“And I believe she and her family are going to be in more trouble before it is all said and done,” muttered Ralph.
But he got out of explaining in detail about his adventure with Zeph Dallas the previous evening. He knew, however, his mother was merely in fun about Cherry Hopkins. Secretly, whenever Ralph thought of the pretty blonde girl, he felt anxiety for her safety. Such rascals as Whitey Malone and the other fellows who would do Andy McCarrey’s bidding might really do Cherry serious harm.
He went to the dispatchers’ offices early, saw that the day-trick men were getting on all right, and then went in search of a timekeeper who, he knew, was to be trusted. This gray-haired employee of the Great Northern was one of those loyal men who considered any blow at the road a blow at their own livelihood and future prospects.
“Think you could recognize Jim Perrin’s writing wherever you saw it, John?” the young chief dispatcher asked.
“Jim Perrin, is it? A bad egg. It is too bad he leads so many around by the nose. I know his handwriting well. I ought to. He has been signing for his pay check for ten years here.”
“Look at this,” said Ralph, thrusting the list of four names in front of the timekeeper. “What do you think?”
The man studied the names through his spectacles. Then he nodded.
“I know them, too,” he said. “They are all in the shops here. Billy Lyons, Abe Bertholdt, Micky Ranny, brother of Bob, the hoghead, and Sam Peters. Yes, I know ’em all.”
“That is not just what I asked you,” Ralph explained. “Who do you think wrote those names on that paper?”
“Oh! Oh!” cried the timekeeper. “That’s the idea, is it?” He squinted at the four brief lines of writing. “Who wrote ’em down for you, is it? What is this, Mr. Fairbanks? One of the new super’s efficiency tricks, I dunno?”