"Now I remember distinctly that it was Jack reported the arrival of the Eastfield freight that night. She was twenty minutes late, and I recall asking if she was in sight yet, and his reply that she had just whistled.

"That means Jack was back at the station before the time at which Watts claims he met him!"

"Ward, why in the world didn't you think of this before?" the chief exclaimed. "It is the most important piece of evidence your friend could have.

"Call Eastfield right away on the long-distance, and get Orr's lawyer, and tell him."

Alex hastily did so, and a few minutes after he heard the lawyer's voice from the distant town, and quickly told his story.

To his surprise the lawyer for a moment remained silent, then said slowly, "Of course I would like to believe that. In fact it would make an invaluable piece of evidence—practically conclusive.

"But really now, how could you be sure it was Orr you heard? What possible difference can there be between the ticks made over a telegraph wire by one distant operator, and those made by another?"

"Why, all the difference in the world, sometimes, sir," declared Jack. "Any operator would tell you that. I would recognize Jack Orr's sending anywhere I heard it."

But the lawyer at the other end was still incredulous. "Well," he said at last, "if the jury was made up of telegraph operators, perhaps your claim might go. As it is, however—"

"Say, I have it!" cried Alex. "Let me give a demonstration right there in court of my ability to identify the sending of as many different operators as we can get together, including Jack Orr. Could you arrange that?"

The lawyer was interested at last. "But could you really do it? Are you really that sure?"

"I am absolutely positive," declared Alex.

"Then you come right ahead," was the decisive response. "Come down here by the first train in the morning, and bring two or three other operators, and the necessary instruments.

"And if you can prove what you claim, I'll guarantee that your friend is clear."

"Hurrah! Then he is clear!" cried Alex joyously.

Accompanied by three other operators from the Exeter office, and with a set of telegraph instruments and a convenient dry-battery, Alex reached the court-room at Eastfield at 10 o'clock the following morning.

The trial, which had attracted a crowd that packed the building to its capacity, already had neared its conclusion. Jack's demeanor, and that of his father, who was beside him, quickly informed Alex that matters were looking serious for his chum. Confidently he waited, however, and at last the court clerk arose and called his name.

The preliminary questions were passed, and Jack's attorney at once proceeded. "Now Alex," he said, "this letter here, which has been put in evidence, declares that the writer, Watts, went to Midway Junction by the Eastfield freight on the Friday night in question, and that he then met the defendant coming down to the station from his boarding-house, and gave him the watch.

"Have you anything to say to this?"

"Yes, sir. Jack Orr was at the telegraph instruments in the Midway Junction station several minutes before the Eastfield freight reached there that night. It was he who reported her coming over the wire to me at Exeter."

The lawyer for the prosecution looked up with surprise, then smiled in amusement, while Jack and his father started, and exchanged glances of new hope.

"You are positive it was the defendant you heard over the wire?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Positive, sir."

"If necessary could you give a demonstration here in court of your ability to identify the defendant's transmitting on a telegraph instrument?"

"Yes, sir, I could."

When the lawyer for the other side arose to cross-examine Alex he smiled somewhat derisively.

"You are a friend of the defendant, are you not?" he asked significantly.

"Yes, sir; and so know his sending over the wire unusually well," responded Alex, cleverly turning the point of the question.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and put the next question with sarcasm. "And, now, do you mean to stand there and tell this court that the clicks—the purely mechanical clicks—made over a telegraph wire by an operator miles away will sound different to the clicks made by any other operator?"

"I do," said Alex quietly. "And I am ready to demonstrate it."

"Oh, you are, are you? And how, pray?"

"Three other operators from the Exeter office are in the court-room, with a set of instruments and a battery. Let them place the instruments on the table down there; blindfold me, then have them and Jack Orr by turns write something on the key. I'll identify every one of them before he sends a half-dozen words."

A wave of surprise, then smiles of incredulity passed over the crowded room.

"Very well," agreed the lawyer readily. "Set up the instruments."

The three Exeter operators came forward, and the prosecutor, producing a handkerchief, himself stepped into the witness-box and proceeded to bind Alex's eyes. That done, to make doubly sure, he turned Alex face to the wall.

When the lawyer returned to the counsel-table the proceedings were momentarily interrupted by a whispered consultation with his assistant, at the end of which, while the spectators wondered, the latter hastened from the room.

Curiosity as to the junior counsel's mission was quickly forgotten, however, as the prosecutor then called Jack Orr to the table beside the telegraph instruments, and stood Jack and the three Exeter operators in a row before him.

"Now," said he in a low voice, "each of you, as I touch you, step quietly to the key, and send these words: 'Do you know who this is?'"

A moment the lawyer paused, while spectators, judge and jury waited in breathless silence, then reaching out, he lightly touched one of the Exeter men.

"Do you know who this is?" clicked the sounder.

All eyes turned toward Alex. Without a moment's hesitation he answered, "Johnson."

The operator nodded, and a flutter passed over the court-room.

"Huh! A guess," declared the prosecutor audibly, and still smiling confidently, he touched another of the Exeter operators. The instruments repeated the question.

"Bradley," said Alex promptly.

The flutter of surprise was repeated. Quickly the prosecutor made as though to touch the third Exeter man, then abruptly again touched Bradley.

"Bradley again," said Alex.

A ripple like applause swept over the crowded room. With tightening lips the prosecutor turned again toward the third Exeter operator. At the moment the door opened, and he paused as his assistant reappeared, with him two young ladies.

The newcomers were operators from the local commercial telegraph office.

At once Jack's lawyer, recognizing the prosecution's purpose, was on his feet in protest. For of course the young women were utter strangers to the blindfolded boy in the witness-stand.

The judge promptly motioned him down, however, and with a smile of anticipated triumph the prosecutor greeted the two local operators, and whispering his instructions to one of them, led her to the telegraph key.

In a silence that was painful the sounder once more rattled out its inquiry, "Do you know who this is?"

Alex started, hesitated, made as though to speak, again paused, then suddenly cried, "That's a stranger!

"And it's awfully like the light, jumpy sending of a girl!"

A spontaneous cheer broke from the excited spectators. "Silence! Silence!" shouted the judge.

It was not necessary to repeat the order, for the disconcerted prosecutor, whirling about, had grasped Jack Orr by the arm and thrust him toward the key.



The final test had come.

Jack himself realized the significance of the moment, and for an instant hesitated, trembling. Then determinedly gripping himself he reached forward, grasped the key, and sent,

"Do you know—"

"Orr! Orr! That's he!" cried Alex.

With a shout the entire court-room was on its feet, women waving their handkerchiefs and men cheering wildly again and again. And equally disregarding the etiquette of the court, Alex tore the handkerchief from his eyes, and leaping down beside Jack, fell to shaking his hand as though he would never let go, while Jack vainly sought to express himself, and to keep back the tears that came to his eyes.

Ten minutes later, with order restored, Jack was formally declared "Not guilty," and with Alex on one side and his father on the other, left the room, free and vindicated.

"Well, good-by, my lad," said Mr. Orr, as he and Alex that evening dropped Jack off their returning train at Midway Junction. "And I suppose it is unnecessary to warn you against understandings with such men as Watts in the future, no matter for what purpose."

"Hardly, Dad," responded Jack earnestly. "No more agreements of any kind for me unless they are on the levellest kind of level, no matter who they are with, or for what purpose."



XIII

PROFESSOR CLICK, MIND READER

Some months previously Alex and Jack had arranged to take their two weeks' vacation at the same time, and to spend one week at Haddowville, Jack's home, and the other at Bixton.

The long looked-for Monday had at length arrived, early that morning Jack had joined Alex at Exeter, and the two boys, aboard the Eastern Mail, were now well on their way to Haddowville.

For some minutes Alex's part in the animated conversation of the two chums had waned. Presently, plucking Jack's sleeve, he quietly directed his companion's attention to the double seat across the aisle of the car.

"Jack, watch that soldier's fingers," he said in a low voice. "What's the matter with him?"

The soldier in question, in the uniform of an infantry regular, sat facing them, beside a stout elderly gentleman. Opposite the first soldier was a second, in a similar uniform; and sharing the seat with the latter, and facing the old gentleman, was a decidedly pretty young girl.

It was the first soldier's left hand, however, which attracted the boys' particular attention. Resting in his lap, and partly concealed by a newspaper, the hand was so doubled that the thumb stood upright. And this latter member was bobbing and wagging up and down, now slowly, now quickly, in most curious fashion.

"Perhaps it's St. Vitus' dance," ventured Jack.

"But that affects the whole body, or at least the whole limb, doesn't it?"

Jack, who sat next the window, leaned slightly forward. "The other soldier is watching him," he said. "Maybe the fellow with the wiggling thumb is out of his mind, and this one is taking him somewhere. He is watching his hand."

Silently the boys continued to regard the curious proceeding.

Suddenly the thumb became quiet, there was the rattle of a paper in the hands of the second soldier, and in turn his thumb became affected with the wagging. In a moment the boys understood.

The two soldiers were army signallers, and were carrying on a silent conversation, using their thumbs as they would a flag.

Jack and Alex looked at one another and laughed softly. "We're bright, eh?" Alex remarked.

"Let us watch when the other starts again—we can't see this chap's hand well enough—and see if we can't read it," suggested Jack. "That one-flag signal system is based on the telegraph dot and dash code, you know. And it's not likely they are speaking of anything private—only amusing themselves."

The paper opposite again covered the first soldier's hand, and observing closely, after a few minutes the boys were able to interpret the strokes of the wagging thumb with ease. They corresponded precisely to the strokes of a telegraph sounder, and of course were very much slower.

"... not much. I saw her first," they read. "You have three girls at K now.... Get out. I'll tell Maggie O'Rorke, and she'll pick your eyes out.... No, sir. You can have the two old maids just back of you, and the fat party with the red hair. That's your taste anyway.... If you spoke she'd freeze you so you'd never thaw out."

The two boys exchanged glances, and chuckled in amusement.

"Say, look at the gaudy nose on that old chap across the aisle," went on the wagging thumb. "Talk about danger signals! They ought to hire him to sit on the cow-catcher foggy nights.... I wouldn't like to pay for all the paint it took to color it.... Plain whiskey, I guess. You can see what you are coming to if you don't look out.... What's the matter with that baby back there? Is the woman lynching it, or is it lynching the woman?... It's not, either. It's just like your high tenor, singing the Soldier's Farewell. Only better. More in tune.... Yes, if they knew what we'd been saying about them there'd be a riot. I wouldn't give much for your hair when the two old ladies behind got through with it."

At this point, unable to resist the temptation, Alex nudged Jack, drew a pencil from his pocket, and slyly tapped on the metal of the seat-arm the two letters of the telegraph laugh, "Hi!"

The soldier opposite started, looked quickly over, caught the two boys' twinkling eyes, and coloring, laughed heartily. Promptly then he raised his thumb, and wagged, "You young rascals! I'll have you in the guard-house for stealing military information. Who are you?"

Alex replied, using his thumb as he had seen the soldier do; and the animated exchange of signals which followed continued until a whistle from the engine announced a stop, and the soldier wagged, "We get off here. Good-by."

"Glad to have met you," he said, smiling, as he and his companion passed them.

"Glad to have met you," responded the boys heartily. "And to have got onto the signalling. It may come in useful some day," Alex added. "Good day."

"That's just what I was thinking myself, Al," declared Jack. "We must practice it."

Following the disappearance of the out-going passengers, a group of newcomers appeared at the farther car door.

"Here comes someone I know," Jack observed. "The big man in front—Burke, a real estate agent."

The tall, heavy-featured man passed them and took the seat immediately behind.

"He didn't speak to you," commented Alex.

"I'm glad he didn't. He's no friend; just knew him, I meant," responded Jack. "He is a proper shark, they say. I know he practically did a widow out of a bit of property just back of ours.

"And here is another, same business, from the next town. And not much better," Jack went on, as a short, bustling, sharp-featured man appeared.

The man behind them stood up and called, "Hi, there, Mitchell! Here!" The newcomer waved his hand, came forward quickly, and also dropped into the seat at the rear of the two boys.

"Nice pair of hawks," said Jack. "I'll bet they are hatching up something with a shady side to it. I'd be tempted to listen if I could."

As the train was again under way, Jack had no opportunity of overhearing what was being said behind them. A few miles farther, however, they came once more to a stop, and almost immediately he pricked up his ears and nudged Alex.

"... don't believe the ignorant dolt knows the real value of butter and eggs." It was the deep voice of the bigger man, Burke. "He's one of those queer ducks, without any friends. Lives there all by himself, doesn't read the papers, and only comes to town about once a month. No; there's not one chance in ten of his waking up and getting onto it."

"You always were a lucky dog," declared the other. "If you land it you ought to clear fifty thousand inside of five years."

"A hundred. I intend holding for a cold hundred thousand. There has been talk of the town building a steam plant already; but water is of course away ahead of that, and they are sure to swing to it. And this fall is the only one within ten miles of Haddowville."

"Didn't I tell you!" exclaimed Jack in a whisper. "Doing somebody out of something, whatever it is."

"You might build the plant yourself, and hold the town up for whatever you wished," the second speaker went on.

"Yes, I could. But I prefer the ready cash. That has always been my plan of doing business. No; I figure on disposing of the farm just as it stands, either to the town, or a corporation, for an even hundred thousand."

"Does that give you a clue, Jack?" Alex asked.

Jack shook his head. At the next remark, however, he sharply gripped Alex's arm.

"What fall has the stream there?"

"Forty feet, and the lake back of it is nearly a mile long, and a half mile wide."

The rumble of the train again drowned the voices of the two men, but Jack had heard enough. "It's old Uncle Joe Potter—his farm," he said with indignation. "Now I understand. The old farmer apparently doesn't know its value as an electric power plant site, and Burke is trying to get hold of it for a song."

"Let us put the old man onto him," Alex immediately suggested.

"I'll talk the matter over with Father, and see what he says," said Jack.

"But here comes the good old town," he broke off with boyish enthusiasm. "Look, there is the creek, and the old swimming-hole at the bend. I'll bet I've been in there a thousand times. And see that spire—that's our church. Our house is just beyond.

"Come on, let's be getting out."

Catching up their suitcases, the boys passed down the aisle. As they halted at the door, they glanced back and saw that their neighbors of the next seat were following them. The two men were still talking; and coming to a stand behind the boys, the latter caught a further remark from Burke apparently referring to the Potter farm deal.

"... wrote asking him to town this evening," he was saying. "I'll give him a bit of a good time to-night, and put him up at one of the hotels—and, unless something unexpected happens, I'll guarantee I'll have the thing put through by noon to-morrow."

"I hope you do," responded his companion.

"And I hope you don't!" exclaimed Jack beneath his breath. "And I may do something more than hope."

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, after a joyous welcome from his father and mother, and sister Kate, and the cordial reception extended Alex, Jack was seated at his "old corner" of the vine-hidden veranda, recounting the conversation they had overheard between the two real estate men. Before Mr. Orr had ventured an opinion in the matter, however, the subject was temporarily thrust aside by the appearance of a party of Kate's girl friends, evidently much disturbed over something. When on running forward Kate's voice was quickly added to the excited conversation, Jack followed to greet the girls, and learn the cause, and returned with the party to the veranda.

"Now what do you think of this?" he exclaimed with tragic horror. "Professor Robison, the world renowned mind reader (though I never heard of him before), owing to his inability to arrive, will not be able to be present at the Girls' Club song-fight to-night! Did you ever!"

"But it's no laughing matter," said Kate, following the introduction of her friends to Alex. "He was the feature of our program to-night, and I simply can't see what we are going to do. Many of the people will be coming just to hear him."

"Jack, couldn't you help us out?" asked one of the other girls, half seriously. "You used to pretend you were a phrenologist and all that kind of thing at school, I remember."

"No thanks, Mary. I've gotten over all that sort of foolishness," Jack responded, expanding his chest and speaking in a deep voice. "I leave that for you younger folks."

A small laughing riot followed this pompous declaration, and at its conclusion Jack carried Alex off to introduce him to his pigeons and chickens, and other former treasures of the back yard.

Some minutes later Jack was dilating on the rich under-color of his pet Buff Orpington hen, when Alex, with an apology, abruptly broke in. "Say, Jack, what kind of a crowd do they have at these Girls' Club affairs? Very swell?"

"Well, about everyone in the church goes, and quite a few farmers usually come in from out of town. They are as 'swell' as anything we have here, I guess. The Sunday-school room is usually well filled. Why?"

"I was just wondering whether we couldn't help the girls out, and have a little fun out of it into the bargain. Remember the soldiers on the train? Now, why couldn't we," and therewith Alex briefly sketched his plan. Jack promptly tossed the hen back into the coop. "Great, Al! We will! It will be all kinds of a lark. I think there is just the stuff we'll need up in the garret.

"Come on; we'll break the joyful tidings to the girls."

"I'd rather you played the part, though," said Alex as they returned toward the veranda. "You of course know everyone."

"That will make no difference according to this plan. If I am in full view, too, that will add to the mystery, and help keep up the fun. The folks will be breaking their heads to learn who it is on the platform. No; it's settled. You are the distinguished professor and phreno-what-do-you-call-it."

The girls on the veranda were still in dejected debate as the boys reappeared. "Ladies, we've got this thing fixed for you," announced Jack. "We have just wirelessed and engaged that world-famous thought-stealer, bumpologist and general seer, Prof. Mahomet Click, of Constantinople, to plug up that hole in your program to-night. He stated that it would give him great pleasure to come to the assistance of such charming young women, et cetera, and that he could be counted upon."

"You two mean things!" exclaimed Kate. "We saw you with your heads together out there, laughing. This is no joking matter at all."

"We are serious," Jack protested. "Positively. You go ahead and announce that owing to an attack of croup, or any other reason, Prof. Robison will not be able to appear, but that Prof. Click has kindly consented to substitute, and we will look after the rest."

"Do you really mean it?" cried the girls.

"On our word as full-grown gentlemen," responded Jack. "But we're not going to explain.

"Come on, Alex, until we have further debate with the distinguished Turk up in the garret. He probably has arrived by this time."

Whatever doubts Kate had as to the seriousness of the boys' intentions, they had not only been dissipated by noon, but had given place to lively curiosity and expectation. Alex and Jack had devoted the entire morning to their mysterious preparations; had made numerous trips to the church school-room, to the stores; had borrowed needles, thread, mucilage; had turned the library shelves upside-down in a search for certain books; and once, coming on them unawares, she had surprised them practising strange incantations with their fingers.

It was late in the afternoon that the serious, and what was to prove the most important, feature of the evening's performance developed. On a return trip to the dry-goods store Jack drew Alex to a halt with an exclamation, and pointed across the street. Burke, the real estate man, was walking slowly along with a shrivelled-up little old gentleman in dilapidated hat, faded garments, and top-boots.

"The victim!" said Jack with deep disgust. "Old Uncle Joe Potter.

"Look at him sporting along with a cigar in his mouth—one of Burke's cigars!"

The boys parallelled the oddly assorted pair some distance, and it could readily be seen that Burke was doing his best to win the old man's confidence, and that the latter already was much impressed with the attention and deference shown him by the well-dressed agent.

"If we could get the old man alone," said Alex.

"Not much chance, I am afraid. Now that he has him in hand, Burke probably won't lose sight of him until he has closed his bargain. Remember what he said just before we left the train, about giving the old chap a good time to-night, and putting him up at one of the hotels."

Alex halted. "Give him a good time! Say, Jack, why shouldn't he give him a good time at the Girls' Club entertainment to-night? And then why shouldn't we—"

Jack uttered a shout, and struck Alex enthusiastically on the back. "Al, you've hit it! You've hit it! Bully!

"Here! Give me those complimentary tickets Kate gave us, and I'll go right after them, before they make any other arrangements. You wait."

Jack was running across the street in a moment, and drawing up alongside the two men, he addressed them both. "Excuse me, Mr. Potter, Mr. Burke—but wouldn't you like to take in our Girls' Club entertainment to-night? It's going to be really quite good—good music, and fun, and a bit of tea social in between.

"I'm sure you would enjoy it," he declared, addressing himself to the older man. "One of the features of the program is a chap who claims he can read people's thoughts. Of course nobody thinks he can, but he will make lots of fun."

The old man smiled, and looked at his companion.

"It is up to you, Mr. Potter," responded Burke genially. "If you think you would enjoy it, why, I would. Your taste is good enough recommendation for me."

"Then let us go," said the old gentleman, putting his hand into his pocket.

"No; this is my treat," interposed Burke, grasping the tickets. "Here you are, lad, and keep the change."

"Thank you, sir," said Jack. And with difficulty restraining a shout, he dashed back toward Alex, waving his hat above his head as a token of victory.

The scene of the Girls' Club entertainment, the church school-room, was filled to the doors when the program began that evening.

"I'm beginning to be anxious about Mr. Burke and the old man, though," observed Jack, who with Alex had been standing near the entrance, and remarking on the good attendance. A moment after the door again opened, and Jack started forward with an expression of relief. They had come.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter, Mr. Burke," he said. "Shall I find you a seat?"

"Yes, and a good one, now," requested the real estate man.

"I saved two, well to the front," responded Jack. "This way, please."

"Now, Alex," he said, returning, "it's up to us."

The "mind-reading" number on the program was at length reached. The chairman arose.

"I am very sorry to say, ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "that Prof. Robison, who is next on the program, was unexpectedly not able to keep his engagement. However, in his place we have secured the services of Prof. Mahmoud Click, of Constantinople; astrologer, phrenologist, mind-reader, and general all-round seer; and I am sure you will find him no less instructive and entertaining."

Despite this assurance, in the silence which followed there was a distinct note of disappointment, even displeasure. For it was obvious that the flowery title of the substitute concealed some local amateur.

Disappointment, however, quickly gave place to a flutter of interest when the rear door opened, and preceded by Jack Orr, there swept down the aisle a tall, venerable figure in flowing robes; white-bearded, spectacled, and crowned with a tall conical hat bearing strange hieroglyphics.

When, on Jack stepping aside and taking an unobtrusive front seat, the aged professor mounted the platform and solemnly surveyed his audience, titters, then a burst of laughter swept over the school-room. The long yellow robe was covered with grotesque caricatures of cats, frogs, dogs, cranes and turtles, interspersed with great black question-marks.

The famed Oriental turned about toward a table, and the laughing broke out afresh. In the center of his back was a large cat's-head, with wonderfully squinting eyes. When the cat slowly closed one distorted optic in a wink, then smiled, there was an unrestrained shout of merriment, and those who were not excitedly inquiring of one another the identity of the "seer," settled back in their seats expectantly.

Placing the table at the front of the platform, the professor again faced the audience, and with dignified air, and deep, tragic voice, addressed them.

"Ladees and gentlemans. Ze chairman have spoke. I am Mahmoud Click, ze great seer, ze great mind-read, ze great bump-read, ze great profess. (Laughter.) I am ze seventeen son, of ze seventeen son, of ze seventeen son.

"An' also have I bring for do ze magic pass," thrusting a hand within his robe, "Tom ze Terrible, ze son of Tom, ze son of Tom."

The hand reappeared, and placed on the table a tiny black kitten.

The burst of laughter which greeted this was renewed when the tiny animal began making playful passes at a spool on a string which the dignified professor held before it, remarking, "See? Ze magic pass.

"Now Tom ze Terrible will answer ze question, and show he onderstan' ze Ingleesh," the magician announced, at the same time swinging the spool out of the kitten's sight.

"Tom, how old you are?"

The spool was swung back, the kitten began again hitting at it, solemnly the professor counted to twenty, and whisked the spool away. "Twenty year. Correc'.

"You see, ladees and gentlemans, ze venerable cat he cannot make mistake," he observed amid laughing applause.

"Now Tom, tell some odder ting. How old is ze chairman?" indicating the dignified elderly man at the farther end of the platform. "Five? Correc'.

"You see, he always is right, yes.

"Now, Tom, how old is ze Rev. Mr. Borden?... Seven? Correc' again."

When the laughter which followed this "demonstration" had subsided the professor took up a new line. Earlier in the evening a certain John Peters, one of the town's foppish young gallants, and who now occupied a prominent front seat, had widely announced the fact that he was present for the express purpose of "showing the mind-reader up." At him accordingly the first quip was directed.

"Now Tom, tell ze audience, how many girl have Mr. John Wilberforce Peters?" was asked. "What? None?" For, the spool being held out of sight, the kitten gazed before it stolidly, without raising a foot. "Well, how many does he think he have?"

The spool being returned, the kitten tapped it ten times, paused, and struck it eight more, while the resulting wave of amusement grew, and the over-dressed object glowered threateningly at the figure on the platform.

"And how many will he marry?... What? Not one? Well, well," commented the seer, to further hearty laughter.

"Now tell us about some of ze young ladies," the professor went on. "How many beaux has Miss K. O.?" While Kate Orr bridled indignantly the spool was lowered, and the kitten tapped several times on one side, several times on the other, then, to an outburst of laughing and clapping, sat up and began hitting it rapidly with both paws.

"I was unable to keep ze count," announced the seer, "but apparently about ze seventy-five. Miss O. she is popular wiz ze young men, yes.

"And now, Tom," continued the magician, "how many special lady friend have Mr. Kumming (an extremely bashful member of the choir)?... Twenty-two! And how many young lady are in ze choir? Twenty-two!

"Ah! A strange coincidence," observed the learned professor amid much merriment.

With similar quips and jokes the mind-reader continued, then giving the kitten into the charge of a little girl in a front seat, announced:

"Now will I read ze head. Will some small boys please come up and bring their heads and bumps?"

Coaxing finally brought a half-dozen grinning youngsters of eight or ten to the platform. From the pocket of the last to respond protruded the unmistakable cover of a dime-novel. Him the professor seized first, and having gravely examined his head, announced, "Ladees and gentlemans, for this boy I predict a great future. Never have I seen such sign of literary taste. Yes, he will be great—unless he go west to kill ze Indian, and ze Indian see him first."

On turning to the head of the second boy, the phrenologist started, looked more sharply, and slowly straightening up, announced, "Ladees and gentlemans, I have made ze great discovery. This boy some days you will be proud to know. Never have I seen such a lovely bump—for eat ze pie! And any kind of pie you will name. He don't care. He will eat it."

And so, to continued laughter, he went on, finding remarkable cake-bumps, holiday-bumps, and picnic-bumps, and proportionately under-developed school and chore-bumps—with the exception of one glowing example, which finally proved to have been developed by a baseball bat.

Then came the "mind-reading." Placing a small blackboard on the front of the platform, facing the audience, the professor seated himself in a chair ten feet behind it, and invited someone to step to the board and write.

"All I ask is," announced the mind-reader, "please write not too fast, and fix ze mind on what you write. And by ze thought-wave will I tell it, letter by letter."

The first to respond wrote the name of his father, a doctor. Expecting only some humorous guess as to what was written, the audience was somewhat surprised when the professor spelled out the name correctly, only adding the humorous touch of "mud," hastily corrected to "M. D." As others followed with figures, and more difficult names and words, the interest of the audience began to take on a new tone.

The last of the first party which had stepped forward to write was the over-dressed young man Alex had poked some of his fun at, and who was bent on "showing him up."

He wrote: "You are a faker."

"Explain to ze audience how I do it, zen, Mr. Peters," retorted the professor. In some confusion Peters sought his seat, and the minister approached the board.

The interest of the audience had now become serious and silent. Even Kate Orr, though knowing there was trickery somewhere, was nonplussed. For Jack, in the front row, appeared as immovable, and as frankly interested as those about him. Loosely folded in his lap was a newspaper which for a moment attracted Kate's suspicious eye; but watching closely, she saw not the hint of a movement that might have been a signal.

The minister's first word was the name Hosea. This was promptly called off, and the writer went on with others, gradually more difficult. Finally, in rapid succession, one under the other, he wrote "ZEDEKIAH, AHOLIBAH, NEBUCHADNEZZAR." As readily the figure on the platform announced them, and the reverend gentleman turned away with an expression frankly puzzled.

"Pardon me, Mr. Professor, but since this is genuine mind-reading, of course you could read just as well with your eyes blindfolded, could you not? Would you kindly give a demonstration that way?"

It was Peters. There was immediate clapping at the suggestion, and calls of "Yes, yes! Do it blindfolded!"

In alarm Kate, from her seat, gazed toward Jack. To her surprise he was one of the most energetic in clapping the proposal.

The professor himself, however, was plainly disconcerted, to the particular delight of Peters and his circle of friends, who, as the mind-reader continued to hesitate, clapped more and more loudly.

Finally the seer arose. "Well, ladees and gentlemans, if you wish, certainly. Though I do read just as good with my eyes open."

This negative statement brought further derisive laughter and clapping from Peters and his friends, which was added to when the professor continued, "Will some young lady be kind enough to lend me ze handkerchief—ze tiny leetle one with plenty holes all round?"

Peters was again on his feet. "Here is one!"

It was a large, dark neckerchief, obviously brought for this very purpose. As Peters stepped forward and mounted the platform the professor removed his spectacles with apparent reluctance. Broadly smiling, Peters threw the folded kerchief over the mind-reader's eyes, saw that it fitted snugly, and tied it. "Now we've got you, Mr. Smart, of Constantinople," he whispered derisively.

"Have ze good time and laugh while you may," responded the professor, and raising his voice he asked, "Will someone kindly bring ze glass water? Mind-reading, it is dry."

It was Jack started to his feet, passed down the room, and returned with the desired water. Watching, Kate expected to see a consultation between the two boys, as to some way out of the apparent difficulty. Jack, however, merely placed the glass in the extended hand, and received it back without the exchange of a syllable. Not only that, he returned to the back of the hall, and instead of resuming his seat at the front, mounted to a window ledge at the rear.

"Well, I am ready," announced the professor. "And I make ze suggestion that Mr. Peters himself write ze first."

The latter was speedily at the board. As he wrote, a silence fell. Previously the professor had called off each letter as written. This time there was no response. With a smile that gradually broadened to a laugh Peters finished an odd Indian name, and asked, "The thought-waves haven't gone astray already, have they, Mr. Professor? Haven't been frightened off by a mere handkerchief, surely?"

"I was wondering how to pronounce it," came the quiet response. "I'll spell it instead. It is,

"'M U S Q U O D O B O I T.'"

Peters stared blankly. Not more blankly than the majority of the audience, however, including Kate herself. She turned toward Jack. He appeared as surprised as Peters. Indeed, if there was anything suspicious, it was that Jack appeared a trifle over-astonished.

As the burst of applause which followed the first surprise was succeeded by a wave of laughter, Kate turned back to discover Peters, very red in the face, drawing on the board a picture. As she looked a grotesquely ugly face took shape. The face completed, there was a renewed burst of merriment when Peters topped it with a fool's-cap, and on that sketched rough hieroglyphics.

"Now whose picture have I drawn?" he demanded loudly.

"Well, you tried to draw mine," responded the professor, dropping into normal English, "but as the dunce's tie is far up the back of his collar, I leave the audience to decide whose it is."

At this there were shouts and shrieks of laughter, and Peters, hurriedly feeling, and finding his own tie far out of place, threw the chalk to the floor and dashed back to his seat amid a perfect bedlam of hilarity.

The uproar soon subsided, however, for not one in the crowded room but was now thoroughly wonderstruck at the demonstration. Some of the older people began to step forward, writing the most difficult names they could think of, meaningless words, groups of figures. A teacher chalked a proposition in algebra. Without error all were called out promptly.

The climax was reached when one of the church elders advanced to the board, and while writing, fixed his eyes on something in his half-opened hand.

Without hesitation the blindfolded unknown announced, "Mr. Storey is writing the name of one of the Apostles, but is thinking of a penknife."

The clapping which followed was scattered and brief. "It's simply uncanny," exclaimed one of Kate's neighbors. Kate, glancing back toward Jack, shook her head. Up there, in full view, she could not possibly see how he could have anything to do with it.

At this point the minister again stepped forward. "Will you answer a few questions?" he scrawled.

"With pleasure, Mr. Borden."

"How old am I?"

"Forty-nine next September."

The minister ran his fingers through his hair, perplexedly.

"How old is Mrs. Borden?"

There was a slight pause, then in gallant tones came the answer, "Twenty-two."

Amid a renewal of laughter, and much clapping from the ladies, the minister was about to turn away, when on second thought he turned back, and wrote:

"Name the twelve Apostles."

For the first time the learned seer displayed signs of uneasiness. After some stumbling, however, he completed the list.

With a twinkle in his eyes, the preacher inscribed a second question, "Name Joshua's captains."

Prof. Click cleared his throat, ran his fingers down his beard, moved uneasily in his chair, and at length, while a smile began to spread over the room, shook his head.

"But I am thinking of them—hard," declared the minister, chuckling.

The professor was again about to shake his head, when suddenly he paused, then replied boldly, "Shem, Ham, Hezekiah, Hittite, Peter, Goliath, Solomon and Pharaoh."

It was during the shouts of merriment following this ridiculous response that Kate's mystification began to dissolve. Glancing again toward her brother, she saw that, despite a show of laughing, there was an uneasiness in his face similar to that shown by the professor. And when presently she saw him cast a covertly longing eye toward a pile of Bibles in the next window, she turned back to the platform, silently laughing. She thought she had discovered the source of the "thought waves."

The success of the brazenly invented answer to the last question, meantime, had quite restored the professor's confidence, and as the minister went on, he continued to respond in the same ridiculous fashion, claiming, on the minister's protest, that he was only reading the thought-waves as they came to him. And finally the pastor laughingly gave it up.

At the next, and final, "demonstration" mystification of another kind came to the observant Kate. Rising to his feet, the mind-reader announced that he would now inform a few of the "stronger thinkers" before him the subject of their thoughts; and both in his manner and tone Kate noted an unmistakable nervousness. Glancing toward Jack, she saw that his face also was grave, and with a stirring of apprehension of she knew not what, she waited.

"The first thought which reaches me," began the professor, "is from Miss Mary Andrews. Miss Andrews thinks her pretty toque is on straight. It's not quite. I think one pin is coming out."

Following this laughingly applauded "reading," the speaker informed Miss James that she was thinking her lace collar was not loose behind. "Which was quite correct." As also was Mr. Storey's impression that there was not a long blond hair on his coat collar. "There was not."

Then Kate distinctly saw the speaker take a deep breath.

"Mr. Joseph Potter is a strong thinker," he proceeded. "I read several thoughts from Mr. Potter."

The old farmer, to whom the whole performance had appeared as nothing less than magic, leaned out into the aisle, breathless and staring.

"It seems to me, Mr. Potter," the mind-reader went on, "it seems to me you are thinking about some important business deal—some big deal concerning land."

The old man's mouth opened.

"Also it seems to me that this land may be worth a great deal more than—"

There was an exclamation, a commotion, and Burke, the real estate man, was on his feet. A moment he stood staring, as though doubting his ears, then catching up his hat he said in a loud voice, "Come, Mr. Potter, we must go. That other engagement, you know—I had forgotten it."

The old man sprang up, and brushed Burke aside. "Go on! Go on!" he cried toward the figure on the platform. The startled audience gazed from one to another. Several arose.

"It seems to me," resumed Alex quietly, "that there is a waterfall on your farm, and that—"

"Hold on there! Hold on!" The words came in a shout, and springing into the aisle, Burke strode toward the platform, purple with rage. "What do you mean? What are you doing?

"Who is this man?" he demanded at the top of his lungs. "I demand to know! What does he mean by—?"

Swiftly hobbling down the aisle behind him, the old man attempted to pass. Roughly Burke pushed him back.

The minister stepped forward. "Mr. Burke, what do you mean?"

"What does this man here mean by—by—"

"Yes, by what, Mr. Burke?"

"By making reflections against me," shouted Burke. "I demand an explanation! I—"

"But my dear sir, I am sure nothing was said—"

The old man dodged by, ran to the edge of the platform, and cried in a thin, high voice, "Do you mean my farm? My farm that Burke wants to buy?"

There was a momentary silence, during which here and there could be heard long in-drawn gasps. Then abruptly Alex tore the bandage from his eyes, swept off the hat and beard, and stepped to the front.

"There need be no further mystery about this," he declared in a grimly steady voice. "On the train this morning Jack Orr and I accidentally overheard—"

From Burke came a scream, he sprang forward with raised fists, faltered, and suddenly whirling about, dashed down the aisle for the door, and out. And in the breathless silence which followed Alex completed his explanation.

As the old man climbed the platform steps and extended a shaking hand, the applause that burst from every corner of the room fairly rattled the windows; and as the uproar continued, and Alex sprang hastily to the floor, he was surrounded by a jostling, enthusiastic crowd of strangers from whom in vain he sought to escape.

Some minutes later, enjoying tea and cake in a circle which included the minister, the latter smilingly remarked, "But you haven't yet explained the rest of the mysterious doings, Master Alex. Aren't you going to enlighten us all round? Prefer to keep it a secret, eh? Well, if you will promise us another 'exposition' I'm sure we will agree not to press you," declared the minister, heartily.

And as a matter of fact, save Kate, no one has yet solved the mystery, not even the janitor, although on cutting the grass a few days later he picked up beneath one of the school-room windows an unaccountable piece of fine copper wire.



XIV

THE LAST OF THE FREIGHT THIEVES

"No; I'm not after you this time," laughingly responded Detective Boyle to Jack's half serious inquiry on recognizing his visitor at the station one evening a month later as the road detective who on the previous memorable occasion had called in company with the sheriff. "Instead, I want your assistance.

"Do you know," he asked, seating himself, "that your friends the freight thieves are operating again on the division?"

"No!" said Jack in surprise.

"They are. And they have evolved some scheme that is more baffling even than the 'haunting' trick you spoiled for them here last spring. Every week they are getting away with valuable stuff from one of the night freights between Claxton and Eastfield, while the train is actually en route, apparently. That sounds incredible, I know, but it is the only possible conclusion to come to, since the train does not stop between those places, and I made sure the goods each time were aboard when it left Claxton."

Jack whistled. "That does look a problem, doesn't it! But where do I come in, Mr. Boyle?"

"Last evening, while thinking the matter over, the trick the thieves used here at the Junction recurred to me—the man shipped in a box. It came to me: Why couldn't that same dodge be played back against them in this case?"

"Oh, I see! Have yourself shipped in a box, and 'stolen' by them! Clever idea," exclaimed Jack.

"Not so bad I think, myself. Well, in the country between Claxton and Eastfield, where it is my theory the gang has its headquarters, there are no telephone or telegraph lines, and it struck me it would be a good plan to take someone along with me who in case of things going wrong could make his way back to the railroad, and cut in on the wire and call for help. And naturally you were the first one I thought of. Do you want the job?" asked the detective.

"I'd jump at the chance," Jack agreed eagerly. "It'd be more fun than enough.

"But, Mr. Boyle, how do you know that the boxes are taken to the freight thieves' headquarters, unopened, and not broken into right at the railroad?"

"I figure that out from the number and size of the packages they have taken each time—just a good load for a light wagon. And anyway you can see that that would be their safest plan. If they broke up boxes near the track they would leave clues that would be sure to be found sooner or later, and put us on their trail.

"And through a friend in the wholesale dry-goods business at Claxton, who I'll see down there to-night," the detective went on, "I can make practically sure of our being 'stolen' together. The thieves have shown a partiality for his goods; and by having our boxes attractively labelled 'SILK,' and placed just within the car door, there will be little chance of the robbers passing us by."

"My plan is to bring it off to-morrow night. Would that suit you?" concluded the detective.

"Yes, sir. That is, if I can get away. For it will take all night, I suppose?"

"Yes. There will be no trouble about your getting off, though. I spoke to Allen before I came down," said Boyle, rising. "All right, it is arranged. You take the five-thirty down to-morrow evening, with the necessary instruments, and I'll be at the station to meet you. Good night."

As Boyle had promised, Jack had no difficulty in arranging to be off duty the following night, and early that evening he alighted from the train at Claxton, to find the railroad detective awaiting him.

"The instruments, eh?" queried Boyle, indicating a parcel under Jack's arm as they left the station. "Yes, sir; and I have some wire and a file in my pocket."

"That's the ticket. And everything here is arranged nicely. We will head for the warehouse at once."

"Here's the other 'bolt of silk,' Mr. Brooke," the detective announced a few minutes later as they entered the office adjoining a large brick building. "All ready for us?"

"Hn! He's a pretty small 'bolt,' isn't he?" commented the merchant, eyeing Jack with some surprise.

"A trifle; but he makes up for size in quality," declared the detective, while Jack blushed. "He is the youngster who solved the 'ghost' riddle and spoiled this same gang's game at Midway Junction."

The merchant warmly shook Jack's hand. "I'm glad to meet you, my boy," he said. "After that, I can readily believe what Boyle says.

"Yes, I am all ready. This way, please," he requested.

Following the speaker, Jack and the detective found themselves in a large shipping-room. As they entered, a workman with a pot and ink-brush in his hand was surveying lettering he had just completed on a good-sized packing-case.

"Here are the 'goods,' Judson," announced the merchant.

"All ready, sir," the workman responded, eyeing Jack and the detective curiously.

"Did you substitute boards with knot-holes?" Mr. Brooke asked.

"Yes, sir. And this is the door," said the man, indicating two wide boards at one end. "I used both wooden buttons and screw-hooks on the inside, as you suggested."

"Good."

The detective examined the box. "You've made a good job of it," he commented.

"I suppose this is the boy's?" he added, turning to a smaller box, on which also were the words: "SILK—VALUABLE!"

With lively interest Jack examined the case.

"Get in and let us see how it fits," suggested the merchant. Jack did so.

"Fine," he announced. "I could ride all night in it, easily—either sitting, or lying down curled up on my side."

Detective Boyle glanced at his watch. "You may as well stay right there, Jack," he said. "We will start just as soon as the wagon is ready."

"It's ready now. Judson, go and bring the dray around," the merchant directed.

As the man left, the detective produced and handed Jack a small pocket revolver. "Here, take this, Jack," said he. "I hope you'll not have to use it, but we must take all precautions.

"Now to box you in." So saying the detective fitted the "door" of Jack's box into place, and Jack on the inside secured it with the hooks and wooden buttons, and announced "O K." The detective then entered his own box, and with the merchant's assistance closed the opening. As he tested it there was a rattle of wheels without, and the big door rumbled open.

A few minutes later the two boxes of "valuable silk" had been slid out onto the truck, and the first stage of the strange journey had begun.

As planned, it was dusk when the two boxes reached the freight depot. The station agent himself met them. "Everything O K, Boyle?" he whispered.

"O K. Place us right before the door, with the lettering out," the detective directed. The agent did as requested, and with a final "Good luck!" closed and sealed the car door just as the clanging of a bell announced the approach of an engine. A crash and a jar told the two unsuspected travelers that their car had been coupled, there was a whistle, a rumble, a clanking over switch-points—and they were on their way.

The wheels had been drumming over the rail-joints for perhaps half an hour, and the disappearance of the light which had filtered through the car door had announced the fall of darkness, when there came a screeching of brakes.

"Where do you suppose we are now, Mr. Boyle?" asked Jack from his box.

"It's the grade just north of Axford Road. When we hit the up-grade two miles beyond we may begin to expect something. It was along there I figured that the—

"What's that?"

Both listened. "One of the brakemen, isn't it?" suggested Jack.

"What is he doing down on the edge of the car roof?"

The next sound was of something slapping against the car door.

Suddenly the detective gave vent to a cry that was barely suppressed.

"Jack, I've got it! I've got it at last!" he whispered excitedly.

"The freight thieves have bought up one of the brakemen! He lets himself down to the car door by a rope, opens it, and throws the stuff out!"

Jack's exclamation of delight at this final revelation of the heart of the mystery was followed by one of consternation. "But won't we get an awful shaking up if we're pitched off, going at full speed?" he said in alarm.

"We may. We'll have to take it. It's all in the game you know," declared Boyle grimly. "Sit tight and brace hard, and it'll not be so bad, though.

"Sh! Here he is!"

There was a sound of feet scraping against the car door, a rattle as the seal was broken and the clasp freed, then a rumble and the sudden full roar of the train told the two in the boxes that the door had been opened.

Swinging within, the intruder closed the door behind him, and lit a match. Peering from a knot-hole, Jack saw that the detective's guess was correct. It was a brakeman.

As Jack watched, the man produced and lit a dark-lantern, and turned it on the cases before him. Jack held his breath as the light streamed through the cracks of his own box.

"Just to order," muttered the brakeman audibly.

"And the bigger one, too. I'll not have to haul any out."

Then, to Jack's momentary alarm, then amusement, the man seated himself on the box, above him.

Presently, as Jack was wondering what the trainman was waiting for, from the distant engine came the two long and two short toots for a crossing, and the man started to his feet. With his eye to the knot-hole Jack watched.

Again came a whistle, and the creaking of brakes. Immediately the brakeman slid the car door back a few inches, flashed his lantern four times, muffled it, and ran the door open its full width.

The critical moment had come. Gathering himself together, Jack braced with knees and elbows. The trainman seized the box, swung it to the door, and tipped it forward. The next instant Jack felt himself hurled out into the darkness.

For one terrible moment he felt himself hurtling through space. Then came a crackle of branches, the box whirled over and over, again plunged downward, and brought up with a crash.

A brief space Jack lay dazed, in a heap, head down. But he had been only slightly stunned, and recovering, he righted himself, and found with satisfaction that he had suffered no more than a bruise of the scalp and an elbow.

He had not long to speculate on his whereabouts. From near at hand came a sound of breaking twigs, and a voice.



"Here's one," it said.

Only with difficulty did Jack avoid betraying himself. It was the voice of the man "Watts"!

"What is it?" inquired a second voice.

Through a crack a light appeared. "Silk," announced Watts.

"A good weight, too," he added, tipping the box. "Catch hold."

The packing-case was caught up; and rocked and jolted, Jack felt himself carried for what he judged a full quarter-mile. As the men slowed up a gleam of moonlight showed through the knot-hole, and peering forth he discovered a tree-lined road, and a two-horse wagon.

Sliding the box into the rear of the wagon, and well to the front, the men disappeared. The wait that followed was to Jack the most trying experience of the evening. Had the detective safely landed? Was there not a possibility of the larger box having been shattered? Or sufficiently broken to reveal its true contents, and disclose the plot to the freight-robbers? And what then would be his fate?

These and many other disquieting possibilities passed through Jack's mind, causing him several times as the minutes went by to finger the hooks and buttons which would permit of his escape. Finally snapping twigs, then heavy, stumbling footfalls allayed his anxiety, and the two men reappeared, staggering under the box containing the officer.

With difficulty the unsuspecting thieves raised the heavy packing-case to the tail-board of the wagon.

"It won't go in," said Watts' companion.

"Push this way a little," Watts directed.

"I can't—Look out!" There was a scramble, and the box crashed to the ground. At the same moment came a muffled exclamation, and Jack caught his breath. Was it the detective? If so, had the others overheard it?

With relief, however, he heard Watts, who apparently was the chief of the gang, call his companion a mule, and order him to catch hold again. The box this time was successfully slid aboard; and at once the two men climbed to the seat, and the wagon rumbled off.

As they rattled along over a badly-kept road Jack gave as close attention to the passing scenery as his limited view permitted, in order that he might be able to find his way back to the railroad if it should prove necessary. This did not promise to be difficult. On either side the dim moonlight showed an unbroken succession of trees, and also that the robbers were continuing in one direction—apparently due south.

For what seemed at least two miles they proceeded. Then appeared a small clearing, and with a quickening of the pulse Jack felt the wagon slow up and turn in. They were at their destination.

A forbiddingly suitable place for its purpose it was. Standing out darkly on the crest of a rise two hundred yards back, was a low shanty-like house, in which appeared a single gleam of light. Between, to the road, stretched a desolate moonlit prospect of stumps, decaying logs and brush-piles. On either side the woods formed a towering wall of blackness.

Rocking and pitching, the wagon made its way up a rutty, corkscrew lane. They reached the house, and the door opened, and a tall, unpleasant-looking woman appeared and greeted the men.

"Good luck, eh?" she remarked briefly.

"Sure. Don't we always have good luck?" responded Watts. "Is supper ready?"

"Yes. You-uns better come in before you opens them boxes," said the woman.

"All right."

Passing on, the wagon came at last to a halt before a good-sized barn. The two men leaped to the ground, and while one of them opened the large side doors the other proceeded to back the wagon to it.

As the two freight thieves then unhooked, and led their horses to the stable, there came to Jack's ears a welcome tapping. "Are you all right, lad?" whispered the detective.

"Yes, O K, sir, though a bit nervous," Jack acknowledged.

"Keep cool and we'll soon have them where we want them. As they are going in to supper first we'll not leave the boxes till then. That'll give us just the opportunity we want to look around and arrange things nicely.

"Sh! Here they come!"

"Catch hold," said Watts. Jack heard the detective's box slide out, an "Up!" from Watts, the staggering steps of the men across the barn floor, and a thud as the box was dropped.

At what then immediately followed Jack for a moment doubted his senses. It was the voice of Watts saying quietly and coldly, "Now my clever friend in the box, kindly come out!"

They had heard Boyle's exclamation when the box had fallen!

Scarcely breathing, Jack listened. Would the detective give himself up without a—

There was a muffled report, instantly a second, louder, then silence.

"Will you come out now?" demanded Watts.

To Jack's horror there was no response. Watts repeated the order, then called on his companion for an axe, and there followed the sound of blows and splintering wood.

"Now haul him out."

Terror-stricken, Jack listened. Suddenly there came the sound of a scramble, then of a terrific struggle.

The detective was all right! It had been only a ruse! Uttering a suppressed hurrah Jack began hurriedly undoing the fastenings of his door, to get out to the detective's assistance. Before he had opened it, however, there was the sound of a heavy fall, and a triumphant shout from Watts. Promptly Jack paused, debated a moment, and restored the fastenings. He would wait. Perhaps they would bind Boyle and leave him in the barn.

A moment later Jack regretted his decision. Through the knot-hole he saw the detective led by, his arms bound behind him, and one of the freight-robbers on either side.

The voices and footsteps died away in the direction of the house, and Jack fell to wondering what he should do. Before he had decided he heard the voices of the men returning. Apprehensively he waited. Had they any suspicion of his presence in the second packing-case?

While he held his breath and grimly clutched his revolver, they slid his box to the rear of the wagon, lifted it out, and deposited it on the barn floor.

"Going to have a look at it? Make sure it hasn't some live stock in it too?" inquired the second man.

Jack's heart stood still.

"No; it's all right," declared Watts confidently. "We'll have supper first." And to Jack's unspeakable relief they passed out and closed the barn door. Listening until from the house had come the slamming of a door, Jack once more freed the fastenings within the box, slipped the board aside, again listened a moment, and crawled forth.

As he stood stretching his cramped limbs, he glanced about. A tier of what looked like bolts of cloth in the moonlight beneath one of the barn windows caught his eye. He stepped over.

It was silk—silk such as he had seen in the warehouse at Claxton!

Instantly there came to Jack a startling suggestion. As quickly he decided to act upon it. "They may never 'catch on,'" he told himself delightedly, "and in any case it will give me a good start back for the railroad, for help."

Glancing from the barn window, to make sure all was quiet in the direction of the house, he drew his box into the moonlight, took out the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, and proceeded to remove the hooks and buttons, and all other signs of the "door." Then quickly he filled the box with bolts of silk from the pile beneath the window.

That done, he found a hammer and nails, and muffling the hammer with his handkerchief, as quietly as possible nailed the boards into place. Triumphantly he slid the box to its former position on the floor.

"I think that will fool you, Mr. Watts," he said with a smile, and catching up the telegraph instruments he turned to the door.

On the threshold he started back. The two men, and two others, were returning from the house.

In alarm Jack looked about for a way of escape. Across the barn was a smaller door. He ran for it on tiptoe, darted through, and found himself in the stable. Passing quietly on to the outer door, which the cracks and moonlight revealed, he waited until the four men had entered the main barn, then slipped forth, and keeping in the shadows, ran toward the house.



A beam of light streamed from one of the rear windows. Jack made for it, and cautiously approaching, peered within. The woman he had seen at the door was at a table, washing dishes, her back toward him. And just beyond, facing him, and bound hand and foot in a big arm-chair, was the detective.

For some minutes Jack tried in vain to attract the officer's attention. Then the woman obligingly stepped into the pantry with some dishes, and quickly Jack gave a single tap on the window-pane. Boyle looked up instantly, started, smiled, then nodded his head in the direction of the railroad. Jack held up the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, the detective nodded again, and in a moment Jack was off.

It was an exhausting run over the rough, little-used road, now darkened by the overhanging trees; but at length Jack recognized the point at which he had been carried from the woods, and turning in, soon found himself at the railroad.

Hurrying to the nearest telegraph pole, he swarmed up to the cross-tree, and quickly filed through the wire on one side of the glass insulator. The broken wire fell jangling to the rails. Connecting an end of the wire he had brought with him to the wire on the other side of the pin, Jack slid to the ground, made the connections with the instrument, and the relay clicked closed.

At once someone on the wire sent, "Who had it open? What did you say?"

"Alex!" exclaimed Jack, at once recognizing the sending; and was about to break in when the instrument clicked, "17 just coming—CX."

"Claxton, and 17! Just what we want!" Quickly interrupting, Jack sent, "CX—Hold 17! Hold her!"

Then, "To X—This is Jack, Al. I'm in the woods about four miles from Claxton. We found the freight thieves, but they have Boyle prisoner. Ask the chief to have 17 take on a posse at CX and rush them here. I'll wait here, and lead them back. If they are quick they'll capture the whole gang."

"OK! OK! Good for you," shot back Alex. The wire was silent a moment, then Jack heard the order go on to Claxton as desired.

Twenty-five minutes later, waiting in the darkness on the track, Jack saw the headlight of the fast-coming freight. The engineer, on the lookout, discovered him, pulled up, and a moment after Jack was off through the woods followed by two officers and several of the train crew.

When they reached the farm, lights were still moving about in the barn. Stealthily the party made for it, and surrounded it.

"How would you like to lead the way in, Jack?" whispered the sheriff as they paused before the door. "That would be only fair, after the trick Watts played on you."

Jack caught at the idea delightedly, and all being ready, boldly threw open the barn door and entered with drawn revolver, followed by the sheriff.

The four occupants were so completely taken by surprise that for a moment they stood immovable about a box of dry-goods they had been repacking.

"How do you do, Mr. Watts," said Jack, smiling. "This is my friend the sheriff, and the barn is surrounded. I think you would be foolish not to give up."

"Yes, hands up!" crisply ordered the sheriff. And slowly the four pairs of hands went into the air, and the entire balance of the long-successful gang of freight thieves were prisoners.

It was Jack himself who rushed off to the house and freed Detective Boyle. A half hour later, with one of the robbers' own wagons filled with a great quantity of recovered stolen goods, the sheriff escorted his prisoners back to the railroad, and before daylight they were in the jail at Eastfield.

Jack received considerable attention because of his part in the capture, and the affair still forms one of the popular yarns among trainmen on that division of the Middle Western.



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 attitude 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 cluster 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 snatched 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 cluster 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.

"Good evening, Willie. Don't mention it," was the big cowman's scornful response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over the lad's neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthermost corner of the room, and promptly fell fast asleep.

Some time after darkness had fallen the young telegrapher, dozing in his chair at the instrument table, was startled into consciousness by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. With visions of Indians or robbers he sprang to the window, to discover a dim, tall figure dismounting on the platform. In alarm he turned to call the sleeping guard, but momentarily hesitating, looked again, the figure came into the light of the window, and with relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the Bar-O cowmen.

"Hello, kid," said the newcomer, entering. "Where's Old Muskoke?"

"Good evening. Over there, asleep, sir. I suppose you knew he was taking Mr. Smith's place, guarding the gold until the train came in?"

"Sure, yes. I was there when Bill come up." He crossed to the side of the snoring Jones, and kicked him sharply on the sole of his boots. "M'skoke! Git up!" he shouted. "Here's something to keep out the chills."

Again, and more sharply, he kicked the sleeping man, while the boy looked on, smiling.

Suddenly the smile disappeared, and the lad's heart leaped into his throat. He was gazing into the black, round muzzle of a pistol, and beyond it was a face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively his staring eyes flickered towards the box of bullion.

"Yep, that's it. But wink an eye agin, an' y' git it!" said Burns coldly, advancing. "Now, git back there up agin the corner of the table, an' stand, so 'f anyone comes along you'll appear to be leanin' there, conversin'. Go on, quick!"

Dazed, cold with fear, the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf of hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his side.

As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy's left leg to the leg of the table, Muskoka's snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand. But the snoring presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment, Iowa returned to the boy.

"Now move, remember, an' I shoot," he repeated warningly. "To make sure, I'm going to fix up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you. An' don't you as much as shuffle your hoof!" Recovering the bundle of thongs, he strode back to the sleeper.

As previously the man's back had been turned Wilson had shot a frantic glance about him. In their sweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had resulted, but as the renegade's back was again turned his eyes again dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him.

His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, the danger of it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp, on the wall opposite, was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow. And his left hand—he tried it—yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand itself was free.

His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka's contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication.

With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it.

Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem, and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried:

"Hands up, Burns! I got you!

"Quick! I'll shoot!"

The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half-raised.

"Quick! Up! Up!" cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the hands wavered, then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended.

For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top of his voice he cried: "Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up!"

Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused anxiously to watch results.

"Muskoka! Muskoka!" shouted the lad. The snoring continued evenly, unbrokenly.

Iowa indulged in a dry laugh. "Save your wind, kid," he said. "I fixed a drink he took before he came down."

At this news the boy's heart sank.

"But look here, kid." Iowa turned carefully, hands still in the air. "Look here, can't we square this thing up? You got the drop on me, O K—and with a blame little pea-shooter," he added, catching a glimpse, as he thought, of the end of a small black barrel, but nevertheless continuing his attitude of surrender. "You got the drop—and you're a smart kid, you are—but can't we fix this thing up? You take half, say? I'd be glad to let you in. Honest! An' no one'd ever think you was in the game. Come, what d' y' say?"

Though apparently listening, the young operator was in reality urgently casting about in his mind for other expedients. Obviously it would be too dangerous to attempt to reach with the fingers of one of his bound hands the thongs holding his left leg to the leg of the table. He might reveal the pipe, or drop it. And neither could he reach the telegraph key, to get in touch with someone on the wire. And in any case, how could that help him? For the next train was not due for two hours, and it did not seem possible he could carry on his bluff that length of time.

But think as he would, the wire seemed the only hope. Could he not reach the key in some way?

The solution came as Iowa ventured a short step nearer, and repeated his suggestion. At first sight it seemed as ridiculously impossible as the bluff with the pipe, but quickly the boy weighed the chances, and determined to take the risk.

"Now, Mr. Iowa," he said, "you are to do just exactly what I tell you, step by step, so much and no more. If you make any other move, if I only think you are going to, I shall shoot. My finger is pressing the trigger constantly. And I guess you can see that at this range, though my hold on the gun is a bit cramped, I could not miss you if I wanted to.

"Listen, now. You will come forward until you can reach the chair here by sticking out your foot. Then you will push it back along the table to the wall, and turn it face to me. Then you will sit down in it. After that I'll tell you some more.

"Go ahead! And remember—my finger always pressing the trigger!"

As Burns came forward, infinitely puzzled, the boy turned slowly, so that the "muzzle" of the pipe continued to cover the would-be bullion thief. Gingerly Iowa reached out with his foot and shoved the chair back to the wall, and turning, backed into it and sat down. With the shadow of a grin on his face, he demanded, "Wot next?"

"Now, slowly let your left arm down at full length on the table. There—hand is on the key, isn't it?

"Now," continued Wilson, who never for an instant allowed his eyes to wander from the man's face, "now feel with your fingers at the back of the key, and find a screw-head, standing up."

"Which one? There are two or three," said Iowa craftily.

"No, there are not. There's just one. And I give you 'three' to find it," said the young operator sharply. "One, two—"

"Oh, go on! I got it!" exclaimed Iowa angrily.

"Below the screw-head is a binding-nut. Loosen it, and turn it leftwise. Found it? Now take hold of the screw-head again, and turn it to the left. It turns free, doesn't it?"

"Sure."

"Turn it about four times completely around. Now the binding nut again, down, the other way, till it's tight. Got it?

"Now, hold your finger tips over the black button at the inner end of the key, and hit down on it smartly."

There was a click.

"That's it. It has plenty of play, hasn't it?"

"Works up and down about an inch, if that's wot you mean," growled Iowa, still puzzled. "But wot—"

"I'm going to give you a lesson in telegraphy and you are going to—"

Iowa saw, and exploded. "Well, of all the—Say, wot do you think—"

"All right!" Sharply, bravely, though inwardly steeling himself for catastrophe, the lad counted, "One!—Two!—"

Again he won. "Oh, go on!" sputtered Iowa, through gritting teeth. And the boy resumed.

"Hit the key a sharp rap! Pretty good. Now, two raps, one right after the other. Good.

"Now, those are what we call 'dots.' Remember. Now, press the key down, hold it for just a moment, and let it come up again. Very good. You would learn telegraphy quickly, Mr. Burns. That is what we call a 'dash.'" With the situation apparently so well in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to enjoy it.

"Now I'll have you do what I've been aiming at. And remember always—my finger is constantly pressing the trigger!"

"Now then, feel just this side of the key button, below. The little button of a lever? Got it? Press it from you."

There was a single sharp upward click of relay and sounder. The key was "open," ready for operation.

"Now listen. I want you to make the letter X—a dot, a dash, then two more dots right together. And keep repeating till I stop you."

Still under the spell of the fancied revolver and the boy's unfaltering gaze, the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked out a painfully deliberate, but fairly readable "X."

It was an idle half-hour, and when the despatcher at Exeter heard his call he glanced up from a magazine, listened a moment, and impatiently remarking, "Some idiot student!" returned to his reading.

But steadily, insistently, the repetition of X's continued, and at length he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded, "Who? Sign!"

Clumsily came the answer, "B."

"Bonepile! Now what's happening down there? It doesn't sound like the new operator, either."

The wire again clicked open, and slowly, in the same heavy hand, the mystified and then amazed despatcher read:

"H-E-L-P—H-E-L-D U-P—A-F-T-E-R G-O-L-D—T-I-E-D T-O T-A-B-L-E—G-O-T D-R-O-P O-N H-I-M—M-A-K-I-N-G H-I-M S-E-N-D—B."

The despatcher grasped his key. "Good boy! Good boy!" he hurled back. "Keep it up for twenty-five minutes and we'll get help to you. There's an extra engine at H, waiting for 92. I'll start her right down." And therewith he whirled off into an urgent succession of "H's."

But through young Jennings' strange feat in telegraphy help was nearer even than the unexpected succor from Hillside. Despite the sleeping draught Burns had administered to Muskoka Jones, the unaccustomed clicking of the telegraph instruments had begun to arouse the big cowman. When finally, in climax, came the lightning whirr of the despatcher's excited response, he gasped into consciousness, blinked, and suddenly found himself sitting upright, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle before him.

The next moment, with a shout, he was on his feet in the middle of the floor, and the nerve-strung boy had fainted.

As the lad sank forward his "pistol" fell from his hand and rolled into the light.

From Burns came an inarticulate cry, his jaw dropped, his eyes started in his head. Muskoka halted in his stride, wet his lips and muttered incredulous words of admiration and amazement. Then in a moment he had cut Wilson free, and stretched him on the floor.

It was Iowa broke the silence. Rising, with compressed lips he held toward Muskoka the butt of his pistol. "Here, shoot me—with my own gun!" he said hoarsely. "I deserve it."

Muskoka considered. "No," he decided at length. "Leave your gun as a present for the kid, and," turning and indicating the door, "git!"

Thus was it the young "dude" operator proved himself, and came into possession of a handsome pearl-handled Colt's revolver—and, early the following morning, from a "committee" of the Bar-O cowmen, headed by Muskoka Jones, a fine high-crowned, silver-spangled Mexican sombrero, to take the place of the hat they had destroyed, and "as a mark of esteem for the pluckiest little operator ever sent to Bonepile."

More important still, however, the incident won Wilson immediate esteem at division headquarters, where one of the first of the operators to congratulate him was Alex Ward.



XVI

A DRAMATIC FLAGGING

Since shortly following Jack Orr's appointment to Midway Junction Alex had been "agitating," as he called it, for his friend's transfer to the telegraph force at the division terminal. At length, early in the fall, Alex's efforts bore fruit, and Jack was offered, and accepted, the "night trick" at one of the big yard towers at Exeter.

Of course the two chums were now always together. And the day of the big flood that October was no exception to the rule. All afternoon the two boys had wandered up and down the swollen river, watching the brown whirling waters, almost bank high, and the trees, fences, even occasional farm buildings, which swept by from above. When six o'clock came they reluctantly left it for supper, and the night's duties.

"Well, what do you think of the river, Ward?" inquired the chief night despatcher as Alex entered the despatching-room.

"It looks rather bad, sir, doesn't it. Do you think the bridge is quite safe?"

"Quite. It has been through several worse floods than this. It's as strong as the hills," the despatcher affirmed.

Despite the chief's confidence, however, when about 5 o'clock in the morning there came reports of a second cloud-burst up the river, he requested Alex to call up Jack, at the yard tower which overlooked the bridge, and ask him to keep them posted.

"Tell him the crest of this new flood will likely reach us in half an hour," he added; "and that by that time, as it is turning colder, there'll probably be a heavy fog on the river."

Twenty-five minutes later Jack suddenly called, and announced, "The new flood's coming! There is a heavy mist, and I can't see, but I can hear it. Can you see it from up there?"

Alex and the chief despatcher moved to one of the western windows, raised it, and in the first gray light of dawn gazed out across the valley below. Instead of the dark waters of the river, and the yellow embankment of the railroad following it, winding away north was a broad blanket of fog, stretching from shore to shore. But distinctly to their ears came a rumble as of thunder.

"It must be a veritable Niagara," remarked the chief with some uneasiness. "I never heard a bore come down like that before."

"Here she comes," clicked Jack from the tower. They stepped back to his instruments.

"Say!—"

There was a pause, while the chief and Alex exchanged glances of apprehension, then came quickly, "Something has struck one of the western spans of the bridge and carried it clean away—

"No—No, it's there yet! But it's all smashed to pieces! Only the upper-structure seems to be holding!"

Sharply the despatcher turned to an operator at one of the other wires. "McLaren, Forty-six hasn't passed Norfolk?"

"Yes, sir. Five minutes ago."

A cry broke from the chief, and he ran back to the window. Alex followed, and found him as pale as death.

"What's the matter, Mr. Allen?" he exclaimed.

"Matter! Why, Norfolk is the last stop between that train and the bridge! She'll be down here in twenty minutes! And even if we can get someone across the bridge immediately, how can they flag her in that wall of mist?" Hopelessly he pointed where on the farther shore the tracks were completely hidden in the blanket of white vapor. "And there's no time to send down torpedoes."

At the thought of the train rushing upon the broken span, and plunging from sight in the whirling flood below, Alex felt the blood draw back from his own face.

"But we will try something! We must try something!" he cried.

At that moment the office door opened and Division Superintendent Cameron appeared. "Good morning, boys," he said genially. "I'm quite an early bird this morning, eh? Came down to meet the wife and children. They're getting in from their vacation by Forty-six.

"Why, Allen, what is the matter?"

The chief swayed back against the window-ledge. "One of the bridge spans—has just gone," he responded thickly, "and Forty-six—passed Norfolk!"

The superintendent stared blankly a moment, started forward, then staggered back into a chair. But in another instant he was on his feet, pallid, but cool. "Well, what are you doing to stop her?" he demanded sharply.

The chief pulled himself together. "It only happened this moment, sir. The man at the yard tower just reported. One of the western spans was struck by something. Only the upper-structure is hanging," he says.

"Can't you send someone over on foot, with a flag, or torpedoes?"

"There are no torpedoes at the bridge house, and there's not time to send them down. As to flagging—look at the mist over the whole valley bottom," said the despatcher pointing. "Except directly opposite, where the wind between the hills breaks it up at times, the engineer couldn't see three feet ahead of him."

The superintendent gripped his hands convulsively. Suddenly he turned to Alex. "Ward, can't you suggest something?" he appealed. "You have always shown resource in emergencies."

"I have been trying to think of something, sir. But, as the chief says, even if we could get a man across the bridge, what could he do? I was down by the river yesterday morning, and the haze was like a blind wall."

"Couldn't a fire be built on the tracks?"

"Not quickly enough, sir. Everything is soaking wet."

The superintendent strode up and down helplessly. "And of course it had to happen after the Riverside Park station had closed for the season," he said bitterly. "If we had had an operator there we—"

The interruption was a cry from Alex. "I've something! Oil!"

He dashed for the tower wire.

"What? What's that?" cried the superintendent, running after.

"Oil on a pile of ties, or anything, sir—providing Orr can get over the bridge," Alex explained hurriedly as he whirled off the letters of Jack's call. The official dropped into the chair beside him.

"I, I, TR," answered Jack.

"OR, have you any oil in the tower?" shot Alex.

"No, but there's some in the lamp-shed just below."

"Look here, could you possibly get across the bridge?"

"I might manage it. There is a rail bicycle in the lamp-house. If the rails are hanging together perhaps I could shoot over with that. Why?"

"46 is due in twenty minutes, and apparently we have no way of stopping her except through you."

"Why, certainly I'll risk it," buzzed the sounder. "I suppose the oil is to make a quick blaze, to flag her?" Jack added, catching Alex's idea.

"That's it. Make it just this side of the Riverside Park station."

"OK! Here goes!"

"Good luck," sent Alex, with a sudden catch in his throat, as he realized the danger his chum was so cheerfully running. "God help him!" added the superintendent fervently.

Jack, in the distant tower, took little time to think of the danger himself. Catching up a lantern and lighting it, he was quickly out and down the tower steps, and running for the nearby shed. Fortunately it was unlocked. Darting in, he found a large can of oil. Carrying it out to the main-line track, he returned, and hurriedly dragged forth the yard lamp-man's rail bicycle—a three-wheeled affair, with the seat and gear of an ordinary bicycle.

Swinging the little car onto the rails, he placed the oil can on the platform between the arms, swung the lantern over the handlebars, mounted, and was off, pedalling with all his might.

As he speedily neared the down-grade of the bridge approach, and the roar of the flood met him in full force, Jack for the first time began to realize the danger of his mission. But with grimly set lips, he refused to think of it, and pedalled ahead determinedly.

He topped the grade, and below him was a solid roof of mist, only the bridge towers showing.

Apprehensively, but without hesitation, he sped downward. The first dampness of the vapor struck him. The next moment he was lost in a blinding wall of white. He could not see the rails.

On he pedalled with bowed head. Suddenly came a roar beneath him. He was over the water.

Jack's occasional views from the tower had shown him where the bridge was shattered; and for some distance he continued ahead at a good speed. Then judging he was nearing the wrecked portion, he slowed down and went on very slowly, peering before him with straining eyes, and listening sharply for a note in the tumult of water below which might tell of the broken timbers and twisted iron.