Suddenly one of these moved his chair—scraped it back harshly. He turned to look at the open door.
“What’s the matter with you, Whitey?” he growled out. “Why don’t you come up here? Did you get what I sent you for?”
Ralph held his breath and remained perfectly still. He had no thought of answering for Whitey Malone.
But startlingly, though in muffled tone, a gruff voice said just above him: “What’s that you want? I dunno wot you sent me for. Where’d you send me?”
The fellow at the table jumped up with an ejaculation more forceful than polite. “That drunken bum! What’s he been doing, do you suppose, Grif?”
“You should not have trusted him, Andy,” returned the second man. “I told you what he was.”
The first speaker strode heavily toward the door. Ralph realized that he was about to be discovered. And he knew something else, too: That was, that his reckless friend, Zeph Dallas, was on the next flight above, and had sought to imitate Whitey Malone’s voice.
“Nice mess I’m in,” thought the young train dispatcher.
He crouched, but gripping the spoke, his only weapon. If it came to a fight, he purposed to have the best of the argument—and have it quick. He was sure he knew who this fellow approaching the door was. The other man did not have to repeat his name.
“Whitey! what the dickens is the matter with you?” called the man. “You know what I sent you for. Didn’t you see Perrin?”