"You should keep out of trouble, Zeph," advised Mrs. Fairbanks, gently. "How could I, ma'am, when that little midget was getting the worst of it?" demurred Zeph. "Well, I pitched into the big, overgrown bully, tooth and nail. I'm a sight, maybe. You ought to see him! He cut for it after a good sound drubbing, leaving his bag of coal behind him. I gave the little fellow all the loose change I had, filled his basket from the bag, and sent him home happy. When I got back to the engine, Griggs, the assistant master mechanic, was in the cab. He said a few sharp words about discipline and the rules of the road, and told me to get off the engine." "Discharged, eh?" "And to stay off. I'm slated, sure. Don't worry about it, Fairbanks; I'd got sick to death of the job, anyway." "But what are you going to do?" inquired Ralph gravely. "Get another one, of course. I'm going to try to get Bob Adair, the road detective, to give me a show. That's the line of work I like. If he won't, I'll try some other town. I'm sorry, Fairbanks, for my wages will only settle what board I owe you, and there's that last suit of clothes you got for me, not paid for yet----" "Don't trouble yourself about that, Zeph," interrupted Ralph kindly. "You're honest, and you'll pay when you can. You may keep what money you have for a new start until you get to work again." Zeph looked grateful. Then Ralph gave some details of the record run to Bridgeport, there was some general conversation, and he went to bed. Ralph had asked his mother to call him at nine o'clock in the morning, but an hour before that time there was a tap at the door of the bedroom. "Ralph, dear," spoke up his mother, "I dislike to disturb you, but a messenger boy has just brought a telegram, and I thought that maybe it was something of importance and might need immediate attention." "That's right, mother. I will be down stairs in a minute," answered the young railroader, and he dressed rapidly and hurried down to the sitting room, where his mother stood holding out to him a sealed yellow envelope. Ralph tore it open. He looked for a signature, but there was none. It was a night message dated at Bridgeport, the evening previous, and it ran: "Clark--Porter--whatever you know don't speak of it, or great trouble may result. Will see you within two days." "I wonder what the next development will be?" murmured Ralph. "'Great trouble may result.' I don't understand it at all. 'Will see you in two days'--then there is some explanation coming. Clark, or whatever his real name is, must suspect or know that his cousin, Dave Bissell, has told me something. Well, I certainly won't make any move about this strange affair until Clark has had an opportunity to straighten things out. In the meantime, I've got a good deal of personal business on my hands."