When Ralph got to the roundhouse he found Fogg in the dog-house chatting with his friends. He had to tell the story of the fire over and over again, it seemed, at each new arrival of an interested comrade, and Ralph's heroic share in the incident was fully exploited. The young railroader was overwhelmed by his loyal admirers with congratulations. Ralph felt glad to compare the anticipated trip with the starting out on the first record run of No. 999, when he had a half-mad sullen fireman for a helper.
As the wiper finished his work on the locomotive, engineer and fireman got into the cab.
"Hello!" exclaimed Fogg sharply.
"Hello!" echoed his cabmate.
A little square strip of paper was revealed to both, as they opened their bunkers. It was patent that some one had sneaked into the roundhouse and had pasted the papers there. Each slip bore a crude outline of a human hand, drawn in pencil.
"Bah!" spoke Fogg, with a brush of a chisel scraping the portraiture on his own box out of all semblance, and then doing the same with the picture on the reverse cover of Ralph's bunker.
"What is it, Fogg?" inquired the young railroader, to whom the ominous sketches were a new wrinkle.
"Black Hand," explained Fogg.
