Ralph on the Overland Express: or, The Trials and Triumphs of a Young Engineer. Chapman Allen
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there! you keep out of this, if you don’t want to be massacreed!” spoke a voice at Clark’s elbow, and he was seized by several of the rowdy crowd and forced back from the side of Ralph.
“Hands off!” shouted Clark, and he cleared a circle about him with a vigorous sweep of his arms.
“Don’t you mix in a fair fight, then,” warned a big fellow in the crowd, threateningly.
“Ah, it’s going to be a fair fight, is it?” demanded Clark.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ll see to it that it is,” remarked Clark briefly.
The fellow he had dazed with his rapid-fire display of muscle had regained his poise, and was now again facing the young engineer.
“Understand?” he demanded, hunching up his shoulders and staring viciously at Ralph. “I’m Billy Bouncer.”
“Are you?” said Ralph simply.
“I am, and don’t you forget it. I happen to have got a tip from my uncle, John Evans, of Stanley Junction. I guess you know him.”
“I do,” announced Ralph bluntly, “and if you are as mean a specimen of a boy as he is of a man, I’m sorry for you.”
“What?” roared the young ruffian, raising his fists. “Do you see that?” and he put one out, doubled up.
“I do, and it’s mighty dirty, I can tell you.”
“Insult me, do you? I guess you don’t know who I am. Champion, see? – light-weight champion of this burg, and I wear four medals, and here they are,” and Bouncer threw back his coat and vauntingly displayed four gleaming silver discs pinned to his vest.
“If you had four more, big as cartwheels, I don’t see how I would be interested,” observed Ralph.
“You don’t?” yelled Bouncer, hopping mad at failing to dazzle this new opponent with an acquisition that had awed his juvenile cohorts and admirers. “Why, I’ll grind you to powder! Strip.”
With this Bouncer threw off his coat, and there was a scuffle among his minions to secure the honor of holding it.
“I don’t intend to strip,” remarked Ralph, “and I don’t want to strike you, but you’ve got to open a way for myself and my friend to go about our business, or I’ll knock you down.”
“You’ll–Fellows, hear him!” shrieked Bouncer, dancing from foot to foot. “Oh, you mincemeat! up with your fists! It’s business now.”
The young engineer saw that it was impossible to evade a fight. The allusion of Bouncer to Jim Evans was enlightening. It explained the animus of the present attack.
If Lemuel Fogg had been bent on queering the special record run to Bridgeport out of jealousy, Evans, a former boon companion of the fireman, had it in for Ralph on a more malicious basis. The young railroader knew that Evans was capable of any meanness or cruelty to pay him back for causing his arrest as an incendiary during the recent railroad strike on the Great Northern.
There was no doubt but what Evans had advised his graceless nephew of the intended visit of Ralph to Bridgeport. During the strike Evans had maimed railroad men and had been guilty of many other cruel acts of vandalism. Ralph doubted not that the plan was to have his precious nephew “do” him in a way that he would not be able to make the return trip with No. 999.
The young engineer was no pugilist, but he knew how to defend himself, and he very quickly estimated the real fighting caliber of his antagonist. He saw at a glance that Billy Bouncer was made up of bluff and bluster and show. The hoodlum made a great ado of posing and exercising his fists in a scientific way. He was so stuck up over some medal awards at amateur boxing shows, that he was wasting time in displaying his “style.”
“Are you ready?” demanded Bouncer, doing a quickstep and making a picturesque feint at his opponent.
“Let me pass,” said Ralph.
“Wow, when I’ve eaten you up, maybe!”
“Since you will have it, then,” observed Ralph quietly, “take that for a starter.”
The young engineer struck out once – only once, but he had calculated the delivery and effect of the blow to a nicety. There was a thud as his fist landed under the jaw of the bully, so quickly and so unexpectedly that the latter did not have time to put up so much as a pretense of a protection.
Back went Billy Bouncer, his teeth rattling, and down went Billy Bouncer on a backward slide. His head struck a loose paving brick. He moaned and closed his eyes.
“Four – medals!” he voiced faintly.
“Come on, Clark,” said Ralph.
He snatched the arm of his new acquaintance and tried to force his way to the alley opening. Thus they proceeded a few feet, but only a few. A hush had fallen over Bouncer’s friends, at the amazing sight of their redoubtable champion gone down in inglorious defeat, but only for a moment. One of the largest boys in the group rallied the disorganized mob.
“Out with your smashers!” he shouted. “Don’t let them get away!”
Ralph pulled, or rather forced his companion back against two steps with an iron railing, leading to the little platform of the alley door of a building fronting on the street.
“No show making a break,” he continued in rapid tones. “Look at the cowards!”
At the call of their new leader, the crowd to its last member whipped out their weapons. They were made of some hard substance like lead, and incased in leather. They were attached to the wrist by a long loop, which enabled their possessors to strike a person at long range, the object of the attack having no chance to resist or defend himself.
“Grab the railing,” ordered Clark, whom Ralph was beginning to recognize as a quick-witted fellow in an emergency. “Now then, keep side by side – any tactics to hold them at bay or drive them off.”
The two friends had secured quite a tactical position, and they proceeded to make the most of it. The mob with angry yells made for them direct. They jostled one another in their eager malice to strike a blow. They crowded close to the steps, and their ugly weapons shot out from all directions.
One of the weapons landed on Ralph’s hand grasping the iron railing, and quite numbed and almost crippled it. A fellow used his weapon as a missile, on purpose or by mistake. At all events, it whirled from his hand through the air, and striking Clark’s cheek, laid it open with quite a ghastly wound. Clark reached over and snatched a slungshot from the grasp of another of the assaulting party. He handed it quickly to his companion.
“Use it for all it’s worth,” he suggested rapidly. “Don’t let them down us, or we’re goners.”
As he spoke, Clark, nettled with pain, balanced himself on the railing and sent both feet flying into the faces of the onpressing mob. These tactics were wholly unexpected by the enemy. One of their number went reeling back, his nose nearly flattened to his face.
“Rush ’em!” shouted the fellow frantically.
Half-a-dozen of his cohorts sprang up the steps. They managed to grab Ralph’s feet. Now it was a pull and a clutch. Ralph realized that if he ever got down into the midst of that surging mob, or under their feet, it would be all over with him.
“It’s all up with us!” gasped Clark with a startled stare down the alley. “Fogg, Lemuel Fogg!”
The heart of the young engineer sank somewhat as he followed the direction of his companion’s glance. Sure enough, the fireman of No. 999 had put in an appearance on the scene.
“He’s coming like a cyclone!” said Clark.
Fogg was a rushing whirlwind of motion. He was bareheaded, and he looked wild and uncanny. Somewhere he had picked up a long round clothes pole or the handle to some street worker’s outfit. With this he was making direct for the crowd surrounding Ralph and Clark. Just then a slungshot blow drove the latter to his knees.