“Indeed?” and she smiled ruefully at him. “Why shouldn’t I observe every little thing about my son? At least, until some other woman has a better right to him.” “Goodness me!” complained Ralph, with twinkling eyes. “You talk as though I was in danger of being kidnapped.” “How do I know? There was the young lady you were talking of at supper.” “And I believe she and her family are going to be in more trouble before it is all said and done,” muttered Ralph. But he got out of explaining in detail about his adventure with Zeph Dallas the previous evening. He knew, however, his mother was merely in fun about Cherry Hopkins. Secretly, whenever Ralph thought of the pretty blonde girl, he felt anxiety for her safety. Such rascals as Whitey Malone and the other fellows who would do Andy McCarrey’s bidding might really do Cherry serious harm. He went to the dispatchers’ offices early, saw that the day-trick men were getting on all right, and then went in search of a timekeeper who, he knew, was to be trusted. This gray-haired employee of the Great Northern was one of those loyal men who considered any blow at the road a blow at their own livelihood and future prospects. “Think you could recognize Jim Perrin’s writing wherever you saw it, John?” the young chief dispatcher asked. “Jim Perrin, is it? A bad egg. It is too bad he leads so many around by the nose. I know his handwriting well. I ought to. He has been signing for his pay check for ten years here.” “Look at this,” said Ralph, thrusting the list of four names in front of the timekeeper. “What do you think?” The man studied the names through his spectacles. Then he nodded. “I know them, too,” he said. “They are all in the shops here. Billy Lyons, Abe Bertholdt, Micky Ranny, brother of Bob, the hoghead, and Sam Peters. Yes, I know ’em all.” “That is not just what I asked you,” Ralph explained. “Who do you think wrote those names on that paper?” “Oh! Oh!” cried the timekeeper. “That’s the idea, is it?” He squinted at the four brief lines of writing. “Who wrote ’em down for you, is it? What is this, Mr. Fairbanks? One of the new super’s efficiency tricks, I dunno?” “Now, John!” exclaimed Ralph, laughing, “do you think I would lend myself to any of his nonsense?” He turned around while the timekeeper was chuckling and saw Mr. Barton Hopkins standing behind them in the doorway of the little office. The supervisor stared at the young train dispatcher with a very grim visage indeed. Without doubt he had heard enough to understand the meaning of Ralph’s reply to the timekeeper. When the supervisor had turned on his heel and disappeared, Ralph said to the timekeeper, with no shadow of change in his voice: “Well? How about it?” The man fumbled the leaves of a ledger and finally compared the writing on the sheet of paper with something in the ledger. He beckoned Ralph closer.