CHAPTER XIII.
THE BULLY OF THE ROUNDHOUSE.
“Will you please tell me where I can find the foreman?” asked Frank, several days later, as he entered a roundhouse of the Blue Mountain Railroad.
“Hey? The foreman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do ye want?”
“I will explain my business to him, if you will be kind enough to tell me where I may find him.”
The greasy man in greasy overalls and jumper straightened up from his position partly beneath the engine he had been wiping, and glared contemptuously at the smooth-faced, clean, well-dressed youth who had inquired for the roundhouse foreman.
The place seemed dark and dusty, and smelled of smoke and grease. All around were engines, many of them with wipers or machinists working on them. One, with steam up, was standing ready to run out upon the track. The engineer was in the cab, while the fireman, with a long brass oiler in his hand, was making sure that every bearing was properly lubricated.
The well-dressed youth had found admission to the roundhouse in some manner, but it was plain enough that he was unfamiliar there, or he would not have asked a wiper where to find the foreman.
The wiper was an ugly-looking fellow, with red hair and freckled face. He had a brawny arm and thick shoulders, and he glared at the stranger as if longing to eat him.