Part 33 (1/2)

XV

THE DUDE OPERATOR

Alex Ward, like most vigorous, manly boys of his type, had a fixed dislike for anything approaching foppishness, especially in other boys.

Consequently when on reporting at the Exeter office one evening he was introduced to Wilson Jennings, Alex treated him with but little more than necessary courtesy. For the newcomer, an operator but little older than himself, was distinctly a ”dude”--from his patent-leather shoes and polka-dotted stockings to his red-and-yellow banded white straw hat. His carefully-pressed suit was the very latest thing in light checked gray, he wore a collar which threatened to envelope his ears, and his white tie was of huge dimensions. Also he possessed the fair pink-and-white complexion of a girl.

Alex was not alone in his derisive att.i.tude toward the stranger. Shortly following the appearance of the night chief Mr. Jennings nodded everyone a good-evening, and departed, and immediately there was a general roar of laughter in the operating-room.

”Where did he fall from?” ”Whose complexion powder is he advertising?”

”Did you get onto his picture socks?” were some of the remarks bandied about.

When the chief announced that the new operator was from the east, and was being sent to the little foothills tank-station of Bonepile, there was a fresh outburst of hilarity.

”Why, that cowboy outfit near there will string him up to the tank spout,” declared the operator on whose wire Bonepile was located. ”It's the toughest proposition on the wire.”

”On the quiet, that is just why Jordan is sending him,” the night chief said. ”Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of 'finding himself,' so to speak.”

”He'll certainly 'find himself' there, then--if there's anything left to find when the ranch crew get through,” laughed the operator. ”I'd give five real dollars to see that show, and walk back.”

”At that, you _might_ have to walk back, if you wagered your money on the outcome,” responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. ”Clothes don't make a man--neither do they un-make one. The 'Dude' may surprise us yet.”

Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings' surprise when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone.

Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown ”drygoods-box” depot, the water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east the limitless stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste ”some adventure” in the great west.

However, here he was; and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his way in to the tiny operating-room, and on into the bunk-kitchen-living-room behind. For here, ”a hundred miles from anywhere,” the operator's board and lodging was provided by the railroad.

Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view.

It was the ”welcoming committee” of the Bar-O ranch, the ”outfit”

referred to by the operator at Exeter.

With a final whoop the cowmen thundered up to the station platform, and dismounted. Muskoka Jones, a huge, heavily-moustached ranchman over six feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash.

”Pardner, welcome to our city!” he shouted.

The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was a strange quiet.

The following Bar-O's faltered, and exchanged glances. Surely the Western had not at last ”fallen down” on its first obligation at Bonepile! For since the coming of the rails they had regarded the station operator as a sort of social adjunct to the ranch--the keeper of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport. And if this latest change of operators had brought them--

Muskoka spoke again, and the worst was realized.

”Well, you gal-faced little dude!”

The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka's board shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn.

Muskoka settled forward on his elbows.

”Are you a real operator?” he inquired.