Success. Samuel Hopkins Adams

of waning middle age, the other a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first.

      “You the main guy here?”

      The agent nodded.

      “Got a sore throat?” demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive.

      “That’ll be near enough,” he said quietly.

      “Oh, we ain’t on that lay,” put in the grizzled man. He was quite hoarse. “You needn’t to be scared of us.”

      “I’m not,” agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident.

      “What about the pueblo yonder?” asked the man with a jerk of his head toward the town.

      “The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new.”

      “I got ya,” said the man, nodding. “We better be on our way.”

      “I would think so.”

      “You’re a hell of a guy, you are,” whined the boy. “ ‘On yer way’ from you an’ not so much as ‘Are you hungry?’ What about a little hand-out?”

      “Nothing doing.”

      “Tightwad! How’d you like—”

      “If you’re hungry, feel in your coat-pocket.”

      “I guess you’re a wise one,” put in the man, grinning appreciatively. “We got grub enough. Panhandlin’s a habit with the kid; don’t come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin’ a touch.”

      He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the ground in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into the station, locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to a violent obscenity directed upon the vanished man. When that individual emerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a packet of tobacco to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with their thanks. That which they had most needed and desired had been, as it were, spontaneously provided. But the elder of the wayfarers was puzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver.

      “How’d you know my feet was blistered?”

      “Been padding in the rain, haven’t you?”

      “Have you been on the hoof, too?” asked the hobo quickly.

      The other smiled.

      “Say!” exclaimed the boy. “I bet he’s Banneker. Are you?” he demanded.

      “That’s my name.”

      “I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line Sandy,” said the man. He paused and considered. “What’s your lay, Mr. Banneker?” he asked, curiously but respectfully.

      “As you see it. Railroading.”

      “A gay-cat,” put in the boy with a touch of scorn.

      “You hold your fresh lip,” his elder rebuked him. “This gent has treated us like a gent. But why? What’s the idea? That’s what I don’t get.”

      “Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket,” returned the unsmiling agent.

      “You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged.”

      The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A freight, “running extra,” interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had been practicing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent felt that he could settle down to a sure hour’s bookishness yet, even though the west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time, which was improbable, as “bad track” had been reported from eastward, owing to the rains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got well reimmersed in the enchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the “Open Office” wire warned him to be attentive, and presently from the east came tidings of Number Three running almost true to schedule, as befitted the pride of the line, the finest train that crossed the continent.

      Past the gaunt station she roared, only seven minutes late, giving the imaginative young official a glimpse and flash of the uttermost luxury of travel: rich woods, gleaming metal, elegance of finish, and on the rear of the observation-car a group so lily-clad that Sears-Roebuck at its most glorious was not like unto them. Would such a train, the implanted youth wondered, ever bear him away to unknown, undreamed enchantments?

      Would he even wish to go if he might? Life was full of many things to do and learn at Manzanita. Mahomet need not go to the mountain when, with but a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order miracles he could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his telegraph instrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles down-line, his formal announcement.

      “O. S.—G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46.”

      “O. K.—D. S.,” came the response.

      Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, as the Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the train would enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would recapture the powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on the farther side, having conquered the worst of the grade.

      Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight. No sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road’s employees, he took a special and almost personal interest in having the regal train on time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a friendly push on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly? There had been no sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone wrong with the brakes. Or could the track have—

      The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn, quivering shriek came down-wind to him. It was repeated. Then short and sharp, piercing note on piercing note, sounded the shrill, clamant voice.

      The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      Banneker came out of his chair with a spring.

      “Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!” screamed the strident voice.

      It was like an animal in pain and panic.

      For a brief instant the station-agent halted at the door to assure himself that the call was stationary. It was. Also it was slightly muffled. That meant that the train was still in the cut. As he ran to the key and sent in the signal for Stanwood, Banneker reflected what this might mean. Crippled? Likely enough. Ditched? He guessed not. A ditched locomotive is usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a slide? Rock Cut had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the quality of the call predicated more of a catastrophe than a mere blockade. Besides, in that case why could not the train back down—

      The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his conjectures.

      “Number Three in trouble in the Cut,” ticked Banneker fluently. “Think help probably needed from you. Shall I go out?”

      “O. K.,” came the answer. “Take charge. Bad track reported three miles east may delay arrival.”

      Banneker dropped and locked the windows, set his signal for “track blocked” and ran to the portable house. Inside he stood, considering. With swift precision he took from one of the home-carpentered shelves a compact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, “hefted” it, and adjusted it, knapsack fashion, to his back; then from a small cabinet drew a flask, which he disposed in his hip-pocket. Another part of the same cabinet provided a first-aid outfit, 3 R 0114. Thus equipped he was just closing the door after him when another thought struck him and he returned to slip a coil of light, strong sash-cord,