Once in the tower room he closed the trap and fastened it down. A glance from its window showed some commotion in the yards round about.
A wild, tattered figure was scudding in frenzy for the street. It was Young Slavin. He was hatless, and, from neck to heel down his back, every garment he wore was ripped exactly in two as if slashed scientifically by a butcher-knife.
This envelope of tatters and Slavin's fearful outcries had attracted the attention of flagmen, engineers, and brakemen in the vicinity. They shouted after the scurrying fugitive, they even tried to head him off for an explanation. Slavin, however, lost to reason for the moment, made a mad bee-line for Railroad Street, and disappeared behind some freight sheds.
Ralph hailed a roundhouse hand carrying a bucket of oil.
"Shut the lower door, will you?" he asked.
The man did so. It operated on a spring, and all he had to do was to detach a hook from a staple that held it open.
"Slip the padlock," continued Ralph.
"Why, that will lock you in!" exclaimed the bewildered oilman.
"That's all right," answered Ralph. "Thanks."
He smiled to himself as he answered some switch calls. The smile broadened as he ran over the exciting incidents of the hour.