“What’s the meaning of this nonsense, Ellis?” thundered an angry voice behind him, and the superintendent, black with scowling, glared at first the boy, then the engineer.  “What’s this stop for, when you know I haven’t a minute to spare getting to Dubuc?  You nearly broke my neck, too, downing brakes.  What does it mean, I say?”

But when the boys, bold with excitement, dragged the great man around the curve, and pointed to the doomed trestle, with its already falling timbers, it was another story altogether.  From the engineer’s white lips he listened to the history of Benny’s “signal code.”  Then for a long time the great man stood looking at the burning trestle.  Once he muttered aloud, “All our lives, a priceless engine, valuable freight, rolling stock, all saved!” Then, whirling rapidly on his heel, he said, “Ellis, we want your boy on the road when he’s bigger.  The boy who can invent a useful plaything and keep his head in an emergency is the boy we want to make into a man on the great Transcontinental.  Will you let us have him?”

“Ask Benny what he wants to do!” smiled the engineer.

“Well, little ‘Signal Code’ man, what do you want to do?” asked the superintendent.  “Speak, old man.”

The boy was looking him directly in the eyes.  “Go on the great Transcontinental, if I get the chance,” he replied.

“You’ll get the chance all right,” said the superintendent. “I’ll see that you get it.  Ellis, you may back the train down into town now.  There’s lots to see to about reconstructing the trestle.”  Then under his breath he added:  “That’s the sort of boy we want on the railroad.  That’s the sort of boy!”

The Shadow Trail

A Christmas Story

Peter Ottertail was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian, who, notwithstanding his almost eighty years, still had the fine, thin features, the upright shoulders, and the keen, bright eyes of the ancient, warlike tribe to which he belonged.  He was a great favorite with Mr. Duncan, the earnest Scotch minister, who had made a personal companion of Peter all through the years he had been a missionary on the Indian Reserve; and as for the two Duncan boys, they had literally been brought up in the hollow of the old Indian’s hands.  How those boys had ever acquired the familiar names of “Tom” and “Jerry” no one seemed to remember; they really had been christened Alexander and Stuart by their own father in his own church.  Then Peter Ottertail had, after the manner of all Indians, given them nicknames, and they became known throughout the entire copper-colored congregation as “The Pony” and “The Partridge.”  Peter had named Alexander, alias “Tom,” “The Pony,” because of his sturdy, muscular back and firm, strong little mouth, that occasionally looked as if it could take the bit right in its teeth and bolt; and Stuart, alias “Jerry,” was named “The Partridge,” because of his truly