Part 32 (1/2)
Everybody was asking questions or explaining, as the depot master and his companion edged their way to the rails.
Ralph had a full view now of the man he knew to be Bardon, the inspector.
His first impression was a vivid one. He saw nothing in the coa.r.s.e, sensual lips and s.h.i.+fty, sneering eye of the man to commend him for either humanity or ability.
”What's the trouble here?” questioned Bardon, with the air of a person owning everything in sight, and calling down the humble myrmidons who had dared to interfere with the smooth workings of an immaculate railway system.
”You ought to be able to see,” growled the freight engineer bluntly.
The inspector frowned at this free-and-easy, offhand offense to his dignity and importance.
”I'm Bardon,” he said, as if the mention of that name would suffice to bring the stalwart engineer to the dust.
”I know you are,” said the latter indifferently. ”Cut off the two last cars,” he ordered to his brakeman, turning his back on Bardon and starting back for his engine to pull out.
”Hold on,” ordered the inspector.
The engineer halted with a sullen, disrespectful face.
”Well?” he projected.
”Who's to blame in this smash up?”
”Tain't me, that's dead sure,” retorted the engineer, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, ”and we'll leave it to the yardmaster to find out.”
”_I_ want to find out,” spoke Bardon incisively--”I am here to do just this kind of thing. Can't you read a signal right?” he demanded of the brakeman.
The latter smiled a lazy smile, lurched amusedly from side to side, took a chew of tobacco, and counter-questioned:
”Can't you?”
Mr. Bardon, inspector, was getting scant courtesy shown him all around, and his eyes flashed. He deigned to glance at the first switch. It was set wrong, he could detect that at a glance.
”How's this?” he called to the one-armed switchman sharply. ”You're responsible here.”
”I reckon not, cap'n,” answered the man lightly. ”The switch is set on rule. I got no signal to change it.”
”But the indicator's wrong?”
”That's the repair gang's business--and the wind. The Great Northern don't own the wind, so I reckon it will have to pocket the loss gracefully.”
Bardon bit his lips.
”We've saved the junkmen a job as it is,” said the freight engineer.
”The switch was set for track C. You'd have had a pretty bill if you'd smashed that twenty-thousand dollar show car yonder.”
”That's right--the switch was C open,” declared the switchman.
”Then who changed it?” demanded Bardon, scenting a chance yet to exploit his meddling, nosing qualifications.
Ralph hesitated. He doubted if Bardon was the proper party to whom to report. He, however, simplified the situation by saying: