to the railroad crossings and interview a couple of old flagmen who are still
around. Both of them seem to know everybody and everything connected with
the railroad for the past fifty years.' He chuckled.
The boys knew of two grade crossings some miles out of town and now
headed for them. At the first one they learned that the regular flagman was
home ill and his substitute had never heard of Red Jackley. Frank and Joe
went on.
At the next crossing they found old Mike Hal-ley, the flagman there, busy at
his job. His bright blue eyes searched their faces for a moment, then he
amazed them by saying, 'You're Frank and Joe Hardy, sons of the famous
detective Fenton Hardy.'
'You know us?' Frank asked. 'I must confess I don't recall having met you
before.'
'And you ain't,' the man responded. 'But I make it a rule to memorize every
face I see in the newspapers. Never know when there's goin' to be an
accident and I might be called on to identify some people.'
The boys gulped at this gruesome thought, then Frank asked Halley if he
remembered a railroad man named Red Jackley.
'I recollect a man named Jackley, but he wasn't never called Red when I
knew him. I reckon he's the same fellow, though. You mean the one that I
read went to jail?'
'That's the man!'
'He out of the pen yet?' Mike Halley questioned.
'He died,' Joe replied. 'Our dad is working on a case that has some
connection with Jackley and we're just trying to find out something about
him.' 'Then what you want to do,' said the flagman, 'is go down to the
Bayport and Coast Line Railroad. That's where Jackley used to work. He
was around the station at Cherryville. That ain't so far from here.' He
pointed in a northerly direction. 'Thanks a million,' said Frank. 'You've
helped us a lot.'
The brothers set off on their motorcycles for Cherryville. When they came to
the small town, a policeman directed them to the railroad station, which was
about a half mile out of town. The station stood in a depression below a new
highway, and was reached by a curving road which ran parallel to the tracks
for several hundred feet.
The building itself was small, square, and very much in need of paint. A few
nearby frame buildings were in a bad state of disrepair. An old wooden water
tank, about seventy yards from one side of the station house, sagged
precariously. At the same distance on the other side rose another water tank.
This one, painted red, was of metal and in much better condition.
Frank and Joe parked their motorcycles and went into the station. A man in
his shirt sleeves and wearing a green visor was bustling about behind the
ticket window.
'Are you the stationmaster?' Frank called to him.
The man came forward. 'I'm Jake-stationmaster, and ticket seller, and
baggage slinger, and express handler, and mail carrier, and janitor, and even
rice thrower. You name it. I'm your man.'
The boys burst into laughter, then Joe said, 'If there's anybody here who can
tell us what we want to know, I'm sure it's you. But first, what do you mean
you're a rice thrower?'
The station agent guffawed. 'Well, it don't happen often, but when a bride
and groom comes down here to take a train, I just go out, grab some of the
rice, and throw it along with everybody else. I reckon if that'll make 'em
happy, I want to be part of the proceedin's.'
Again the Hardys roared with laughter. Then Frank inquired if the man had
known Red Jackley.
'I sure did,' Jake replied. 'Funny kind of fellow. Work like mad one minute,
then loaf on the job the next. One thing about him, he never wanted nobody to
give him any orders.'
'Did you know that he died recently?' Frank asked.
'No, I didn't,' the stationmaster answered. 'I'm real sorry to hear that.
Jackley wasn't a bad sort when I knew him. Just got to keepin' the wrong
kind of company, I guess.'
'Can you tell us any particular characteristics he had?' Frank questioned.
Jake scratched his head above his visor. Finally he said, 'The thing I
remember most about Jackley is that he was a regular monkey. He was
nimble as could be, racin' up and down freight-car ladders.'
At that moment they heard a train whistle and the man said hurriedly, 'Got
to leave you now, boys. Come back some other time when I ain't so busy. Got
to meet this train.'
The Hardys left him and Frank suggested, 'Let's eat our lunch and then
come back.'
They found a little grove of trees beside the railroad tracks and propped their
motorcycles against a large tree.
'I'm starved,' said Frank, seating himself under the tree and opening his box
of lunch.
'Boy, this is good!' Joe exclaimed a moment later as he bit hungrily into a
thick roast beef sandwich.
'If Jackley had only stayed with the railroad company,' Frank observed as
he munched a deviled egg, 'it would've been better for everyone.'
'He sure caused a lot of trouble before he died,' Joe agreed.
'And he's caused a lot more since, the way things have gone. For the
Robinsons, especially.'
The boys gazed reflectively down the tracks, gleaming in the sun. The rails
stretched far into the distance. Only a few hundred feet from the place where
they were seated, the Hardys could see both water tanks: the dilapidated,
weatherbeaten wooden one, with some of the rungs missing from the ladder
that led up its side, and the squat, metal tank, perched on spindly legs.
Frank took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully. The sight of the
two water towers had given him an idea, but at first it seemed to him too
absurd for consideration. He was wondering whether or not he should
mention it to his brother.
Then he noticed that Joe, too, was gazing intently down the tracks at the
tanks. Joe raised a cooky to his lips absently, attempted a bite, and missed
the cooky altogether. Still he continued gazing fixedly in the same direction.
Finally Joe turned and looked at his brother. Both knew that they were
thinking the identical thing.
'Two water towers,' Frank said in a low but excited tone.
'An old one and a newer one,' Joe murmured.
