The Octopus | Page 8

Creek that ran
through it. But he no longer occupied himself with the landscape. His
only concern was to get on as fast as possible. He had looked forward
to spending nearly the whole day on the crest of the wooded hills in the
northern corner of the Quien Sabe ranch, reading, idling, smoking his
pipe. But now he would do well if he arrived there by the middle of the
afternoon. In a few moments he had reached the line fence that marked
the limits of the ranch. Here were the railroad tracks, and just
beyond--a huddled mass of roofs, with here and there an adobe house
on its outskirts--the little town of Guadalajara. Nearer at hand, and
directly in front of Presley, were the freight and passenger depots of the
P. and S. W., painted in the grey and white, which seemed to be the
official colours of all the buildings owned by the corporation. The
station was deserted. No trains passed at this hour. From the direction
of the ticket window, Presley heard the unsteady chittering of the
telegraph key. In the shadow of one of the baggage trucks upon the
platform, the great yellow cat that belonged to the agent dozed
complacently, her paws tucked under her body. Three flat cars, loaded
with bright-painted farming machines, were on the siding above the
station, while, on the switch below, a huge freight engine that lacked its
cow-catcher sat back upon its monstrous driving-wheels, motionless,
solid, drawing long breaths that were punctuated by the subdued sound
of its steam-pump clicking at exact intervals.
But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should be stopped at

every point of his ride that day, for, as he was pushing his bicycle
across the tracks, he was surprised to hear his name called. "Hello,
there, Mr. Presley. What's the good word?"
Presley looked up quickly, and saw Dyke, the engineer, leaning on his
folded arms from the cab window of the freight engine. But at the
prospect of this further delay, Presley was less troubled. Dyke and he
were well acquainted and the best of friends. The picturesqueness of
the engineer's life was always attractive to Presley, and more than once
he had ridden on Dyke's engine between Guadalajara and Bonneville.
Once, even, he had made the entire run between the latter town and San
Francisco in the cab.
Dyke's home was in Guadalajara. He lived in one of the remodelled
'dobe cottages, where his mother kept house for him. His wife had died
some five years before this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney,
to bring up as best he could. Dyke himself was a heavy built,
well-looking fellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley, with great
shoulders and massive, hairy arms, and a tremendous, rumbling voice.
"Hello, old man," answered Presley, coming up to the engine. "What
are you doing about here at this time of day? I thought you were on the
night service this month."
"We've changed about a bit," answered the other. "Come up here and
sit down, and get out of the sun. They've held us here to wait orders,"
he explained, as Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender,
climbed to the fireman's seat of worn green leather. "They are changing
the run of one of the crack passenger engines down below, and are
sending her up to Fresno. There was a smash of some kind on the
Bakersfield division, and she's to hell and gone behind her time. I
suppose when she comes, she'll come a-humming. It will be stand clear
and an open track all the way to Fresno. They have held me here to let
her go by."
He took his pipe, an old T. D. clay, but coloured to a beautiful shiny
black, from the pocket of his jumper and filled and lit it.

"Well, I don't suppose you object to being held here," observed Presley.
"Gives you a chance to visit your mother and the little girl."
"And precisely they choose this day to go up to Sacramento," answered
Dyke. "Just my luck. Went up to visit my brother's people. By the way,
my brother may come down here--locate here, I mean--and go into the
hop-raising business. He's got an option on five hundred acres just back
of the town here. He says there is going to be money in hops. I don't
know; may be I'll go in with him."
"Why, what's the matter with railroading?"
Dyke drew a couple of puffs on his pipe, and fixed Presley with a
glance.
"There's this the matter with it," he said; "I'm fired."
"Fired! You!" exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him. "That's
what I'm telling you," returned Dyke grimly.
"You don't mean it. Why, what for, Dyke?"
"Now, YOU tell