The Young Railroaders Part 6

"Oh say! Now I know what's the matter!" With the cry Jack sprang to his feet, broke through the circle about him, and sped back toward the store.

The flames were now bursting from the front, but with head down he ran to the iron door covering the street entrance to the cellar, and lifted it.

A thin stream of smoke arose, then disappeared as a draft toward the rear set in. With a thankful "Good!" Jack leaped into the opening.

His father, the mayor, and several others who had rushed after in consternation reached the sidewalk as Jack's head reappeared, followed by a green battery jar. Placing the jar on the ledge, he stooped, and raised another.

"What do you think you are doing?" cried his father.

"I'll explain in a minute. Take them over to the post, please." And Jack had again disappeared.

The mayor promptly caught up the two cells, but Mr. Orr as promptly dropped through the opening and followed Jack.

"What are you trying to do?" he demanded as he groped his way to the battery-shelf. "You can't do anything with the battery if you have no instrument."

"The instrument is all right, Father. The line has been 'grounded' south, that's all. If we put battery on here, we can reach some office between here and wherever the 'ground' is on."

"May it be so," said Mr. Orr fervently, but not hopefully, as they hurried with four more jars to the entrance.

When they had carried out a dozen jars Jack declared the number to be sufficient, and scrambling forth, they hastened back to the lamp-post.

Without delay Jack connected the cells in proper series, and removing the wire between the instrument and the iron post, subst.i.tuted the battery--zinc to the post, and copper to the instrument.

Then once more he caught up the severed end of the main-line wire, and touched the opposite side of the instrument.

A cry of triumph, then a mighty shout, greeted the responding click.

"But what about a key, son?" said Mr. Orr.

"This, for the moment," replied Jack, and simply resting his elbow on his knee, and tapping with the end of the wire against the bra.s.s binding-post, he began urgently calling.

"HN, HN, HN!" he clicked. "HN, HN, HV! Rus.h.!.+ Qk! HN, HN!"

"Perhaps the wire is grounded between here and Hammerton," suggested his father breathlessly.

"Anybody answer! Qk!" sent Jack. "Does anybody hear this?"

"What's the matter? This is Z."

"Got Zeisler!" shouted Jack.

The mayor stepped forward. "Send them the message," he directed, "and have them 'phone it to Hammerton."

Jack did so. And fifteen minutes later the cheering news ran quickly about the threatened town that two steam fire-engines were starting by special train from Hammerton immediately, would pick up another at Zeisler, and would be on the scene within half an hour. All of which report proved true, the engines arriving on the dot--and by daylight the last of the several different fires were under control, and the safety of the town was a.s.sured.

Needless to say, Jack's name played an important part in the dramatic newspaper accounts of the conflagration--nor to add that he was the envied hero of every other lad in town for weeks to come.

The final and particular result of the affair, however, was the offer to Jack of a good position in the large commercial telegraph office at Hammerton, which he at last induced his parents to permit him to accept.

IV

THE OTHER TINKER ALSO MAKES GOOD

One evening shortly after the beginning of the summer holidays Alex was chatting over the wire with Jack, who was now a full-fledged operator at Hammerton, when the despatching office abruptly broke in and called Bixton.

"I, I, BX," answered Alex.

"Is young Ward there?" clicked the instruments.

"This is 'young Ward.'"

"Say, youngster, would you care to do a couple of weeks' vacation relief at Hadley Corners, beginning next Monday? The man there wants to get off badly, and we have no one here we can send."

"Most certainly I would," replied Alex, promptly.

"OK then. We'll count on you. I'll send a pa.s.s down to-night," said the despatcher.

Thus it came about that the following Monday morning Alex alighted at the little crossing depot known as Hadley Corners, and for the second time found himself, if but temporarily, in full charge of a station.

Entering the little telegraph room, he announced his arrival to the despatcher at "X."

"Good," clicked the sounder. "And now, look here, Ward. Don't do any tinkering with the instruments while you are there. We don't want a repet.i.tion of the mix-up you got the wire into at BX through your joking a month or so ago."

The joke referred to was a hoax Alex had played on his father the previous First of April. Through an arrangement of wires beneath the office table, by which with his foot, unseen, he could make the instruments above click as though worked from another office, he had called his father to the wire, and posing as the despatcher, had severely reprimanded him for some imaginary mistake in a train order. It had been "all kinds of a lark," until, unfortunately, the connections became disarranged, tying up the entire eastern end of the line for half an hour.

At the recollection of the escapade Alex laughed heartily. Nevertheless he promptly replied, "OK, sir. I won't touch a thing." And the despatcher saying nothing more, he began calling Bixton.

"I'm here, Dad," he announced when his father answered; "and it's a fine little place. The woods come almost up to the back of the station, and the nearest house is a mile away. That's where I am to board. The other operator arranged it. It's going to be a regular little picnic."

"That's nice," ticked the sounder. "I thought you would like it." And then Alex again laughed as his father added, "And now, no tinkering with things, my boy! Remember!"

"OK, Dad. I won't touch a thing. Good-by."

It was the following Monday that the "all agents" message was sent over the wire announcing an unusually heavy s.h.i.+pment of gold from the Black Hill Mines, and warning station agents and operators to look out for and report any suspicious persons about their stations. But these messages, usually following hold-ups on other roads, had been intermittently sent for years, and nothing had happened on the Middle Western; and in his turn Alex gave his "OK," and thought nothing more about it.

A half hour later he sat at the open window of the telegraph room, deeply interested in the July St. Nicholas--so interested, indeed, that he did not hear soft footfalls on the station platform without. The man came quietly nearer--reached the window. Then suddenly Alex glanced up, the magazine fell to the floor, and with a loud cry he sprang to his feet.

He was gazing into the barrel of a revolver, and behind it was a black-masked face!

Hold-up men! The gold train!

Wildly Alex turned toward the telegraph-key. But the man leaned quickly forward, seized him by the shoulder, and threw him heavily back into the chair. "You move again and I'll shoot!" he said sharply, and Alex sank back helpless.

Yes; hold-up men. And he had betrayed his trust. Betrayed his trust! That thought stood out even above his terror. Oh, if he had only kept a lookout!

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE WAS GAZING INTO THE BARREL OF A REVOLVER.]