Ralph on the Engine: or, The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail

The boy fireman had crept to the end of the car next to the caboose. Glancing down, he discovered that the couplings were operated by a lever bar. Otherwise, he could never have forced up the coupling pin.

The cars were on a sharp incline, in fact, one of the steepest on the road. Ralph relied on simple gravity to escape the robbers and hasten for relief.

“There’s some one!”

Careful as Ralph was, he was discovered. A voice rang out in warning. Then with a quick, bold snap, Ralph lifted the coupler and the pin shot out. He sprang to the forward platform of the caboose. As the car began to recede, he dashed through its open door.

“Just in time. Whew!” ejaculated Ralph, “those fellows are desperate men and doing this in true, wild western style.”

The caboose, once started, began a rapid backward rush. Ralph feared that its momentum might carry the car from the track.

A curve turned, and the lights of Brocton were in sight. Before the runaway caboose slowed down entirely it must have gone fully three-quarters of a mile.

Ralph jumped from the car, and ran down the tracks at his best speed. He was breathless as he reached the little depot. It was dark and deserted, but opposite it was the one business street of the town.

Ralph left the tracks finally and made a dash for the open entrance of the general store of the village. The usual crowd of loiterers was gathered there.

“Hello! what’s this?” cried the proprietor, as the young fireman rushed wildly into the store.

“Fireman on the Dover freight,” explained Ralph breathlessly.

“What’s the trouble – a wreck?”

“No, a hold-up. Men! get weapons, a handcar, if there is one here, and we may head off the robbers.”

It took some urging to get that slow crowd into action, but finally half-a-dozen men armed with shotguns were running down the tracks following Ralph’s lead.

It was a steep climb and several fell behind, out of breath. One big fellow kept pace with Ralph.

“There they are,” spoke the latter as they rounded a curve.

Lights showed in the near distance. A flash of lightning momentarily revealed a stirring scene. The robbers were removing packages from a car they had broken into, and these they were loading into their wagon at the side of the train.

“Hurry up, hurry up!” Ralph’s companion shouted back to his comrades. “Now, then, for a dash, and we’ll bag those rogues, plunder, rig and all.”

“Wait,” ordered Ralph sharply.

He was too late. The impetuous villager was greatly excited and he ran ahead and fired off his gun, two of the others following his example.

Ralph was very sorry for this, for almost instantly the robbers took the alarm and all lights near the caboose were extinguished. The echo of rapid orders reached the ears of the relief party. Fairly upon the scene, a flash of lightning showed the wagon being driven rapidly up a road leading from the cut.

“Look out for yourselves,” suggested Ralph. “Those men are armed.”

“So are we, now!” sharply sounded the voice of one of the men from Brocton, and another flash of lightning showed the enemy still in view.

“Up the road after them!” came a second order.

Ralph ran up to the side of the caboose.

“All safe?” he inquired anxiously.

“All but one of us,” responded the conductor.

Ralph lit a lantern, noticing one of the train hands lying on the ground motionless.

“He’s a fighter, Tom is,” said the conductor. “He resisted and grappled with one of the robbers, and another of them knocked him senseless.”

“What’s this in his hand?” inquired Ralph. “Oh, I see – a cap. Snatched it from the head of his assailant, I suppose. Hark! they are shooting up there.”

Shots rang out along the cut road. In a few minutes, however, the men from Brocton reappeared in the cut.

“No use wasting our lives recklessly,” said one of them. “They have bullets, we only small shot. The wagon got away. We’ll hurry back to Brocton, get a regular posse armed with rifles, and search the country for the rascals.”

“What’s the damage?” inquired Ralph of the conductor, going to the side of the car that had been broken open.

“Pretty big, I should say,” responded the conductor. “That car had a consignment of valuable silks from Brown & Banks, in the city, and they piled a fair load of it into their wagon. You have saved a wholesale plundering of the car.”

The men from Brocton departed. Ralph helped the train crew revive the poor fellow who had been knocked insensible. They carried him into the caboose, applied cold water to his head, and soon had him restored to consciousness.

“Fix the red lights,” ordered the conductor to a brakeman, “and then hurry to Brocton and have them telegraph the train dispatcher. What’s the trouble ahead, Fairbanks?”

Ralph explained. Shovels and crowbars were brought from the caboose, and two of the train crew accompanied him back to the locomotive.

Ralph thought of the cap he had stuck in his pocket. He looked it over carefully in the light of the lantern he carried.

On the leather band inside of the cap were two initials in red ink – “I. S.”

“Ike Slump,” murmured Ralph.

An old-time enemy had appeared on the scene, and the young fireman of the Great Northern knew that he would have to keep a sharp lookout or there would be more trouble.

CHAPTER III

EVERYBODY’S FRIEND

“Stand back there, you fellows!”

“Scatter, boys – it’s Ralph Fairbanks!”

It was two days after the landslide near Brocton. The young fireman had just left the roundhouse at Stanley Junction in a decidedly pleasant mood. His cheering thoughts were, however, rudely disturbed by a spectacle that at once appealed to his manly nature.

Ralph, making a short cut for home, had come across a farmer’s wagon standing in an alley at the side of a cheap hotel. The place was a resort for dissolute, good-for-nothing railway employes, and one of its victims was now seated, or rather propped up, on the seat of the wagon in question.

He was a big, loutish boy, and had apparently come into town with a load to deliver. The wagon was filled with bags of apples. Around the vehicle was gathered a crowd of boys. Each one of them had his pockets bulging with the fruit stolen from one of the bags in the wagon.

Standing near by, Jim Evans in their midst, was an idle crowd of railroad men, enjoying and commenting on the scene.

The farmer’s boy was seemingly asleep or unconscious. He had been set up on the seat by the mob, and one side of his face blackened up. Apples stuck all over the harness of the horses and on every available part of the vehicle. A big board lying across the bags had chalked upon it, “Take One.”