“Hold on, there,” spoke Bartley in a gruff tone, as the train got ready to start out. “I’ve got some personal property in that cab.”
“All right,” nodded Ralph in quite a friendly way--“get it out.”
“Bag of apples for a mate down the line,” mumbled the engineer, reaching under the seat. “Bag of--thunder! they’ve gone.”
The conductor had run to the caboose. The engineer drew back from the empty void under the seat in a puzzled, baffled way. Ralph beckoned to the operator.
“Watch that man,” he ordered in a quick whisper. “If he tries to send any messages ahead advise the operator to report instantly to headquarters.”
Then Ralph opened the throttle and sent the test special on her dubious way, leaving the discomfited Bartley glaring after him in baffled suspicion and distrust.
[CHAPTER XXIX—“CRACK THE WHIP!”]
“What’s up--something?” declared the fireman of the special as the train cleared the yards at Portland.
“Yes,” replied Ralph, watching out for signals and testing gauges and airbrakes. “This is up: What kind of a man is your engineer, Bartley?”
“He’s not my engineer at all,” retorted the fireman rather testily, “and I was sorry when I was listed with him. He’s a bossing, quarrelsome sort of a fellow. He don’t train with my crowd, and I’m glad you’re on in his place. You’re Fairbanks, eh? Well, I’ve heard of you.”