“All of them.”
“Good, enjoy yourself till about eleven o’clock. If anyone comes duck behind the box yonder, though I don’t think there’s any chance of a visit a night like this. The bosses are paying too much attention to the stock end of traffic deals to take a flight at a little disruption of the service. There’s a nine--Train orders, I’ve got to go at my routine.”
Ralph settled down as comfortably as he could in his secure hiding place. What he had just heard confirmed forever suspicions that crooked work was being done by crooked operators, and that this fellow Grizzly was one of them.
He listened to the monotonous grind out of the operator: “O.S. O.S. X.N. No. 21 a. 7:39, d. 7:41,” and knew that the Limited Mail had reached Tipton, and had gone on. The night schedule for the Mountain Division west ran the wires, then miscellaneous messages. All this was like reading a book to Ralph, while his mind formed a mental map, a picture of conditions all along the line.
It grew dreadfully monotonous by nine o’clock, however. Grizzly grumbled while getting a heap of work out of the way, Mason went to sleep and snored in his chair by the stove. A sudden diversion, however, aroused him. There was the sound of the lower outside door slamming shut. Ralph could look down at the stairway. Someone had appeared ascending it. Grizzly heard the footsteps, warning him of an intruder, and rushed at Mason shaking him vigorously with the sharp mandate:
“Bolt!”
A minute later, peering within the operating room, Ralph saw the intruder enter. Mason had got to cover and Grizzly back to his instrument. The intruder suggested some half tipsy ranchman, who staggered into the room shaking the snow from his garments.
“Hi, there, young man,” he hailed familiarly to Grizzly. “I want to send a message to Wayne.”
“Sorry, but it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” growled the intruder, looking skeptical and ugly.