“That is what I’m ordering it for. I have to stay awake all night. Can’t sleep much with cold milk and ‘graveyard pie’ fighting for possession of the digestive tract.” “You are as bad as ever,” sighed Ralph. “Worse,” admitted Zeph, taking his first bite of the pie. Then, out of the corner of his mouth he mumbled: “Know where I just came from?” “I have no idea. Haven’t heard from you for weeks. You can’t write, I suppose?” “Never write letters. Have to explain ’em afterward, perhaps. Besides, a letter has often traced a man. ‘Leave no trace’ is my motto.” “Talk sense,” urged Ralph. “Am.” “It doesn’t sound like it. Tell me what makes you so mysterious?” “I am as mysterious as this ‘graveyard pie,’ ain’t I?” suddenly chuckled Zeph Dallas, holding up the wedge of pie to look at it. “Hullo! Here’s a splinter,” and he picked out the bit of wood. “The beef they ground up for this mince meat must have had a wooden leg. Anyhow, listen.” “Shoot!” exclaimed Ralph anxiously, sipping his coffee. “Where did you come from?” “Down the road. I was working for a few days with Section Twenty.” “A section gang hand! Believe me, that’s some job,” said Ralph, in wonder. “Somebody has been doing some reefing down there, and Mr. Adair put me wise to it. Eh? You don’t know what ‘reefing’ is?” “No,” admitted the dispatcher. “It’s when fellows get a chance to open cases and crates in transit, remove the goods, fill ’em up with rocks and rubbish, and send ’em on to the consignees. It was a pretty job, too. I didn’t find out who did it.” “What? A failure to your account?” laughed Ralph, knowing how Zeph prided himself upon carrying through every little job the chief detective gave him to handle. “Not a failure yet,” mumbled Zeph. “’Tain’t finished.” “Then it brought you back here to Rockton?” “Nothing like that. There was an accident on our section and we got over-time work last night. We had just got the tracks clear when this new Midnight Flyer came through. Say! who’s handling the throttle on that big engine?” “Old Byron Marks.” “Wow! That antediluvian pill?” “Seniority does it,” said Ralph briefly. “It’s the men’s own fault if the dead ones get the best runs.” “Well, believe me,” muttered Zeph, “if old By Marks heard what I heard last night you couldn’t hoist him into the cabin of that locomotive with a derrick.” “What do you mean, Zeph?” and now Ralph Fairbanks was immensely interested in what his peculiar friend had to say. “I tell you what, Ralph, I’ve got an idea. It’s my own idea, and it is worth somebody’s attention.” “Let us have it,” said the dispatcher. “You have always been original, if nothing more, Zeph.” “Many thanks, dear boy! Well, listen! This Andy McCarrey.” He stared all about, noting that the man running the lunch wagon had stepped out. “Take note I’ve heard a deal about that fellow up and down the road.” “You’ve heard nothing good of him, I warrant,” grumbled Ralph.