CHAPTER XIII.

THE BULLY OF THE ROUNDHOUSE.

“Will you please tell me where I can find the foreman?” asked Frank, several days later, as he entered a roundhouse of the Blue Mountain Railroad.

“Hey? The foreman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do ye want?”

“I will explain my business to him, if you will be kind enough to tell me where I may find him.”

The greasy man in greasy overalls and jumper straightened up from his position partly beneath the engine he had been wiping, and glared contemptuously at the smooth-faced, clean, well-dressed youth who had inquired for the roundhouse foreman.

The place seemed dark and dusty, and smelled of smoke and grease. All around were engines, many of them with wipers or machinists working on them. One, with steam up, was standing ready to run out upon the track. The engineer was in the cab, while the fireman, with a long brass oiler in his hand, was making sure that every bearing was properly lubricated.

The well-dressed youth had found admission to the roundhouse in some manner, but it was plain enough that he was unfamiliar there, or he would not have asked a wiper where to find the foreman.

The wiper was an ugly-looking fellow, with red hair and freckled face. He had a brawny arm and thick shoulders, and he glared at the stranger as if longing to eat him.

“What’re ye in here for, anyhow?” he growled.

“That is my business. I asked you a civil question, but you have not seen fit to answer it civilly, so I see that I shall have to inquire elsewhere.”

“Wait!” said the wiper, as the youth turned away. “You’re puttin’ on a heap of manners just because you can wear fine clothes and keep yer hands clean. I’m just as good as you be.”

“We will not argue about that at all, sir.”

“Mebbe you’ll have to dirty yer hands some time.”

To this the stranger made no retort, but, as he started away, the wiper said:

“Hold on. Stay here, an’ I’ll find the foreman.”

“All right.”

Then the man lounged away, growling to himself. He was gone nearly fifteen minutes, and when he returned he was accompanied by four or five other wipers, all looking just as dirty and greasy as he did.

The well-dressed youth was standing by the engine, his eyes taking in everything that was going on in the building.

He had seen the waiting engine run out on the track and another one back in off the turntable. In a brief space of time he had learned something about the work that went on in the roundhouse.

“Well,” growled the red-haired wiper, “ther foreman ain’t round. When he’s out, I take his place. What dyer want?”

“Never mind,” said the youth. “I was looking for a job, but----”

“Hey? A job? What kind of a job?”

The wiper was astonished, as he plainly showed.

“Most any kind of a job,” was the quiet answer. “I will call when the foreman is in.”

“Well, dern my eyes!” shouted the red-headed man, bursting into a roar of coarse laughter. “Mebbe you wanted to hire out as general superintendent or president of the road, or something of that sort? Haw! haw! haw!”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared the other wipers.

Some of the machinists stopped work and came where they could watch and listen; a crowd was collecting around the applicant for work, who began to show embarrassment, his cheeks flushing.

“Look at him, fellers!” cried the big wiper, pointing at the stranger. “He’s lookin’ fer work--here! Haw! haw! haw!”

“Well, sir,” said the youth, sharply, “will you tell me what there is so very funny about that?”

“Oh, it ain’t funny at all!” said the big man. “It’s just thunderin’ ridiculous! I s’pose you’d be satisfied with a salary of ten thousand dollars a year?”

“Oh, I might be willing to accept that,” dryly answered the youth.

“I s’pose likely. What d’yer know?”

“About what?”

“Runnin’ a railroad.”

“Nothing. I am not here to run the railroad, but to work for the men who do run it.”

“Well, you’ve got ter know somethin’ in order ter be fit fer somethin’.”

“I might be able to learn something in time.”

“No; I’m afraid not. You’d have ter begin at the wrong end. You’ve made a mistake. This ain’t no candy store. We don’t sell dry goods here, either. You’d look pretty measurin’ off ribbon for ladies, an’ that’s about all you’d be good for.”

The stranger smiled in a cool manner, letting his eyes run over the wiper from his feet to his head and then back again.

“It strikes me that you must be a misfit at anything,” he said, suavely. “About the only thing you can be real good for is to drink beer. It’s plain that you are a tank!”

“Yah!” snarled the man, ceasing to laugh in a moment and showing his temper. “You don’t want to make any funny remarks!”

“I don’t see anything funny about that. On the face of it, it is a truthful statement, and you are a living, breathing witness. If you can’t have your booze regularly, you do not consider life worth the living. You would make a first-class advertisement for a cheap grog shop.”

The big wiper actually staggered.

“What?” he faintly gasped. “What’s that? Why, I’ll eat him!”

“If you try it, you will find that I digest hard,” came calmly from the stranger, who was watching the man closely. “I can read your history in short order. Numb, rum, bum. That’s enough.”

For a few moments it seemed that the big wiper would hit the stranger, but instead, he struck one of the men who had caught hold of his arm and cautioned him. The force of the blow drove the man up against the rear driving wheel of the engine and made a cut on his cheek, starting the blood. The man put up a greasy hand to wipe away the blood, saying, huskily:

“That’s all right, Mart. I was doin’ it for your good. Knowed you’d be fired if you struck him and he complained on ye. That’s all right.”

And not one of the other men said a word. It was plain that every one of them was afraid of the fellow called Mart, whom the visitor saw was the bully among the wipers.

The lips of the youth curled with scorn as he surveyed the bruiser.

“So you are a brute as well as a drinking bummer!” he exclaimed. “It’s a wonder to me how a man like you can hold any kind of a job.”

“Ya-a-a-ah!” snarled the now thoroughly angered ruffian, showing his yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “You get out of here, or I’ll give you some of the same!”

“No, you won’t! I have dealt with brutes like you before.”

This cool defiance of the stranger, scarcely more than a boy, with smooth face and dainty hands, was something the big, greasy wiper could not understand.

“If it wasn’t for spilin’ yer fine clothes, I’d use ye fer a wiper ter finish the job on this machine,” declared Mart. “I think you’re too clean, anyhow.”

Then he ejected into his hand the quid of tobacco that had been stowed in his cheek, and, with a flirt of the hand, sent it full at the white bosom of the shirt worn by the youth.

Spat! it struck and stuck there.

Smack!

With a leap the youth had planted his fist fairly between the eyes of the bully.

Thud! the man dropped to the ground.