"Clerk nothing! Don't you think I know a superintendent when I see one?

Out with those yellowbacks you drew yesterday, or by gum--" The pistol was again thrust under his nose, and Elder blanched.

"But I'm not the superintendent! Honestly I'm not!" he protested. "I'm only a clerk. And I only get--only get--"

"Yes, come on! You only get?" thundered the tramp.

"I only get thirty-five dollars a month," whispered the clerk.

"Only thirty-five bones a month? Well, by gum!" The tramp looked the shrinking clerk over with unspeakable contempt. "Why, there ain't a Dago shoveler in the outfit doesn't get more than that!

"Very well, then," he conceded loftily. "You can keep your coppers. I never let it be said I rob the poor.

"But I tell you what I will have," he went on suddenly. "Them clothes are sure too good for any man not getting as much money as a Dago. These,"

indicating his own tattered and grimy garments, "are more in your line.

Come on! Peel off!"

The trimly-dressed clerk stared aghast.

"You surely--don't mean--"

"I surely DO mean! _Sh.e.l.l off!_" roared the tramp.

And utterly beyond belief as it was, ten minutes later Elder was surveying himself in the unspeakable rags of the hobo, and the latter, before him, was ridiculously attired in his own natty, smaller garments.

Having then removed Elder's fancy Stetson and clamped his own greasy and battered christy down to the clerk's ears, the tramp had one further humiliation. Pointing to a clump of black, oily waste hanging from a nearby axle-box, he ordered, "Pull out a bunch of that!"

Slowly, wondering, Elder did so.

"No one would believe you were a genuine hobo with such a scandalously clean face as that. Rub the waste over it," commanded the tramp.

This was too much. Blindly Elder turned to escape. Instantly both pistols were once more at his head. And in final abject surrender he slowly rubbed the black car-grease upon his cheeks.

"Very good. A little on the forehead now," directed the relentless tramp.

"Now the ears.

"_Go on!_... Very good.

"Now you may go."

Frantically Elder spun about and dove between the cars. As he did so, behind him roared out six quick pistol shots.

Blindly he scrambled under the next train. Shouts rose ahead of him.

"Help, help!" he cried. "Tramps! Tramps! Help!"

From the boarding-cars broke out a hubbub of excitement. "Tramps!

Tramps!" he shrilled, scuttling beneath the third train.

On the other side he suddenly pulled up. He had forgotten his outlandish appearance! What if--

Men sprang into view from between the cars farther down. "Here he is!"

they shouted, instantly heading for him.

"It's me! Elder!" cried the apparent tramp.

More men appeared. "The tramp who burned the car!" rose the cry. "Lynch him! Lynch him!"

Elder dove back the way he had come. The trackmen raced for the nearest openings, and dove after.

As Elder dashed for the next train several of his pursuers sprang into view but a car-length away. "Head him off! Don't let him get away!" they shouted.

Madly Elder rushed on, darted beneath the last string of flats, and on out into the open.

A figure was approaching on horseback. He recognized Superintendent Finnan. Uttering a cry of hope, he headed for him. At sight of the desperately running figure, with its grimy face and flapping rags, the superintendent pulled up in sheer amazement. When the stream of men broke through the train and poured after, yelping like a pack of hounds, he urged his horse forward.

"Catch him! Stop him!" shouted the pursuers.

"It's me! Elder!" screamed the clerk. "Elder! Elder!"

A big Irishman, a pick-handle in his hand, was gaining on the supposed tramp at every bound, roaring, "I'll fix ye! I'll fix ye, ye vermin!"

With a last desperate sprint the flying clerk reached the horse and threw himself at the superintendent's stirrups. "It's Elder, Mr. Finnan!" he gasped. "Elder! Elder!"

The superintendent gazed down into the blackened face an instant, then suddenly doubled up over his horse's head, rocking and shaking in a convulsion of laughter. The action saved the clerk from the Irishman. The descending pick-handle halted in mid-air, the wielder gazed open-mouthed at the convulsed official, then suddenly grasping the clerk's head, twisted it about, and staggered back, roaring and shouting at the top of his lungs. As fast as the others arrived the riot of merriment increased; and when presently the superintendent moved on toward the train, the crestfallen clerk still at his stirrup, they were the center of a hilariously howling mob.

The final blow came when Elder entered the telegraph-car. Carefully laid out in his bunk were the garments he had surrendered to the "tramp."

The incident had its final good result, however. The mangling of Elder's vanity disclosed an unsuspected streak of common-sense and manliness, and a day or so after he frankly thanked Ryan, the perpetrator of the joke, for "having put him right." And finally he became one of the most popular men on the train.

XIX

THE ENEMY'S HAND AGAIN, AND A CAPTURE

"Good morning, Ward. Any word of the progress made by the K. & Z.?"

inquired Construction Superintendent Finnan the following morning, Sunday, looking into the telegraph-car.

Alex threw down his towel and stepped to the instrument table. "Yes, sir; here's one that came late last night.

"It says they started from Red Deer yesterday morning, and made nearly three and a half miles."

The superintendent looked somewhat glum as he read the message. "That beats us by half a mile," he remarked. "If the news is reliable, that is.

They may plan to give out inflated distances, in order to discourage us.

That would be a small matter to them, after trying to burn us out."

"There has been no sign of Little Hawk yet, sir?" Alex inquired.