Gangs of ill-favored fellows were hanging about the yards. He heard of such men, too, all along the division. Tool sheds were broken into; the gangs’ handcars were crippled; fires were set on railroad property; numberless small crimes were committed which could not be traced to the strikers themselves, but were undoubtedly committed at Andy McCarrey’s behest. “If we could just get one thing hitched to that slick rascal, we would put him where the dogs wouldn’t get a chance to bite him for some time,” Bob Adair said once to Ralph. “But McCarrey is as sharp as a needle. By the way, how much of that old tenement house did you see the night you and Zeph found him and Grif Falk over there?” “Very little of it. It appeared to be practically empty. And I am sure there were no families living in it,” Ralph replied. “You are right in that,” said the detective. “It is an old condemned tenement. But somehow McCarrey has got a lease of it. Nobody seems to know what goes on in there. And there is no good reason, as far as the police can find, for searching the premises. “If I could just make sure the supply of liquor some of the men are getting is stored there, it would give us an opening. But if we do anything that can be proved illegal, McCarrey will have a case against us. He has some of the sharpest lawyers in the city in his pay.” “Did you find Whitey Malone?” asked the engineer of the Midnight Flyer reflectively. “No. Zeph has lost trace of him. But I believe the fellow is still away from Rockton. I fancy McCarrey was afraid to trust him here. Or he has been sent along the road on some errand that has not yet come to a head. That boy, Zeph, is like a beagle on a trail, however. I hope he will mark down his man before long.” Ralph’s own eyes were always open for the appearance of Whitey. By night, of course, while he sat on the bench of the big locomotive that drew the Midnight Flyer, he could not hope to see much on either side of the twin rails over which his train sped. But coming back by daylight he saw a good deal more. The eastbound express made several stops besides those four which the Flyer made. And it was during those brief stops that Ralph picked up most of the news he got regarding the feeling of the road’s employees along the division. At Hardwell, a considerable lumbering town some miles east of Oxford and on the slope of Shadow Valley, Ralph first heard of the “bandit.” He saw on the platform a man with his head bandaged surrounded by a little group of interested natives. The engineer identified the evidently wounded man as the third trick operator and signalman at this station. He could not leave his engine, of course, but the operator knew Ralph and came down the platform to speak to him. “I got a nasty smash on the head this morning,” he explained. “I don’t know who the rascal was, but he got a hundred and forty dollars of the road’s money and my watch and stickpin.”