The building itself was small, square, and very much in need of paint. A few nearby frame buildings were in a bad state of disrepair. An old wooden water tank, about seventy yards from one side of the station house, sagged precariously. At the same distance on the other side rose another water tank. This one, painted red, was of metal and in much better condition.
Frank and Joe parked their motorcycles and went into the station. A man in his shirt sleeves and wearing a green visor was bustling about behind the ticket window.
“Are you the stationmaster?” Frank called to him.
The man came forward. “I’m Jake-stationmaster, and ticket seller, and baggage slinger, and express handler, and mail carrier, and janitor, and even rice thrower. You name it. I’m your man.”
The boys burst into laughter, then Joe said, “If there’s anybody here who can tell us what we want to know, I’m sure it’s you. But first, what do you mean you’re a rice thrower?”
The station agent guffawed. “Well, it don’t happen often, but when a bride and groom comes down here to take a train, I just go out, grab some of the rice, and throw it along with everybody else. I reckon if that’ll make ‘em happy, I want to be part of the proceedin’s.”
Again the Hardys roared with laughter. Then Frank inquired if the man had known Red Jackley.
“I sure did,” Jake replied. “Funny kind of fellow. Work like mad one minute, then loaf on the job the next. One thing about him, he never wanted nobody to give him any orders.”
“Did you know that he died recently?” Frank asked.
“No, I didn’t,” the stationmaster answered. “I’m real sorry to hear that. Jackley wasn’t a bad sort when I knew him. Just got to keepin’ the wrong kind of company, I guess.”