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

He was rather glum-faced when he rejoined Ralph.

“Say,” he observed, “I’ve found out nothing, and old Ames took the package away from me.”

“What did he say?” asked the young fireman.

“He told me he would see that it was returned to the person who sent it.”

“That delays matters,” thought Ralph, “and I don’t know whether Ames will take it back to the silk thieves, or wait for some of them to visit him.”

Then the young fireman formed a sudden resolution. He regarded his companion thoughtfully, and said:

“Zeph, I am going to trust you with what is known as an official secret in the railroad line.”

The farmer boy looked pleased and interested.

“I believe you are too square and friendly to betray that secret.”

“Try me, and see!” cried Zeph with ardor.

“Well,” said Ralph, “there was a silk robbery of the Dover night freight last week, the train I am fireman on. From what you have told me, I feel sure that the thieves hired their rig from Ames. That package you had was part of the stolen plunder. I am acting for the road detective of the Great Northern, and I must locate those robbers.”

“Then,” cried Zeph delightedly, “I am helping you do detective work.”

“Yes, Zeph, genuine detective work.”

“Oh! how I wish I had my disguises here!”

“You are of more use to me as you are, because the thieves know you worked for Ames, and they seem to trust him.”

“That’s so,” said Zeph thoughtfully. “What you going to do?”

“I want to locate the thieves,” responded Ralph. “You must know the district about here pretty well. Can’t you think of any spot where they would be likely to hide?”

“None in particular. But I know every foot of the woods, swamps and creek. If the men you are looking for are anywhere in the neighborhood, I am sure we will find a trace of them.”

“You pilot the way, then, Zeph. Go with caution if you find any traces of the men, for I am sure that at least two of the party know me.”

For three hours they made a tour of the district, taking in nearly four miles to the south. The swamp lands they could not traverse. Finally they came out of the woods almost directly on a town.

“Why,” said Ralph in some surprise, “here is Millville, the next station to Brocton.”

“That’s so,” nodded Zeph. “I hardly think those fellows are in the woods. We have made a pretty thorough search.”

“There’s the swamp and the high cliffs we haven’t visited,” said Ralph. “I suppose you are hungry?”

“Moderately,” answered Zeph.

“Then we will go and have something to eat. I have a friend just on the edge of Millville, who keeps a very unique restaurant.”

Ralph smiled pleasantly, for the restaurant in question was quite a feature with railroad men.

Two lines of railroad crossed at Millville, a great deal of switching was done outside of the town, and there was a shanty there to shelter the men.

A little off from the junction was a very queer-looking house, if it could be called such. Its main structure was an old freight car, to which there had been additions made from time to time. Across its front was a sign reading, “Limpy Joe’s Railroad Restaurant.”

“Ever taken a meal here?” inquired Ralph, as they approached the place.

“No.”

“Ever heard of Limpy Joe?”

“Don’t think I have.”

“Then,” said Ralph, “I am going to introduce you to the most interesting boy you ever met.”

CHAPTER VII

LIMPY JOE’S RAILROAD RESTAURANT

Zeph Dallas stared about him in profound bewilderment and interest as Ralph led the way towards Limpy Joe’s Railroad Restaurant.

It was certainly an odd-appearing place. Additions had been built onto the freight car until the same were longer than the original structure.

A square of about two hundred feet was enclosed by a barbed wire fence, and this space was quite as interesting as the restaurant building.

There was a rude shack, which seemed to answer for a barn, a haystack beside it, and a well-appearing vegetable garden. Then, in one corner of the yard, was a heap of old lumber, stone, brick, doors, window sash, in fact, it looked as if some one had been gathering all the unmated parts of various houses he could find.

The restaurant was neatly painted a regular, dark-red freight-car color outside. Into it many windows had been cut, and a glance through the open doorway showed an interior scrupulously neat and clean.

“Tell me about it,” said Zeph. “Limpy Joe – who is he? Does he run the place alone?”

“Yes,” answered Ralph. “He is an orphan, and was hurt by the cars a few years ago. The railroad settled with him for two hundred dollars, an old freight car and a free pass for life over the road, including, Limpy Joe stipulated, locomotives and cabooses.”

“Wish I had that,” said Zeph – “I’d be riding all the time.”

“You would soon get tired of it,” Ralph asserted. “Well, Joe invested part of his money in a horse and wagon, located in that old freight car, which the company moved here for him from a wreck in the creek, and became a squatter on that little patch of ground. Then the restaurant idea came along, and the railroad hands encouraged him. Before that, however, Joe had driven all over the country, picking up old lumber and the like, and the result is the place as you see it.”

“Well, he must be an ambitious, industrious fellow.”

“He is,” affirmed Ralph, “and everybody likes him. He’s ready at any time of the night to get up and give a tired-out railroad hand a hot cup of coffee or a lunch. His meals are famous, too, for he is a fine cook.”

“Hello, Ralph Fairbanks,” piped a happy little voice as Ralph and Zeph entered the restaurant.

Ralph shook hands with the speaker, a boy hobbling about the place on a crutch.

“What’s it going to be?” asked Limpy Joe, “full dinner or a lunch?”

“Both, best you’ve got,” smiled Ralph. “The railroad is paying for this.”