He arranged the various articles in their respective drawers and shelves, stood back viewing them with satisfaction, removed the ap.r.o.n, 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 un.o.btrusive 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 gla.s.s 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 sh.e.l.ling 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.