“That’s my 30,” announced the operator, shutting off his key and arising to drop work for the night.
Ralph paid no attention to him. The young railroader was conscious of a decidedly painful impression. He had heard nothing of Glen Palmer or his grandfather since the night the jumbled up “Look out for the pay car” telegram had arrived. Ralph, however, had frequently thought of the lad whom he had started in at the chicken farm.
Young Palmer had been disappointing. All along the line Ralph had to admit this. Once in a while, however, when he realized the lonely bedouin-like existence of Glen, certain pity and indulgence were evoked. Now, however, a grave, hurt look came into Ralph’s eyes.
“Too bad,” he said, softly and sorrowfully. “I fancy Bob Adair was right.”
The road detective had forcibly expressed the opinion that Glen Palmer had been a jail bird. More than that, Adair believed him to be in league with the conspirators. Ralph thought not. Glen had sent him two warning messages under extraordinary circumstances. The press telegram just over the wires, however, certainly coincided with the charges of Ike Slump that Glen was a criminal.
It was one of a batch of items that had come over the commercial line that evening. The message was dated at a small interior city, Fordham, and it read:
“The system adopted by the Bon Ton department store here to discourage theft, bore practical results today, and their publicly offered reward of ten dollars was claimed by an amateur detective. The latter discovered a boy in the act of removing a valuable ring from a display tray, and informed on him. The thief was searched and the stolen article found secreted on his person. He unblushingly admitted his guilt. The thief gave the name of Sam Jones, but some papers found on him disclosed his correct name, which is Glen Palmer. He was brought before Justice Davis, who sentenced him promptly to sixty days in the county workhouse.”
“What’s hitting you so glum, Fairbanks?” inquired Glidden, as Ralph kept poring over the telegram in a depressed way.
“A friend of mine gone wrong,” replied Ralph simply.
He was glad that he was not called on for any further explanation. Just then Tipton broke in with a crisp short wire--No. 83 had just passed, only fifteen minutes late.