"Eh? Where does Bartley come in?"

"He don't come in," replied Ralph definitely.

"Your name Bartley?" inquired Ralph, as the engineer and the conductor came up to the locomotive.

"That's me," smartly responded the man with a wondering look at Ralph.

"Well, you are relieved from duty on this special trip," advised Ralph.

"Hey--who says so?"

"The general superintendent. Is that right, operator?"

The towerman nodded, beckoned Bartley aside and made some explanations to him. His auditor looked sullen and ugly. Ralph did not leave the post of duty he had a.s.sumed, meantime giving the conductor an idea of how affairs stood.

"Hold on, there," spoke Bartley in a gruff tone, as the train got ready to start out. "I've got some personal property in that cab."

"All right," nodded Ralph in quite a friendly way--"get it out."

"Bag of apples for a mate down the line," mumbled the engineer, reaching under the seat. "Bag of--thunder! they've gone."

The conductor had run to the caboose. The engineer drew back from the empty void under the seat in a puzzled, baffled way. Ralph beckoned to the operator.

"Watch that man," he ordered in a quick whisper. "If he tries to send any messages ahead advise the operator to report instantly to headquarters."

Then Ralph opened the throttle and sent the test special on her dubious way, leaving the discomfited Bartley glaring after him in baffled suspicion and distrust.

CHAPTER XXIX

"CRACK THE WHIP!"

"What's up--something?" declared the fireman of the special as the train cleared the yards at Portland.

"Yes," replied Ralph, watching out for signals and testing gauges and airbrakes. "This is up: What kind of a man is your engineer, Bartley?"

"He's not my engineer at all," retorted the fireman rather testily, "and I was sorry when I was listed with him. He's a bossing, quarrelsome sort of a fellow. He don't train with my crowd, and I'm glad you're on in his place. You're Fairbanks, eh? Well, I've heard of you."

"Nothing bad, I hope," challenged Ralph with a smile.

"Almost too good to last."

"Oh, by the way, I want to say to you that this trip is going to give you a great chance."

"For what?" inquired the fireman, big eyed and interested.

"To make a record."

"It isn't much of a run."

"Yes, it is, and a great deal depends on it. The general superintendent is watching this run. It means a record and money for the Great Northern. We may strike trouble. Everything depends on landing these cars in the yards at Stanley Junction by eleven p. m. to-night."

"I'm with you, Mr. Fairbanks," said the fireman earnestly. "I don't know all you do, but I'll follow orders to a T."

"That's the ticket. Look here."

They were running easily over an air line, and Ralph had an opportunity to reach under the fireman's seat and pull into view the bag he had stored there.

"I say, who put that there?" demanded the fireman with a stare.

"I did. It belonged to Bartley. It's the 'personal property' he was so anxiously searching for."

Both looked into the bag. Ralph reached in and drew out a white object about the size of an egg. There were a good many others of these in the bag. It crisped in his fingers, as he turned it over inspecting it. He smelled of it, tasted of it, and a queer looking smile hovered over his lips.

"Do you know what it is?" he inquired.

The fireman fumbled it gingerly and then shook his head in the negative.

"It's soda--caustic soda," said Ralph. "There's enough more in there to start a laundry. This black stuff," and he drew out one of a hundred dark colored cubes--"it tastes like salt. Ah, I think I guess it out.

Witness this," he continued to the fireman, "Bartley sneaked that bag aboard. I wish to keep it for evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Trickery, conspiracy. To my way of thinking he intended using that soda to churn the water in the boiler, and half a dozen of those salt bricks would smother the best fire you ever built."

"Thunder!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the fireman excitedly, "there is something up, indeed."

"So much so, that we want to keep our eyes wide open every foot of the way," said Ralph emphatically. "In my opinion Bartley was bribed to cripple this locomotive so she couldn't pull through on time."

"The villain!" commented the fireman.

"Now all we've got to do is to beat that game," resumed Ralph, "and I'll guarantee you honorable mention and a raise if you help me."

"Anybody would help you," declared the fireman enthusiastically, gratified at the confidence reposed on him--"they don't raise such engineers as you every day."

"I am a dispatcher at present," said Ralph, "and a trifle rusty at the old trade, I find."

Rusty or not, Ralph now entered heartily into the zest of pushing the special through. Twenty miles on the main, to shorten the route a run was started over the Itica branch, forty miles in length. The special had full swing for the east, as headquarters was keeping tab of the train every minute.

There was a stop at Laketon, thirty miles farther on. It came on signal, and Ralph expected something had happened. He read twice the flimsy handed to him by the operator.

It was from the dispatcher at Portland, but via Glidden at headquarters.

It advised Ralph that the treacherous engineer, Bartley, had sent a cypher dispatch to some one at Itica.

Itica was ten miles ahead. Here the Great Northern branch tracks crossed those of the rival road on the signal interlocking system.