THE DUDE OPERATOR
Alex Ward, like most vigorous, manly boys of his type, had a fixed dislike for anything approaching foppishness, especially in other boys. Consequently when on reporting at the Exeter office one evening he was introduced to Wilson Jennings, Alex treated him with but little more than necessary courtesy. For the newcomer, an operator but little older than himself, was distinctly a “dude”—from his patent-leather shoes and polka-dotted stockings to his red-and-yellow banded white straw hat. His carefully-pressed suit was the very latest thing in light checked gray, he wore a collar which threatened to envelope his ears, and his white tie was of huge dimensions. Also he possessed the fair pink-and-white complexion of a girl.
Alex was not alone in his derisive attitude toward the stranger. Shortly following the appearance of the night chief Mr. Jennings nodded everyone a good-evening, and departed, and immediately there was a general roar of laughter in the operating-room.
“Where did he fall from?” “Whose complexion powder is he advertising?” “Did you get onto his picture socks?” were some of the remarks bandied about.
When the chief announced that the new operator was from the east, and was being sent to the little foothills tank-station of Bonepile, there was a fresh outburst of hilarity.
“Why, that cowboy outfit near there will string him up to the tank spout,” declared the operator on whose wire Bonepile was located. “It’s the toughest proposition on the wire.”
“On the quiet, that is just why Jordan is sending him,” the night chief said. “Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of ‘finding himself,’ so to speak.”
“He’ll certainly ‘find himself’ there, then—if there’s anything left to find when the ranch crew get through,” laughed the operator. “I’d give five real dollars to see that show, and walk back.”
“At that, you might have to walk back, if you wagered your money on the outcome,” responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. “Clothes don’t make a man—neither do they un-make one. The ‘Dude’ may surprise us yet.”
Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings’ surprise when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone. Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown “drygoods-box” depot, the water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east the limitless stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste “some adventure” in the great west.
However, here he was; and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his way in to the tiny operating-room, and on into the bunk-kitchen-living-room behind. For here, “a hundred miles from anywhere,” the operator’s board and lodging was provided by the railroad.
Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view.
It was the “welcoming committee” of the Bar-O ranch, the “outfit” referred to by the operator at Exeter.
With a final whoop the cowmen thundered up to the station platform, and dismounted. Muskoka Jones, a huge, heavily-moustached ranchman over six feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash.
“Pardner, welcome to our city!” he shouted.
The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was a strange quiet.
The following Bar-O’s faltered, and exchanged glances. Surely the Western had not at last “fallen down” on its first obligation at Bonepile! For since the coming of the rails they had regarded the station operator as a sort of social adjunct to the ranch—the keeper of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport. And if this latest change of operators had brought them—
Muskoka spoke again, and the worst was realized.
“Well, you gal-faced little dude!”
The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka’s board shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn.
Muskoka settled forward on his elbows.
“Are you a real operator?” he inquired.
In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the affirmative.
“Actooal, real, male operator?”
The cluster of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.
“But y’ don’t play kiards, do you?” Muskoka asked incredulously. “Now I bet you don’t. Or smoke? Or chew? Or any of them wicked—”
“Here are some cigarettes the other man left.” Hopefully the boy extended the package—to have it snatched from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and the box flipped ceilingward.
In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied Wilson’s new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka’s long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew; the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.
“There—all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile,” said Muskoka. “An’ don’t mention it.”
“Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears.” The boy shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman’s pistol was out.
“Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!” he commanded.
Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.
“There,” he announced, returning it, “much better. That’s Bonepile fashion. Put it on.”
Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.
“Now,” proceeded Muskoka, “that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I think it’d look better inside-out. Try it.”
Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway—in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers rolled to his knees—a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.
In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full, the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting of Wilson that he wave his hat and give “three cheers for the citizens of Bonepile,” they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.
Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.
“Yes, sir; I’ll wager they sent them down here to do this,” he said aloud.
Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. “I’ll stick it out here for two weeks—if they lynch me!” declared the “dude” grimly.
It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard train.
On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. “Why, it’s the night of Dan Haggerty’s dance,” he pointed out indignantly. “Doesn’t the superintendent know that?”
“The superintendent didn’t—and didn’t care,” was the response to the wired protest. “The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an old understanding.”
Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain, and stormed out the door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Bar-O ranch. Half an hour later Muskoka Jones appeared.
“Good evening. I’m sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir,” apologized Wilson.
“Good evening, Willie. Don’t mention it,” was the big cowman’s scornful response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over the lad’s neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthermost corner of the room, and promptly fell fast asleep.
Some time after darkness had fallen the young telegrapher, dozing in his chair at the instrument table, was startled into consciousness by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. With visions of Indians or robbers he sprang to the window, to discover a dim, tall figure dismounting on the platform. In alarm he turned to call the sleeping guard, but momentarily hesitating, looked again, the figure came into the light of the window, and with relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the Bar-O cowmen.
“Hello, kid,” said the newcomer, entering. “Where’s Old Muskoke?”
“Good evening. Over there, asleep, sir. I suppose you knew he was taking Mr. Smith’s place, guarding the gold until the train came in?”
“Sure, yes. I was there when Bill come up.” He crossed to the side of the snoring Jones, and kicked him sharply on the sole of his boots. “M’skoke! Git up!” he shouted. “Here’s something to keep out the chills.”
Again, and more sharply, he kicked the sleeping man, while the boy looked on, smiling.
Suddenly the smile disappeared, and the lad’s heart leaped into his throat. He was gazing into the black, round muzzle of a pistol, and beyond it was a face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively his staring eyes flickered towards the box of bullion.
“Yep, that’s it. But wink an eye agin, an’ y’ git it!” said Burns coldly, advancing. “Now, git back there up agin the corner of the table, an’ stand, so ’f anyone comes along you’ll appear to be leanin’ there, conversin’. Go on, quick!”
Dazed, cold with fear, the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf of hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his side.
As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy’s left leg to the leg of the table, Muskoka’s snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand. But the snoring presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment, Iowa returned to the boy.
“Now move, remember, an’ I shoot,” he repeated warningly. “To make sure, I’m going to fix up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you. An’ don’t you as much as shuffle your hoof!” Recovering the bundle of thongs, he strode back to the sleeper.
As previously the man’s back had been turned Wilson had shot a frantic glance about him. In their sweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had resulted, but as the renegade’s back was again turned his eyes again dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him.
His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, the danger of it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp, on the wall opposite, was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow. And his left hand—he tried it—yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand itself was free.
His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka’s contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication.
With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it.
Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem, and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried:
“Hands up, Burns! I got you!
The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half-raised.
“Quick! Up! Up!” cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the hands wavered, then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended.
For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top of his voice he cried: “Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up!”
Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused anxiously to watch results.
“Muskoka! Muskoka!” shouted the lad. The snoring continued evenly, unbrokenly.
Iowa indulged in a dry laugh. “Save your wind, kid,” he said. “I fixed a drink he took before he came down.”
At this news the boy’s heart sank.
“But look here, kid.” Iowa turned carefully, hands still in the air. “Look here, can’t we square this thing up? You got the drop on me, O K—and with a blame little pea-shooter,” he added, catching a glimpse, as he thought, of the end of a small black barrel, but nevertheless continuing his attitude of surrender. “You got the drop—and you’re a smart kid, you are—but can’t we fix this thing up? You take half, say? I’d be glad to let you in. Honest! An’ no one’d ever think you was in the game. Come, what d’ y’ say?”
Though apparently listening, the young operator was in reality urgently casting about in his mind for other expedients. Obviously it would be too dangerous to attempt to reach with the fingers of one of his bound hands the thongs holding his left leg to the leg of the table. He might reveal the pipe, or drop it. And neither could he reach the telegraph key, to get in touch with someone on the wire. And in any case, how could that help him? For the next train was not due for two hours, and it did not seem possible he could carry on his bluff that length of time.
But think as he would, the wire seemed the only hope. Could he not reach the key in some way?
The solution came as Iowa ventured a short step nearer, and repeated his suggestion. At first sight it seemed as ridiculously impossible as the bluff with the pipe, but quickly the boy weighed the chances, and determined to take the risk.
“Now, Mr. Iowa,” he said, “you are to do just exactly what I tell you, step by step, so much and no more. If you make any other move, if I only think you are going to, I shall shoot. My finger is pressing the trigger constantly. And I guess you can see that at this range, though my hold on the gun is a bit cramped, I could not miss you if I wanted to.
“Listen, now. You will come forward until you can reach the chair here by sticking out your foot. Then you will push it back along the table to the wall, and turn it face to me. Then you will sit down in it. After that I’ll tell you some more.
“Go ahead! And remember—my finger always pressing the trigger!”
As Burns came forward, infinitely puzzled, the boy turned slowly, so that the “muzzle” of the pipe continued to cover the would-be bullion thief. Gingerly Iowa reached out with his foot and shoved the chair back to the wall, and turning, backed into it and sat down. With the shadow of a grin on his face, he demanded, “Wot next?”
“Now, slowly let your left arm down at full length on the table. There—hand is on the key, isn’t it?
“Now,” continued Wilson, who never for an instant allowed his eyes to wander from the man’s face, “now feel with your fingers at the back of the key, and find a screw-head, standing up.”
“Which one? There are two or three,” said Iowa craftily.
“No, there are not. There’s just one. And I give you ‘three’ to find it,” said the young operator sharply. “One, two—”
“Oh, go on! I got it!” exclaimed Iowa angrily.
“Below the screw-head is a binding-nut. Loosen it, and turn it leftwise. Found it? Now take hold of the screw-head again, and turn it to the left. It turns free, doesn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“Turn it about four times completely around. Now the binding nut again, down, the other way, till it’s tight. Got it?
“Now, hold your finger tips over the black button at the inner end of the key, and hit down on it smartly.”
There was a click.
“That’s it. It has plenty of play, hasn’t it?”
“Works up and down about an inch, if that’s wot you mean,” growled Iowa, still puzzled. “But wot—”
“I’m going to give you a lesson in telegraphy and you are going to—”
Iowa saw, and exploded. “Well, of all the—Say, wot do you think—”
“All right!” Sharply, bravely, though inwardly steeling himself for catastrophe, the lad counted, “One!—Two!—”
Again he won. “Oh, go on!” sputtered Iowa, through gritting teeth. And the boy resumed.
“Hit the key a sharp rap! Pretty good. Now, two raps, one right after the other. Good.
“Now, those are what we call ‘dots.’ Remember. Now, press the key down, hold it for just a moment, and let it come up again. Very good. You would learn telegraphy quickly, Mr. Burns. That is what we call a ‘dash.’” With the situation apparently so well in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to enjoy it.
“Now I’ll have you do what I’ve been aiming at. And remember always—my finger is constantly pressing the trigger!”
“Now then, feel just this side of the key button, below. The little button of a lever? Got it? Press it from you.”
There was a single sharp upward click of relay and sounder. The key was “open,” ready for operation.
“Now listen. I want you to make the letter X—a dot, a dash, then two more dots right together. And keep repeating till I stop you.”
Still under the spell of the fancied revolver and the boy’s unfaltering gaze, the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked out a painfully deliberate, but fairly readable “X.”
It was an idle half-hour, and when the despatcher at Exeter heard his call he glanced up from a magazine, listened a moment, and impatiently remarking, “Some idiot student!” returned to his reading.
But steadily, insistently, the repetition of X’s continued, and at length he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded, “Who? Sign!”
Clumsily came the answer, “B.”
“Bonepile! Now what’s happening down there? It doesn’t sound like the new operator, either.”
The wire again clicked open, and slowly, in the same heavy hand, the mystified and then amazed despatcher read:
“H-E-L-P—H-E-L-D U-P—A-F-T-E-R G-O-L-D—T-I-E-D T-O T-A-B-L-E—G-O-T D-R-O-P O-N H-I-M—M-A-K-I-N-G H-I-M S-E-N-D—B.”
The despatcher grasped his key. “Good boy! Good boy!” he hurled back. “Keep it up for twenty-five minutes and we’ll get help to you. There’s an extra engine at H, waiting for 92. I’ll start her right down.” And therewith he whirled off into an urgent succession of “H’s.”
But through young Jennings’ strange feat in telegraphy help was nearer even than the unexpected succor from Hillside. Despite the sleeping draught Burns had administered to Muskoka Jones, the unaccustomed clicking of the telegraph instruments had begun to arouse the big cowman. When finally, in climax, came the lightning whirr of the despatcher’s excited response, he gasped into consciousness, blinked, and suddenly found himself sitting upright, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle before him.
The next moment, with a shout, he was on his feet in the middle of the floor, and the nerve-strung boy had fainted.
As the lad sank forward his “pistol” fell from his hand and rolled into the light.
From Burns came an inarticulate cry, his jaw dropped, his eyes started in his head. Muskoka halted in his stride, wet his lips and muttered incredulous words of admiration and amazement. Then in a moment he had cut Wilson free, and stretched him on the floor.
It was Iowa broke the silence. Rising, with compressed lips he held toward Muskoka the butt of his pistol. “Here, shoot me—with my own gun!” he said hoarsely. “I deserve it.”
Muskoka considered. “No,” he decided at length. “Leave your gun as a present for the kid, and,” turning and indicating the door, “git!”
Thus was it the young “dude” operator proved himself, and came into possession of a handsome pearl-handled Colt’s revolver—and, early the following morning, from a “committee” of the Bar-O cowmen, headed by Muskoka Jones, a fine high-crowned, silver-spangled Mexican sombrero, to take the place of the hat they had destroyed, and “as a mark of esteem for the pluckiest little operator ever sent to Bonepile.”
More important still, however, the incident won Wilson immediate esteem at division headquarters, where one of the first of the operators to congratulate him was Alex Ward.