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.

In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the affirmative.

"Actooal, real, male operator?"

The cl.u.s.ter of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.

"But y' don't play kiards, do you?" Muskoka asked incredulously. "Now I bet you don't. Or smoke? Or chew? Or any of them wicked--"

"Here are some cigarettes the other man left." Hopefully the boy extended the package--to have it s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and the box flipped ceilingward.

In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied Wilson's new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka's long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cl.u.s.ter of faces withdrew; the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.

"There--all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile," said Muskoka. "An' don't mention it."

"Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears." The boy shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman's pistol was out.

"Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!" he commanded.

Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.

"There," he announced, returning it, "much better. That's Bonepile fashion. Put it on."

Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.

"Now," proceeded Muskoka, "that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I think it'd look better inside-out. Try it."

Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway--in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers rolled to his knees--a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.

In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full, the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting of Wilson that he wave his hat and give "three cheers for the citizens of Bonepile," they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.

Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.

"Yes, sir; I'll wager they sent them down here to do this," he said aloud.

Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. "I'll stick it out here for two weeks--if they lynch me!" declared the "dude" grimly.

It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard train.

On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. "Why, it's the night of Dan Haggerty's dance," he pointed out indignantly. "Doesn't the superintendent know that?"

"The superintendent didn't--and didn't care," was the response to the wired protest. "The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an old understanding."

Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain, and stormed out the door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Bar-O ranch.

Half an hour later Muskoka Jones appeared.

"Good evening. I'm sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir,"

apologized Wilson.