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

It was when he was within a few rods of the place that a voice hailed him.

“This way, Mr. Fairbanks, I have something to tell you.”

Ralph went to a copse near at hand where the speaker stood, as if in hiding. It was the escaped convict. He was deeply excited.

“I wanted to prepare you for a surprise before you went into the house,” said the convict.

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Ralph.

“I mean Farrington!” cried the convict. “He is there.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Ralph.

“No, it is true.”

“How did he happen to come here?”

“A man driving a covered wagon brought him. Farrington was sick, dying. The other man carried him into the house and said he would hurry for a doctor.”

“When was this?” asked Ralph.

“Two hours ago. I have not shown myself to Farrington yet. The man is certainly in a dying condition.”

“I had better investigate affairs,” said Ralph, and he proceeded to the house.

Gasper Farrington lay on a wretched cot in a little bedroom. Ralph was amazed at the change in the magnate since he had last seen him. Farrington was thin, pale and weak. He was gasping painfully for breath, and groaned wretchedly as he recognized his visitor.

“Why, Mr. Farrington,” said Ralph, “you are a very sick man.”

“I am dying, Ralph Fairbanks,” moaned the stricken Farrington. “You have your revenge.”

“I wish for no revenge – I truly am sorry to see you in this condition.”

“Well, here I am,” groaned Farrington – “a miserable wreck, dying in a wretched hovel, the end of all my plotting, and worst of all, robbed of everything I own.”

“By whom?” asked Ralph.

“By Bartlett, who has abandoned me. I know it, and only this morning he got from me the deeds conveying all my property to him. Once recorded, I am a beggar, and can make no reparation to those whom I have defrauded.”

“Is that true?” asked Ralph.

“Yes. He pretended he would drive to Wilmer, record the deeds at Stanley Junction, return and take me safely out of the country. Instead, he has isolated me in this desolate place. Oh, to outwit him, Fairbanks!” continued the magnate eagerly. “I can yet defeat him if you can assist me.”

“How?”

“Under the bed is my box of private papers. Unknown to Bartlett, last week, suspecting his scheme to rob me, believing I was dying, I executed deeds that distributed my property among those whom I had wronged. One deed is for your mother to adjust that twenty thousand dollar claim. Another is for a poor fellow I sent to jail – an innocent man. Another places my property in trust with your lawyer. Here they are,” and Farrington took some documents from the box that Ralph had handed him. “Now then, act quickly.”

Ralph looked over the papers. They were what the magnate described. He went outside and saw the convict, showing him the deed containing the name of “John Vance.”

“Is that your name?” asked Ralph.

“It is,” assented the convict.

“Then Farrington has done you tardy justice,” and he explained the situation.

In a few minutes the young fireman was bounding away towards Wilmer.

Ralph caught a train just as it was moving away from the depot. He did not venture inside the cars, for he saw that Bartlett was aboard, but at the next station proceeded to the locomotive.

When the train reached the limits at Stanley Junction, Ralph left it and boarded an engine on another track bound for the depot.

He reached it some minutes in advance of the other locomotive. A hurried run for the office of the recorder, a swift delivery of the deeds, and then Ralph hastened after the town marshal.

They came upon Bartlett leaving the office of the recorder with a glum and puzzled face. In his hand in a listless way he held some deeds which he had evidently been told were worthless.

The man was disguised, but Ralph knew him at once. The marshal stepped forward and seized his arm.

“Mr. Bartlett,” he said sternly, “you are under arrest.”

“Oh, you want me? What – er – for?” stammered the plotter.

“Conspiracy in the recent railroad strike,” explained the official. “Pretty serious, too – not to mention that so-called accident you had on one of the cars, for which you wanted damages.”

With a scowl on his face Bartlett turned and confronted Ralph.

“Ah, so it’s you?” he growled.

“Yes,” returned the young fireman, coldly.

“This is some of your work!”

“If so, it is at the request of the man you robbed, Bartlett.”

“Eh?”

“I mean Gasper Farrington,” answered Ralph, and this news caused the prisoner to turn pale and stagger back. He realized that he had come to the end of his plotting and must now suffer the consequences of his misdeeds. He was marched off to jail, and it may be as well to state, was, later on, sent to prison for a term of years.

Gasper Farrington did not linger long. Before he died, however, he had a talk with Ralph and with the convict, and signed several papers of importance. He acknowledged all his wrong doings, and did all in his power to straighten matters out. His relatives came to his aid, and his last hours on earth were made as comfortable as circumstances permitted.

Two days after Farrington’s funeral came a surprise for Ralph. He received word that Ike Slump and Mort Bemis had been caught in a tavern near Dover. Both of the roughs were in rags and penniless, having lost what money they had had. Both were turned over to the police, and in due course of time each followed Bartlett to prison.

“It serves them right,” said Griscom, to Ralph. “My! my! What a difference in boys! Do you remember when you and Slump were both wipers at the roundhouse?”

“I do indeed!” answered Ralph feelingly. “I am sorry for Ike. But he has no one to blame but himself.”

“A holiday for us day after to-morrow, lad,” went on the veteran engineer of the Limited Mail, with a twinkle in his eye. “Guess you know why.”

“Opening of the other line?” queried the young fireman.