el to see Archie Graham,
and found that youthful genius in his room figuring out some
mathematical problem at a table.

"Well, how are you this morning?" inquired Ralph cheerily.

"First-rate, except that I'm a trifle sleepy," replied the young
inventor. "Say, I was riding under the coaches all night long. It was
dream after dream. I believe it tired me out more than the real
thing."

"You haven't got your new clothes yet, I see," observed Ralph, with a
glance at the tattered attire of his new acquaintance.

"They are ordered," explained Archie, "but they won't be here until
late this afternoon."

"When they do," said Ralph, taking a card from his pocket and writing
a few lines on it, "if you don't want to wait till I have some
leisure, take this to Mr. Forgan, down at the roundhouse."

"Thank you," said Archie.

"He'll extend all the civilities to you. I hope you may discover
something of advantage."

"I'll try," promised Archie.

Seeing the young inventor, reminded Ralph of Bridgeport, and naturally
he thought of the boy he had known as Marvin Clark.

"He telegraphed that he would see me," ruminated Ralph. "I shall miss
him if he comes to Stanley Junction to-day, but he will probably wait
around for me--that is, if he comes at all. If he doesn't, in a day or
two I shall start some kind of an investigation as to this strange
case of double identity."

When Ralph got to the roundhouse he found Fogg in the doghouse
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