# Ralph on the Overland Express/27

CHAPTER XXVII
THE RAILROAD PRESIDENT
As the person Fogg designated pushed back his storm cap and came under the light of a bracket lamp, Ralph observed that the fireman had been correct in his surmise—it was Mr. Robert Grant, president of the road. He busied himself removing the snow from his garments and taking in the warmth of the place, while his companion came forward to the doghouse.
Ralph and Fogg drew to one side, curious and interested. They now recognized the man who had entered the roundhouse with the president as Lane, superintendent of the Mountain Division of the Great Northern. His manner was hurried, worried and serious. A big load of responsibility rested on his official shoulders, and he realized it and showed it. He nodded brusquely to Ralph and Fogg, and then went up to the desk where the foreman sat.
​"Get the dispatcher's office, Jones, and get it quick," he spoke tersely, and he added something in an undertone. The foreman gave a slight start. From the way he turned and stared at the companion of the superintendent, Ralph could trace that he had just been informed of his identity.
"Here you are," said the foreman, after a minute at the 'phone and handing the receiver to the superintendent. The latter, without seating himself, instantly called over the wire:
"This is Superintendent Lane. I want the chief dispatcher." A pause. "That you, Martin?—Yes?—Hold the wire. The president of the road wants to talk with you. Mr. Grant."
Ralph knew the railroad president quite well. It was a long time since he had seen him. That was at headquarters, after Ralph and some of his railroad friends had succeeded in rescuing a relative of the official from a band of blackmailers. Ralph did not believe that the president would remember him. He was both surprised and pleased when the official, glancing about in his keen, quick way, smiled and mentioned his name in greeting, nodded to Fogg, and then went up to the foreman's table.
Spread out upon this was an outline map of the great Northern and all its branches. The foreman had been utilizing it as an exigency chart. He had ​three pencils beside it—red, green and blue, and these he had used to designate by a sort of railroad signal system the condition of the lines running out of Rockton. Red signified a wreck or stalled train, green snow blockades, blue bridges down and culverts under water. The map was criss-crossed with other special marks, indicating obstructions, flood damage and the location of wrecking crews.
"As bad as that!" commented the president in a grave tone, with a comprehensive glance over the chart. Then he picked up the receiver.
"Martin, chief dispatcher," he spoke through the 'phone. "Give me the situation over the Mountain Division in a nutshell."
What followed took barely sixty seconds. The information must have been as distressing as it was definite, for Ralph noticed a deeper concern than ever come over the serious face of the official.
"How's the South Branch?" he inquired next.
"It's useless, Mr. Grant," put in the superintendent, as the president dropped the receiver with a disappointed and anxious sigh. After receiving some further information he again swept his eye over the map on the table. His fingers mechanically followed the various divisions outlined there. The foreman came to his side.
"Excuse me, Mr. Grant," he spoke respectfully, ​"but I'm in pretty close touch with conditions along the lines. If I can explain anything——"
"You can. That is the old Shelby division?" inquired the official, his finger point resting on a line on the chart running due southeast between the Mountain Division and the South Branch out of Rockton.
"Yes, sir," assented the foreman proudly. "You know it has been practically abandoned except for coal freight, since the south line was completed. It's used as a belt line now—transfer at Shelby Junction."
"What's the condition."
"Risky. We sent a freight over this morning. It got through four hours late."
"But it got through, you say?" spoke the official earnestly. "Get the dispatcher again. Ask for details on that division. Don't lose any time."
The foreman was busy at the 'phone for some minutes. As he held the receiver suspended in his hand, he reported to the railroad president:
"Snow and drifting wind reported between here and Dunwood."
"What else?"
"Look out for washouts and culverts and bridges damaged by running ice and water between Dunwood and Kingston."
​"That's half the forty-five miles—go head."
"Between Kingston and Shelby junction water out over the bottoms and flood coming down the valley."
"What's on the schedule?"
"All schedules cancelled, not a wheel running except on instructions from this end."
"Give them," spoke the official sharply. "Tell the dispatcher to keep the line clear from end to end. Wire to the stations that a special is coming through, no stops."
"Yes, sir," assented the foreman in wonderment, and executed the order. The official stood by his side until he had completed the message. Then he said:
"Tell the dispatcher to get Clay City, and find out if the Midland Express over the Midland Central left on time."
"On time, sir, and their road is not much hampered," reported the foreman a few minutes later.
"All right," nodded the official briskly. "Now then, get out your best locomotive. Give her a shallow caboose, and get her ready as speedily as you can."
The foreman ran out into the roundhouse. The president took out his watch. To the infinite surprise of Ralph he called out:
​"This way, Fairbanks."
He placed a hand on the shoulder of the young engineer and looked him earnestly in the eye.
"I know you and your record," he said. "Is that your regular fireman?" indicating Fogg.
"Yes, sir, Lemuel Fogg. We're on No. 999, Overland Express."
"Yes, yes, I know," spoke Mr. Grant hurriedly. "Mr. Fogg!"
The fireman approached promptly.
"My friends," continued the official rapidly to both. "I have got to reach Shelby station by 10.15. I must catch the Night Express on the Midland Central at that point—without fail," added Mr. Grant with emphasis.
"Yes, sir," nodded Fogg coolly.
"One minute late means the loss of a great big fortune to the Great Northern. The minute on time means anything in reason you two may ask, if you make the run."
"We are here to make the run, Mr. Grant, if you say so," observed Ralph.
"Sure," supplemented Fogg, taking off his coat. "Is that the order, sir?"
"I haven't the heart to order any man on a run a night like this," responded the official, "but if you mean it——"
​"Fairbanks," shot out the fireman, all fire and energy, "I'll get 999 ready for your orders," and he was out into the roundhouse after the foreman in a flash.
"Mr. Grant, you're taking a long chance," suggested the division superintendent, coming up to where the president and Ralph stood.
"Yes, and it must be any chances, Fairbanks," said the official. He was becoming more and more excited each succeeding minute. "I'm too old a railroader not to know what the run means. If you start, no flinching. It's life or death to the Mountain Division, what you do this night."
"The Mountain Division?" repeated Ralph, mystified.
"Yes. It's an official secret, but I trusted you once. I can trust you now." Mr. Grant drew a folded paper from his pocket. "The president of the Midland Central is on the Night Express, returning from the west. The document I show you must be signed before he reaches the city, before midnight, or we lose the right to run over the Mountain Division. If he once reaches the city, interests adverse to the Great Northern will influence him to repudiate the contract, which only awaits his signature to make it valid. He will sign it if I can intercept him. Can you make ​Shelby Junction, ninety miles away, in two hours and fifteen minutes?"
"I will make Shelby Junction ahead of the Night Express," replied Ralph calmly, but with his heart beating like a triphammer, "or I'll go down with 999."