Part 6 (2/2)
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.]
<script>