“Why, Dave Bissell!” said the young railroader, turning to face and shake hands with an old acquaintance. Dave had been a train boy on an accommodation run at Stanley Junction about a year previous, and had graduated into the same line of service on the Overland Limited.
“I’m very glad to see you,” said Ralph; “I hear you’ve got a great run.”
“Famous, Fairbanks!” declared Dave. “I’m hearing some big things about you.”
“You call them big because you remember the Junction and exaggerate home news,” insisted Ralph.
“Maybe so, but I always said you’d be president of the road some time,” began Dave, and then with a start stared hard at young Clark, who appeared 67 at that moment crossing the platform of a stationary coach from the direction of Railroad Row. “Why!” exclaimed Dave, “hey! hi! this way.”
Clark had halted abruptly. His expressive features were a study. As he evidently recognized Dave, his face fell, his eyes betokened a certain consternation, and dropping a package he carried he turned swiftly about, jumped from the platform and disappeared.
“Why” spoke Ralph, considerably surprised, “do you know Marvin Clark?”
“Who?” bolted out Dave bluntly.
“That boy—Marvin Clark.”
“Marvin Clark nothing!” shouted the train boy volubly. “That’s my cousin, Fred Porter, of Earlville.”