Читать книгу Ralph, the Train Dispatcher: or, The Mystery of the Pay Car - Chapman Allen - Страница 2

“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.