yes. Your conductor just notified me of the smashup beyond the limits.
It looks clean cut enough, with the tracks cleared, but he says some of
the stuff is perishable."

"If you list chickens in that class," responded Ralph, "I guess that's
right."

"That's the bother of it," observed Fry. "Dead salvage could wait, and
the wrecking crew could take care of it at their leisure, but--live
stock!"

"It looked to me as if most of the chickens had got away," exclaimed
Ralph. "The car was split and twisted from end to end."

"I reckon I had better get on the job instanter," said the claim agent.
"How about getting down to the bluff switch, Forgan?"

"Nothing moving but the regulars," reported the roundhouse foreman. "You
don't need a special?"

"No, any dinky old machine will do."

"Gravel pit dummy just came in."

"Can't you rig her up and give me clear tracks for an hour, till I make
investigations?"

"Crew gone home."

"No extras on hand?"

The foreman consulted his schedule and shook his head negatively.

Ralph thought of his home and mother, but a certain appealing glance
from the claim agent and a natural disposition to be useful and
accommodating influenced him to a kindly impulse.

"See here, Mr. Fry, I'll be glad to help you out, if I can," he said.

"You certainly can, Fairbanks, and I won't forget the favor," declared
the claim agent warmly. "You see, I'm booked for a week's vacation and a
visit to my old invalid father down at Danley, beginning tomorrow. If I
can untie all the red tape from this wreck affair, I'm free to get out,
and my substitute can take up any fresh tangles that come up tomorrow."

"Can you fire?" inquired Ralph.

"I can make a try at it."

"Then I'll see to the rest," promised the young engineer briskly.

With the aid of wiper Ralph soon got the dummy ready for action. It was
a long time since the young engineer had done roundhouse duty. He did it
well now, and thanked the strict training of his early apprentice
experience. The jerky spiteful little engine rolled over the turntable
in a few minutes time, and the claim agent pulled off his coat and
looked to Ralph for orders.

They took a switch and headed down the clear out track. At a crossing a
man came tearing towards them, arms waving, long beard flying, and his
face showing the greatest urgency and excitement.

"Mishter Fry! Mishter Fry!" he panted out, "I haf just heard--"

"Nothing for you, Cohen," shouted the claim agent.

"I hear dere vas some boxes. Sthop! sthop! I've got the retty gash."

"Ready-Cash Cohen," exclaimed Fry to Ralph. "Always on hand when there's
any cheap wreck salvage lying around loose. That fellow seems to scent a
wreck like a vulture."

"I've heard of him," remarked Ralph with a smile.

They had free swing on the out track until they neared the scene of the
wreck. Here they took a siding and left the dummy, to walk to the spot
where the two freight cars had gone over the embankment.

"Hello!" suddenly ejaculated the claim agent with tremendous surprise
and emphasis.

"Excuse me, Mishter Fry, but that salvage--"

Ralph burst out into a hearty peal of laughter. Clinging to the little
bobtail tender of the dummy was Ready-Cash Cohen.

"Well, you're a good one, Cohen."

"If I vas'nt, vould I be Chonny-on-de-spot, Mishter Fry?" chuckled Cohen
cunningly.

He followed them as they walked down the tracks. When they reached the
point where the two freights had gone over the embankment, Fry clambered
down its slant and for some time poked about the tangled mass of
wreckage below.

"Vill dere haf to be an appraisal, my tear friend?" anxiously inquired
Cohen, pressing forward as the claim agent reappeared.

"No," responded Fry shortly. "There's a chicken car with live and dead
mixed up in the tangle. Come, Cohen, how much for the lot?"

"Schickens?" repeated Cohen disgustedly--"not in my line, Mishter Fry.
Schickens are an expense. Dey need feeding."

"Won't bid, eh?"

"Don't vant dem at any price. But de boxes, Mishter Fry--vot's in dose
boxes?"

"See here," observed Fry, "I'm not giving information to the enemy.
There they are, badly shaken up but they look meaty, don't they? If you
want to bid unsight unseen, name your figure."

"Fifty tollars."

"Take them."

The salvage dealer toppled down the embankment with a greedy promptness.
The claim agent winked blandly after him.

"I expected it," said Fry, as a minute later Cohen came toiling up the
embankment his face a void of disappointed misery.

"Mishter Fry, Mishter Fry," he gasped, "dey are looking glasses!"

"Found that out, did you?" grinned the freight agent.

"Dey vos smashed, dey vas proken, every last one of dem. Dey are not
even junk. My tear friend, I cannot take dem."

"A bargain's a bargain, Cohen," voiced Fry smoothly. "You've made enough
out of your deals with the road to stand by your bid. If you don't,
we're no longer your customer."

"I von't have dem. It was a trick," and the man went down the track
tearing at his beard.

"There's kindling wood there for somebody free for the taking," remarked
Fry. "The chicken smashup isn't so easy."

"Many down there?" inquired Ralph.

"Yes, most of them are crushed, but a good many alive are shut in the
wire tangle. The best I can do is to send a section man to pry them
free. It's heartless to leave them to suffer and to die."

"A lot of them got free," observed Ralph.

"They're somewhere around the diggings. It wouldn't be a bad speculation
for some bright genius to round them up. Why, say, Fairbanks, you're an
ambitious kind of a fellow. I'll offer you an investment."

"What's that, Mr. Fry?" inquired the young engineer.

"I'll sell you the whole kit and caboodle in the car and out of it for
twenty-five dollars."

Ralph shook his head with a smile.

"If I had time to spare I'd jump at your offer, Mr. Fry," he said. "As
it is, what could I do with the proposition?"

"Do?" retorted the claim agent. "Hire some boys to gather in the bunch.
There may be five hundred chicks in the round up."

"Really, I couldn't bother with it, Mr. Fry," began Ralph, and then he
turned abruptly.

Some one had pulled at his sleeve, and with a start the young engineer
stared strangely at a boy about his own age.




CHAPTER III

TROUBLE BREWING


The strange boy appeared upon the scene so suddenly that Ralph decided
he must have reached the roadbed from the other side of the embankment.

The young engineer faced him with a slight start. To his certain
knowledge he had never seen the lad before. However, his face so
strongly resembled that of some one he had met recently it puzzled
Ralph. Whom did those features suggest? Ralph thought hard, but gave it
up.

"Did you wish to see me?" he inquired.

The boy had a striking face. It was pale and thin, his clothes were neat
but shabby. There was a sort of scared look in his eyes that appealed to
Ralph, who was strongly sympathetic.

"I know you," spoke the boy in a hesitating, embarrassed way. "You don't
know me, but I've had you pointed out to me."

"That so?" and Ralph smiled.

"You are Ralph Fairbanks, the engineer of the Overland Express,"
continued the lad in a hushed tone, as if the distinction awed him.

"That's right," nodded Ralph.

"Well, I've heard of you, and you've been a friend to a good many
people. I hope I'm not over bold, but if you would be a friend to me--"

Here the strange boy paused in a pitiful, longing way that appealed to
Ralph.

"Go ahead," he said.

"I heard this gentleman," indicating Mr. Fry, "offer to sell the
chickens down the embankment. I'm a poor boy, Mr. Fairbanks--dreadfully
poor. There's reasons why I can't work in the towns like other boys. You
can give me work, though--you can just set me on my feet."

"How can I do that?" inquired Ralph, getting interested.

"By buying me those chickens. I've got the place for them, I've got the
time to attend to them, and I know just how to handle them. Why,"
continued the speaker excitedly, "there's nearly two hundred in prime
trim gathered in a little thicket over yonder, and there's double that
number among the wreckage, besides those that are hurt that I can nurse
and mend up. If you will buy them for me, I'll solemnly promise to
return you the money in a week and double the amount of interest in
two."

"You talk clear and straight and earnest, my lad," here broke in the
claim agent. "What's your name?"

"Glen Palmer."

"Do you live near here?"

"Yes, sir--in an old abandoned farmhouse, rent free, about a mile north
of here."

"With your folks?"

"No, sir, I have no folks, only an old grandfather. He's past working,
and, well, a--a little queer at times, and I have to keep close watch of
him. That's what's the trouble."

The claim agent took out his note book.

"Look here," he spoke, "if Fairbanks will vouch for you, I'll tab off
the chickens to you at fifteen dollars, due in thirty days."

"O--oh!" gasped the lad, clasping his hands in an ecstacy of