Ralph of the Roundhouse: or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man

The air was close and unwholesome, despite the orifice the baseball had made. A broken skylight topped the center of the room, and a rain of the previous night had dripped down unimpeded and soaked the flooring.

"The ball must be here somewhere," mused Ralph. "There it is, but-"

As he spied the ball about the center of the room, Ralph discerned something else that sent a quick wave of concern across his nerves.

He stood silent and spellbound.

Upon the floor was a human being, so grimly stark and white, that death was instantly suggested to Ralph's mind.

His eyes, becoming accustomed to the half-veiled light filtered through the dirt-crusted panes of the skylight, made out that the figure on the floor was that of a boy.

As he riveted his glance, Ralph further discovered that it was the same boy he had met at the depot the morning previous-the mysterious "dead-head" under the trucks of the 10.15 train.

He lay upon the rough boards face upwards, his limbs stretched out naturally, but stiff and useless-looking.

The rain had soaked his garments, and he must have lain there at least since last midnight. Ralph was shocked and uncertain. Then an abrupt thought made him tremble and fear.

The ball lay by the boy's side. Right above one temple was the dark circular outline of a depression.

It flashed like lightning through Ralph's mind that the stranger had been struck by the ball.

The theory forced itself upon him that in hiding from the pursuing depot watchman, the stranger had sought refuge in the factory.

He might have quite naturally needed a rest after his long and torturing ride on truck and crossbar-he must have been in this room when Ralph had swung the bat that had sent the baseball hurtling through the window with the force of a cannon shot.

"It is true-it is true!" breathed Ralph in a ghastly whisper, as the full consequence of his innocent act burst upon his mind.

He had to hold to a post to support himself, swaying there and looking down at the cold, mute face, sick at heart, and his brain clouded with dread.

It must have been a full five minutes before he pulled himself together, and tried to divest himself of the unnatural horror that palsied his energies.

He finally braced his nerves, and, advancing, knelt beside the prostrate boy.

Ralph placed his trembling hand inside the open coat, and let it rest over the heart. His own throbbed loud and strong with hope and relief, as under his finger tips there was a faint, faint fluttering.

"He is alive-thank heaven for that!" cried Ralph fervently.

He ran to the window. Through the broken pane he could view the baseball grounds and the clubhouse beyond.

Will Cheever was sitting outside of the house, and at a little distance another member of the Criterions was exercising with a pair of Indian clubs.

Ralph tried to lift the lower sash, but it would not budge.

He ripped out of place the loose side piece, and removed the sash complete.

"Will-boys!" he shouted loudly, "come-come quick!"

CHAPTER IX-AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

Ralph soon drew the attention of his friends, and in a few minutes Will Cheever and his companion had made their way into the old factory.

Both looked startled as they entered the room, and serious and anxious as Ralph hurriedly told of his discovery and theory.

"It looks as if you were right, Ralph," said Will as he looked closely at the silent form on the floor.

"Poor fellow!" commented Will's companion. "He must have been lying here all alone-all through that storm, too-since yesterday afternoon."

"He isn't dead," announced Will, but still in an awed tone. "What are you going to do, Ralph?"

"We must get him out of here," answered Ralph. "If one of you could bring the cot over from the clubhouse, we will carry him there."

Will sped away on the mission indicated. When he returned, they prepared to use the cot as a stretcher. The strange boy moved and moaned slightly as they lifted him up, but did not open his eyes, and lay perfectly motionless as they carefully carried him down the stairs, across the ballfield, and into the clubhouse.

There was a telephone there. Ralph hurriedly called up a young physician, very friendly with the boys, and whose services they occasionally required.

He arrived in the course of the next fifteen minutes. He expressed surprise at the wet and draggled condition of his patient, felt his pulse, examined his heart, and sat back with his brows knitted in thoughtfulness.

"Who is he?" inquired the doctor.

"I don't know," answered Ralph. "He is a stranger to Stanley Junction. From his clothes, I should judge he is some poor fellow from the country districts, who has seen hard work," and Ralph told about the first sensational appearance of the stranger at the depot the morning before, and the details of his accidental discovery an hour previous in the old factory.

"Your theory is probably correct, Fairbanks," said the young physician gravely. "That blow on the head is undoubtedly the cause of his present condition, and that baseball undoubtedly struck him down. Lying neglected and insensible for twenty-four hours, and exposed to the storm, has not helped things any."

"But-is his condition dangerous?" inquired Ralph in a fluttering tone.

"It is decidedly serious," answered the doctor. "There appears to be a suspension of nerve activity, and I would say concussion of the brain. The case puzzles me, however, for the general functions are normal."

"Can't you do something to revive him?" inquired Will.

"I shall try, but I fear returning sensibility will show serious damage to the brain," said the doctor.

He opened his pocket medicine case, and selecting a little phial, prepared a few drops of its contents with water, and hypodermically injected this into the patient's arm.

In a few minutes the watchers observed a warm, healthy flush spread over the white face and limp hands of the recumbent boy. His muscles twitched. He moved, sighed, and became inert again, but seemed now rather in a deep, natural sleep than in a comatose condition.

The doctor watched his patient silently, seemingly satisfied with the effects of his ministrations.

After a while he took up another phial, held back one eyelid of the sleeper with forefinger and thumb, and let a few drops enter the eye of the sleeper.

The patient shot up one hand as if a hot cinder had struck his eyeball. He rubbed the afflicted optic, gasped, squirmed, and came half-upright en one arm. Both eyes opened, one blinking as though smarting with pain.

He wavered so weakly that Ralph braced an arm behind to support him.

"Steady now!" said the doctor, touching his patient with a prodding finger to attract his attention. "Who are you, my friend?"

The boy stared blankly at him as he caught the sound of his voice, and then at the three boys. He did not smile, and there was a peculiarly vacant expression on his face.

Then he moved his lips as if his throat was parched and stiff, and said huskily:

"Hungry."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, puzzled and amused. Ralph himself half-smiled. The demand was so distinctively human it cheered him.

The patient kept looking around as if expecting food to be brought to him. The young physician studied him silently. Then he projected half a dozen quick, sharp questions. His patient did not even appear to hear him. He looked reproachfully about him, and again spoke:

"Fried perch would be pretty good!"

"He must be about half-starved, poor fellow!" observed Will. "Doctor, he acts all right, only desperately hungry. Maybe a good square meal will fix him out all right?"

The doctor moved towards the door, and beckoned Ralph there.

"Fairbanks," he said, "this is a serious matter-no, no, I don't mean the fact that the baseball did the damage," he explained hurriedly, as he saw Ralph's face grow pale and troubled. "That was an accident, and something you could not foresee. I mean that this poor fellow is, for the present at least, helpless as a child."

"Doctor," quavered Ralph, "you don't mean his mind is gone."

"I fear it is."

"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" pleaded Ralph, falling against the door post and covering his face with his hands.

He was genuinely distressed. All the brightness of his good luck and prospects seemed dashed out. He could not divest his mind of a certain responsibility for the condition of the poor fellow on the cot, whose usefulness in life had been cut short by an accidental "lost ball."

"Don't be overcome-it isn't like you, Fairbanks," chided the doctor gently. "I know you feel badly-we all do. Let us get at the practical end of this business without delay. We had better get the patient removed to the hospital, first thing."

"No!" interrupted Ralph quickly, "not that, doctor-that is, anyway not yet."

"He needs skillful attention."

"He's needing some hash just now!" put in Will Cheever, approaching, his face, despite himself, on a grin. "Hear him!"

The stranger was certainly sticking to his point. "Hash with lots of onions in it!" they heard him call out.

"Will it hurt him to eat, doctor?" inquired Ralph.

"Not a bit of it. In fact, except to feed him and watch, I don't see that he needs anything. You can't splint a brain shock as you can a broken finger, or poultice a skull depression as you would a bruise. There's simply something mental gone out of the boy's life that science cannot put in again. There is this hope, though: that when the physical shock has fully passed, something may develop for the better."

"You mean to-day, to-morrow-"

"Oh, no-weeks, maybe months."

Ralph looked disheartened, but the next moment his face took upon it a look of resolution always adopted when he fully made up his mind to anything.

"Very well," he said, "he must be taken to our house."

With the doctor Ralph was a rare favorite, and his face showed that he read and appreciated the kindly spirit that prompted the young railroader's action. He placed his hand in a friendly way on his shoulder.

"Fairbanks," he said, "you're a good kind, and do credit to yourself, but I fear you are in no shape to take such a burden on your young shoulders."

"It is my burden," said Ralph firmly, "whose else's? Why, doctor! if I let that poor fellow go to the hospital, among utter strangers, handed down the line you don't know where-poorhouse, asylum, and pauper's grave maybe, it would haunt me! No, I feel I am responsible for his condition, and I intend to take care of him, at least until something better for him turns up. Help me, boys."

"I'll drop in to see him again, at your house," said the doctor. "I don't think he will make you any trouble in the way of violence, or that, but you had better keep a constant eye on him."

Ralph thought a good deal on the way to the cottage. He felt that he was doing the right thing, and knew that his mother would not demur to the arrangements he had formulated.

Mrs. Fairbanks not only did not demur, but when she was made aware of the particulars, sustained Ralph in his resolution.

"Poor fellow!" she said sympathetically. "The first thing he needs is a warm bath, and we might find some dry clothes for him, Ralph."

The widow bustled about to do her share in making the unexpected guest comfortable. Will Cheever and his companion felt in duty bound to lend a helping hand to Ralph.

They had put the cot in the middle of the kitchen, and quiet now, but with wide-open eyes, its occupant watched them as they hurriedly got out a tub and put some water to heat on the cook stove.

"Swim," said the stranger, only once, and was content thereafter to watch operations silently.

"He's got dandy muscles-built like a giant!" commented Will, as half an hour later they carried the boy into the neat, cool sitting room, and lodged him among cushions in an easy-chair.

Meantime, Mrs. Fairbanks had not been idle. She had prepared an appetizing lunch. The stranger looked supremely happy as Ralph appeared with a tray of viands. He ate with the zest of a growing, healthy boy, and when he had ended sank back among the cushions and fell into a calm, profound sleep.

"Ralph Fairbanks, you're a brick!" said Will. "He don't look much like the half-drowned, half-starved rat he was when you picked him up."

"Knocked him down, you mean!" said Ralph, with a sigh. "Well, mother, we'll do what we can for him."

"We will do for him just what I pray some one might do for my boy, should such misfortune ever become his lot," said the widow tremulously. "He looks like a hard-working, honest boy, I only hope he may come out of his daze in time. If not, we will do our duty-what we might think a burden may be a blessing in disguise."

"You're always 'casting bread on the waters,' Mrs. Fairbanks!" declared Will, in his crisp, offhand way.

To return after many days-light-headed, light-hearted Will Cheever! There are incidents in every boy's life which are the connecting links with all the unknown future, and for Ralph Fairbanks, although he little dreamed it, this was one of them.

CHAPTER X-THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

Will and his friend offered to attend to the broken window in the old factory for Ralph, and the latter was glad to accept the tendered service.

He gave them the price of glass and putty, and a blunt case knife, told them they would find his rule under the window, and as they departed felt assured they would attend to the matter with promptness and dispatch.

Ralph had something on his mind that he felt he could best carry out alone, and after their departure he left his mother quietly sewing in her rocking chair to watch their placidly slumbering guest.

"The boy is a stranger here, of course," Ralph ruminated. "Where did he come from? I hope I will find something among his belongings that will tell."

They were poor belongings, and now hung across a clothes line in the back yard, drying in the warm sunshine.

The coat and trousers were of coarse material, clumsily patched here and there as if by a novice, and Ralph decided did not bear that certain unmistakable trace that tells of home or motherly care.

In the trousers pocket Ralph found a coil of string, a blunt bladed pocket knife, and a hunk of linen thread with a couple of needles stuck in it-this was all.

The coat contained not a single clew as to the identity of the stranger, not a hint of his regular place of residence, whence he had come or whither he was going.

It held but one object-a letter which the boy when pursued by the depot guardians had shown to Ralph the morning previous, and which at that time with considerable astonishment Ralph had observed bore the superscription: "Mr. John Fairbanks."

He had thought of the letter and wondered at its existence, the possible sender, the singular messenger, a score of times since he had attempted to take it from the dead-head passenger of the 10.15.

Now he held it in his grasp, but Ralph handled it gingerly. The envelope was soaking wet, just as was the coat and the pocket he had taken it from. As he removed it from its resting place he observed that the poor ink of the superscription had run, and the letters of the address were faded and fast disappearing.

To open it with any hope of removing its contents intact in its present condition was clearly impossible. Ralph held it carefully against the sunlight. Its envelope was thin, and he saw dark patches and blurs inside, indicating that the writing there had run also.

"I had better let it dry before I attempt to open it," decided Ralph, and he placed it on a smooth board near the well in the full focus of the bright sunshine.

A good deal hinged on that letter, he told himself. It would at all events settle the identity of his dead father's correspondent, again it would divulge who it was that had sent the letter and the messenger, and thus the unfortunate's friends could be found. It would take a little time to dry out the soggy envelope, and Ralph paced about the garden paths, whistling softly to himself and thinking hard over the queer happenings of the past twenty-four hours.

As he passed the window of the little sitting room, he tiptoed the gravel path up to it and glanced in.

His mother still sat in the rocker, but she had fallen into a slight doze, and her sewing lay idle in her lap. Ralph, transferring his gaze to the armchair where they had so comfortably bestowed the invalid, fairly started with astonishment.

"Why, he isn't there!" breathed Ralph in some alarm, and ran around to the entrance by the kitchen door.

At its threshold Ralph paused, enchained by the unexpected picture there disclosed to his view.

The injured boy stood at the sink. He had found and tied about his waist a work apron belonging to Mrs. Fairbanks. Before him was the dishpan half-full of water, and he had washed and wiped neatly and quickly the dishes from the tray.

He arranged the various articles in their respective drawers and shelves, stood back viewing them with satisfaction, removed the apron, carefully hung it up, and went to the open back door leading into the wood shed.

Ralph's alarm for fear that his guest had wandered off or might do himself a mischief, gave place to pleased interest.

It looked as if the strange boy had been used to some methodical features of domestic life, and habit was fitting him readily and comfortably into the groove in which he found himself.

Ralph decided that he would not startle or disturb the stranger, but would watch to see what he did next.

The boy glanced towards the wood box behind the cook stove. In the hurry of the past twenty-four hours Ralph had not found time to keep it as well filled as usual.

His guest evidently observed this, went into the wood shed, seated himself on the chopping log, and seizing the short handled ax there, began chopping the sawed lengths piled near at hand with a pleased, hearty good will.

Mrs. Fairbanks, disturbed by the sound of chopping, had awakened, and with some trepidation came hurrying from the sitting room, anxiously seeking to learn what had become of their guest.

Ralph motioned her to silence, his finger on his lip, and pointed significantly through the open rear doorway.

A pathetic sympathy crossed the widow's face and the tears came into her eyes. Ralph left her to keep an unobtrusive watch on their guest, and returning to the well, found the envelope he had left there pretty well dried out.

He carefully removed the envelope, and placed it in his pocket. Then he as carefully unfolded the sheet within.

An expression of dismay crossed his face. The inside screed had not been written in ink, but with a soft purple lead pencil. This the rain had affected even more than it had the envelope in which it had been enclosed.

At first sight the missive was an indecipherable blur, but scanning it more closely, Ralph gained some faint hope that he might make out at least a part of its contents.

He had a magnifying glass in his workroom in the attic, and he went there for it. For nearly an hour Ralph pored over the sheet of paper which he held in his hand.

His face was a study as he came downstairs again, and sought his mother.

She sat near the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, where she could keep sight of their guest.

The invalid was seated on the door step of the wood shed shelling a pan of peas, as happy and contented a mortal as one would see in a day's journey.

"He is a good boy," said the widow softly to Ralph, "and winsome with his gentle, easy ways. He seems to delight in occupation. What is it, Ralph?" she added, as she noted the serious, preoccupied look on her son's face.

"It is about the letter, mother," explained Ralph. "I told you partly about it. It was certainly directed to father, and some one employed or sent this boy to deliver it."

"Who was it, Ralph?" inquired Mrs. Fairbanks.

"That I can not tell."

"Was it not signed?"

"It was once, but the upper fold and the lower fold of the sheet are a perfect blur. I have been able to make out a few words here and there in the center portion, but they tell nothing coherently."

Mrs. Fairbanks looked disappointed.

"That is unfortunate, Ralph," she said. "I hoped it would give some token of this boy's home or friends. But probably, when he does not return, and no answer comes to that letter, the writer will send another letter by mail."

"The boy may have been only incidentally employed to deliver it," suggested Ralph, "and not particularly known to the sender at all."

"I can not imagine who would be writing to your dead father," said Mrs. Fairbanks thoughtfully. "It can scarcely be of much importance."

"Mother," said Ralph, with an emphasis that impressed the widow, "I am satisfied this letter was of unusual importance-so much so that a special messenger was employed, and that is what puzzles me. A line in it was plainly 'your railroad bonds,' another as plainly refers to 'the mortgage,' the last word heads like 'Farewell,' and there is something that looks very much like: 'to get even with that old schemer, Gasper Farrington.'"

The widow started violently.

"Why, Ralph!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, mother. We may never know more than this. It is all a strange proceeding, but if that poor fellow out yonder could tell all he knows, I believe it would surprise and enlighten us very much, and in a way greatly for our benefit."

"Then we must wait with patience, and hope with courage," said Mrs. Fairbanks calmly.

Ralph felt all that he said. He could not get the letter out of his mind that evening.

They fitted up a little spare room off the dining room for their guest. He went quietly to bed when they led him there, after enjoying a good, supper, never speaking a word, never smiling, but with a pleased nod betokening that he appreciated every little kindness they showed him.

The next morning Ralph Fairbanks went to work at the roundhouse.

CHAPTER XI-ON DUTY

Ralph cut across lots on his way to the roundhouse. He was not one whit ashamed to be seen wearing a working cap and carrying a dinner pail and the bundle under his arm, but cap, pail and overalls were distressingly new and conspicuous, and he was something like a boy in his first Sunday suit and wondering if it fitted right, and how the public took it.

It was too early to meet any of his school friends, but crossing a street to take the tracks he was hailed volubly.

Ralph did not halt. His challenger was Grif Farrington, his arm linked in that of a chum whom Ralph did not know, both smoking cigarettes, and both showing the rollicking mood of young would-be sports who wished it to be believed they had been making a night of it, and thinking it smart.

"What's the uniform, Fairbanks?" cried Grif, affecting a critical stare-"going fishing? Is that a bait box?"

"Not a bit of it. It's my dinner pail, and I'm going to work, at the roundhouse."

"Chump!"

"Oh, I guess not."

"Double-distilled! Make more money going on the circuit with the club. Personally guarantee you ten dollars a week. Got scads of money, me and the old man. Sorry," commented Grif in a solemn manner, as Ralph continued on his way unheeding. "Poor, but knows how to bat. Pity to see a fellow go wrong that way, eh?" he asked his companion.

Ralph laughed to himself, and braced up proudly. Between idle, dissolute Grif Farrington and himself he could see no room for comparison.

Some sleepy loungers were in the dog house, and a fireman was running his engine to its stall. Ralph went over to the lame helper he had seen the day previous.

"I'm to begin work here to-day, I was told," he said. "Can you start me in?"

"I'm not the boss."

"I know that, but couldn't you show me the ropes before the others come?"

"Why, there's an empty locker for your traps," said the man. "When the foreman comes, he'll tell you what your duties are."

"No harm putting in the time usefully, I suppose?" insinuated Ralph.

"I suppose not," answered the taciturn helper. He seemed a sickly, spiritless creature, whom misfortune or a naturally crabbed temper had warped clear out of gear.

Ralph stowed his dinner pail in the locker, slipped on overalls and jumper and an old pair of shoes, and placed the fingerless gloves he had prepared in a convenient pocket.