“You bet it is,” assented Archie with force.
“And you attempt too grand beginnings. Take something more simple and easy than trying to revolutionize railroad service all at once, and gradually work up to bigger things.”
“Say, there’s sense in that, an old inventor told me the same thing,” said Archie; “but you see this rocket danger signal of mine is a new thing. I’m going to Bridgeport to-morrow to get some fixings I have in my workshop there. You’ll hear from me later, Fairbanks.”
Concerning Zeph, Fred Porter and Marvin Clark the young railroader had heard nothing since the last visit of Zeph to Stanley Junction. Many a time he wondered what had become of them. He had all kinds of theories as to their continued mysterious absence, but no solution offered as time wore on.
The Overland Express had not become an old thing with Ralph. He felt that the charm and novelty of running the crack train of the road could never wear out. With each trip, however, there came a feeling of growing strength and self-reliance. Ralph had learned to handle the proposition aptly, and he took a great pride in the time record so far.
“It’s a lively run, and no mistake,” he remarked to Fogg, as they started out from the depot that 213 evening. “We haven’t had any of the direful mishaps, though, that those old doghouse croakers predicted.”
“No,” admitted the fireman, but he accompanied the word with a serious shake of the head; “that’s to come. I’m trained enough to guess that another frost or two will end in the season that every railroad man dreads. Wait till the whiskers get on the rails, lad, and a freshet or two strikes 999. There’s some of those culverts make me quake when I think of the big ice gorges likely to form along Dolliver’s Creek. Oh, we’ll get them—storms, snowslides and blockades. The only way is to remember the usual winter warning, ‘extra caution,’ keep cool, and stick to the cab to the last.”
Summer had faded into autumn, and one or two sharp frosts had announced the near approach of winter. The day before there had been a slight snow flurry. A typical fall day and a moonlit night had followed, however, and Ralph experienced the usual pleasure as they rolled back the miles under flying wheels. They took the sharp curves as they ran up into the hills with a scream of triumph from the locomotive whistle every time they made a new grade.
“Waste of steam, lad, that,” observed Fogg, as 214 they rounded a curve and struck down into a cut beyond which lay the town of Fordham.
“Better to be safe,” responded Ralph. “There’s a crossing right ahead where the old spur cuts in.”