Bart Stirling's Road to Success; Or, The Young Express Agent

WAITING FOR TROUBLE

Lem Wacker rolled over, then sat up, rubbed his head in a half-dazed manner, and muttered in a silly, sheepish way.

"Lem Wacker," said Bart, "I have got just a few words to say to you, and that ends matters between us. I am sorry I had to strike you, but I will have no man interfering with the express company's affairs. I want you to go away, and if you ever come in here again except on business strictly there will be trouble."

Lem did not put up much of a belligerent front, though he tried still to look ugly and dangerous.

He got his balance at last, and extended his finger at our hero.

"Bart Stirling," he maundered, "you've made an enemy for life. Look out for me! You're a marked man after this."

"What am I marked with," inquired Bart quickly—"burnt cork?"

"Hey! What?" blurted out Lem, and Bart saw that the shot had struck the target. Wacker looked sickly, and muttered something to himself. Then he took himself off.

Bart's worries were pleasantly broken in upon by the arrival of his sister Bertha. She brought him a generous lunch, the first food Bart had tasted that day, and his appetite welcomed it in a wholesome way.

He put in the time planning what he would do if he was lucky enough to be retained in his father's position, and what he might do in case someone else was appointed.

At half-past two Bart loaded the two ice cream freezers on the cart and started for the picnic grounds.

Juvenile Pleasantville had somewhat subsided for a time in the fervor of its patriotism. There was a lull in the popping and banging, nearly everybody in town being due at the time-honored celebration in the picnic grove.

When Bart reached the grove, someone was making an address, and he piloted his way circumspectly up to the side of the platform where the speaking was going on.

He deposited the freezers inside the bunting-decorated inclosure, where half a dozen young ladies were posted to dispense the refreshments after the literary programme was finished.

Bart started to return with his empty cart the way he had come, but about ten feet from the platform paused for a moment to take in the exceptionally flowery sentiment that was being enunciated by the speaker of the day.

Colonel Harrington, it seemed, was the self-appointed hero of the occasion. The great man of the village was in his element—the eyes and ears of all Pleasantville fixed upon him.

In rolling tones and with magnificent gestures he was paying a lofty tribute to the immortal Stars and Stripes waving just over his head, when, his eyes lowering, they focused straight in a fixed stare on Bart.

The colonel gave the young express agent an awful look, and in an instant Bart knew that the military man had been informed of the identity of the audacious cannoneer of the evening previous.

Like some orators, the colonel, once disturbed by an extraneous contemplation, lost his voice, cue and self-possession all in a second.

It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from the innocent and embarrassed author of his distraction.

He spluttered, the rounded sentence on his lips died down to measly insignificance, he stammered, stumbled, and sat down with a red face, his eyes darting rage at poor Bart.

Some of the boys in the crowd "caught on" to the situation, and giggled and made significant remarks, but the chairman on the platform covered the colonel's confusion by announcing the national anthem, and Bart effected his escape.

"He'll never forgive me, now," decided Bart. "The damage to the statue was bad enough, but breaking him up as my appearance did just now is the limit. I hope Mr. Leslie doesn't hear of my unfortunate escapade, and I hope the colonel doesn't undertake to hurt my chances. He's an irrational firebrand when he takes a dislike to anybody, and Mrs. Harrington is worse."

Bart had a foundation for this double criticism. The colonel was a pompous, self-important individual, intensely selfish and domineering, and his wife a thoughtless devotee of fashion and society.

Mrs. Stirling did some very fine fancy work, and a few months previous to the opening of this tale the magnate's wife had asked as a favor that she embroider some handkerchiefs as a wedding present for a relative.

She never visited the Stirling house but she left some sting or sneer of affected superiority behind her, and when the work was done took it home, and the next day sent a note complaining that the handkerchiefs were spoiled, inclosing about one-fifth the usual compensation for such labor. But she did not return the handkerchiefs.

Mrs. Stirling later learned that their recipient had expressed herself perfectly delighted with the delicate, beautiful gift, but, being a true lady, Bart's mother said nothing about the matter to those who would have been glad to spread a little gossip unfavorable to the dowdy society queen of Pleasantville.

The village hardware store was open for the sale of powder, and Bart stopped there on his way back to the express office and purchased a padlock, two keys fitting it, and some stout staples and a hasp. He carried these articles into the office when he reached it.

The thoughts of his father's plight, a haunting dread that Colonel Harrington might make him some trouble, and the uncertainty of continued work in the express service, all combined to depress his mind with anxiety and suspense, and he tried to dismiss the themes by whistling a quiet, soothing tune as he started to get the hammer to put the padlock in place.

The minute he opened the door, however, the whistle was instantly checked, and a quick glance at the impromptu desk told Bart that the place had welcomed a visitor since he had left it.

On a sheet of blank paper was scrawled the words: "Express safe was locked last night—contents all right."

And beside it was a heap of account books—the entire records of the office, which Bart had supposed were destroyed in the fire at the old express shed the evening previous.

THE YOUNG EXPRESS AGENT

Our hero regarded the little pile of account books as if they represented some long-lost, newly-found treasure.

He was very much astonished at their presence there. They were a tangible reality, however, and no delusion of the senses, and his ready mind took in the fact that someone had in an unaccountable manner rescued them from the burning express shed, and mysteriously restored them to the proper representative of the express company in the nature of a vast surprise.

The edges of one of the books was scorched, which was the only evidence that they had been in the flames.

They were all there, and Bart was very glad. He now had in his possession every record of the transactions of the Pleasantville express office since the last New Year's day.

"And the contents of the safe are all right, too, that writing says!" exclaimed Bart; "now what does all this mean?"

The handwriting of the announcement was crude and labored, and the boy felt sure he had never seen it before.

He glanced with some excitement at the ruins of the old express shed, then he went over there. The embers had died down entirely, and the mass of ashes and debris was sparkless and cold.

Bart went to a near railroad scrap heap and selected a long iron rod crowbar crooked at the end. He returned to the ruins and began poking the debris aside. He was thus engaged when some trackmen, lounging the day away over on a freight platform, sauntered up to the spot.

"Why don't you work holidays, Stirling?" asked one of them satirically.

"Somebody has got to work to get this mess in shipshape order," retorted Bart. "The writing said what was true!" he spoke to himself, as his pokings cleared a broad iron surface. "The safe door is shut."

The safe lay flat on its back where it had fallen when the floor had burned away. It was an old-fashioned affair with a simple combination attachment, and so far as Bart could make out had suffered no damage beyond having its coat of lacquer and gilt lettering burned off.

He leaned over and felt of its surface, which retained scarcely any heat now.

"We heard the old iron box was caught open by the fire and everything in it burned up," spoke one of the trackmen.

"I supposed so myself," said Bart, "but it seems otherwise. I wonder how heavy it is?"

"Wait till I get some tackle," said one of the workmen.

He went away and returned with two crowbars and a pulley and block tackle.

It was no work at all for those stout, experienced fellows to get the safe clear of the ruins, and, with the aid of a big truck they brought from the freight house, convey it to the new express quarters.

Just as the town bell rang out four o'clock, Mr. Leslie stepped over the threshold.

He glanced about the place briskly, gave a start as he noticed the heap of account books at Bart's elbow, and looked both pleased and puzzled as his eyes lighted on the safe.

"Why, Stirling!" he exclaimed, "are you a wizard?"

"Not quite," replied Bart with a smile, "but someone else seems to be."

"Are those the office books we thought burned up, and the safe?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is this?"

Bart told of the mysterious return of the books and of the scrap of writing that had led him to dig up the safe.

"That's a pretty strange circumstance," observed Mr. Leslie thoughtfully. "How do you account for it?"

"I can't," admitted Bart, "except to theorize, of course, that someone had enough interest in myself or the company to rush into the burning shed and save the books and close the safe while I was getting my father to safety."

"That's rational, but who was it?" persisted Mr. Leslie.

"Whoever it was," said Bart, "he has certainly proved himself a good, true friend."

"Have you no idea who it is?" challenged Mr. Leslie sharply.

Bart hesitated for a moment.

"Why, yes," he admitted finally. "I am pretty sure who it is. I do not know his name, but I have seen him several times," and Bart thought it best to reveal to his superior all he knew about the roustabout who had warned him of the burglary, who had assisted him in rescuing his father from the burning express shed, and who had vanished suddenly as people began to crowd to the scene of the blaze.

"I would like to meet that man!" commented Mr. Leslie.

"I hardly think that possible," explained Bart. "He seems to be afraid to face the open daylight, and, as you see, has not even manifested himself to me, except in a covert way."

"He is some poor unfortunate in trouble," said the superintendent. "If you do see him, Stirling, give him that—from the express company."

Bart was sure that his mysterious friend could be no other than the roustabout. He took the crisp ten-dollar bill, which the superintendent extended with an impetuousness that showed he was a genuine, warm-hearted man under the surface.

"That quarter of a dollar you gave him was a grand investment, Stirling. And now to get down to business, for I haven't much time to spare."

The superintendent, seating himself on the bench, consulted his watch and fixed his glance on Bart in his former stern, practical way.

"I saw your father at the hospital," he announced.

"Yes, sir?" murmured Bart anxiously.

"They are going to let him go home to-morrow. I am very sorry for his misfortune. He is an old and reliable employee of the express company, and we will find it difficult to replace him. I have thought over a suggestion he made, and have decided to offer you his position."

"Oh, sir! I thank you," said Bart spontaneously, and the tears of gladness and pride sprang to his eyes uncontrollably.

"Technically your father will appear in our service. I do not think the company bonding him will refuse to continue to be his surety. You must make your own arrangement as to legally representing him, signing his name and the like, and of course you will have to do all the work, for he will be helpless for some time to come. Are you willing to undertake the responsibility?"

"Gladly."

"Then that is settled. This arrangement will be in force for sixty days. If, at the end of that time your father is no better, I do not doubt that we will give you the regular appointment, if in the meantime you fill the bill acceptably."

"I shall do my best."

"And I believe you will succeed. I like you, Stirling," said Mr. Leslie frankly, "and I am greatly pleased at the way you have stood in the breach at a critical time, and protected the company's interests. You will continue to draw fifty-five dollars a month, and use your judgment in incurring any expense necessary to keep things running smoothly until we get a new express office built. What is in the safe?"

Bart was familiar with its contents. He itemized them, including some fifty unclaimed parcels of small bulk that had accumulated during the year.

"Get rid of all that stuff," ordered the superintendent briskly. "I shall advise all the small offices in this division to ship in all their uncalled-for matter. Advertise a sale, make your returns to the company, and start with a new sheet. I think that is all there is any need of discussing at present, but I will send instructions by wire or mail as the occasion comes up. Count me your friend as long as you show the true manhood you have displayed to-day in a situation that would have rattled and frightened most boys—and grown men, too. Good-by."

He was keen, practical business to the core, and no sentiment about him, for he arose promptly with the farewell words, shook hands with Bart in an off-hand way, and was gone like a flash to catch his train to the city.

Bart stood for a moment in a kind of daze. The congratulatory words of the superintendent, and the appointment to the position of agent, stirred the dearest desires of his heart.

His great good fortune momentarily overwhelmed him, and he stood staring silently after the superintendent in a grand dream of opulence and ambition.

"I want you!" spoke a harsh, sudden voice, and Bart Stirling came out of dreamland with a shock.

COLONEL JEPTHA HARRINGTON

The young express agent recognized the tones before he saw the speaker's face. Only one person in Pleasantville had that mixture of lofty command and tragic emphasis, and that was Colonel Jeptha Harrington.

As Bart turned, he saw the village magnate ten feet away, planted like a rock, and extending his big golden-headed cane as if it was a spear and he was poising to immediately impale a victim. The colonel's brow was a veritable thundercloud.

"Yes, sir," announced Bart promptly—"what can I do for you?"

Bart did not get excited in the least. He looked so cool and collected that the colonel ground his teeth, stamped his foot and advanced swinging his cane alarmingly.

"I've come to see you—" he began, and choked on the words.

"May I ask what for?" interrogated Bart.

Colonel Harrington shook, as he placed his cane under his arm and took out his big plethoric wallet.

He selected a strip of paper and held it between his forefinger and thumb.

"Young man," he observed, "do you know what that is?"

Bart shook his head.

"Well, I'll tell you, it's a bill, do you hear? a bill. It's for eighty-five dollars, damage done maliciously on my private grounds, yesterday evening. It represents the bare cost of a new copper pedestal to replace the one you shot to pieces last night, and it's a wonder you are not in jail for murder, for had that cannon ball struck a human being—Enough! before I take up this outrage with the district attorney in its criminal phase, are you going to settle the damage, or are you not?"

"Colonel Harrington, I haven't got eighty-five dollars."

"Then get it!" snapped the Colonel.

"Nor can I get it."

"Then," observed the colonel, restoring the bit of paper to his pocket—"go to jail!"

Bart regarded his enemy dumbly. Colonel Harrington was a power in Pleasantville, his will and his way were paramount there.

"I am sorry," said Bart finally, in a tone of genuine distress, "but eighty-five dollars is a sheer impossibility—in cash. If you would listen to me—"

"But I shan't!"

"I would like to offer payment or replace the pedestal on reasonable terms."

"It don't go!"

"And, further, I am not to blame in the matter."

"What!" roared the colonel "what's that?"

"It's the truth," asserted Bart. "I never knew the cannon was loaded with a ball."

"Do you know who loaded it?"

Bart was silent.

"You won't tell? We'll see if a jury can't make you, then!" fumed the colonel. "Aha! it's serious now, is it? Not so much fun breaking up my home and breaking up my speech at the grove to-day, hey?"

Bart saw very plainly that what rankled most with his volcanic visitor was the blow to his pride he had suffered that afternoon at the grove.

"You put me in a nice fix, didn't you?" cried the colonel—"laughing stock of the community! Young man, you're on the downward road, fast. You're all of a brood. Your mother—"

Bart started forward with a dangerous sparkle in his eye.

"Colonel Harrington," he said decisively, "my mother has nothing to do with this affair."

"She has!" vociferated the magnate, "or rather, her teachings. You're full of infernal pride and presumption, the whole kit of you!"

"We have our rights."

"I'm a stockholder in the B. & M., and I fancy my influence will reach the express service. You'll stay in your present job just long enough for me to advise your employers of your true character."

Bart was dismayed—that threat touched him to the quick. He had felt very glad that Mr. Leslie had not met the irate colonel. The mean-spirited magnate noted instantly the effect of his threat.

"You'll insult and defy me, will you?" he cried, with a gloating chuckle. "Very well—you take your medicine, that's all."

Bart could hardly control his voice, but he said simply:

"Colonel Harrington, my father has been blinded at his post of duty. I am the sole support of the family. I hope you will pause and consider before you plunge us into new trouble and distress that we do not deserve. I have never had the remotest thought of injuring you or your property in any way. I am willing to make all the amends I am able for the accidental damage to your property, but I can't and won't cringe to your injustice, nor grovel at your feet."

"Eighty-five dollars—one, the name of the person who loaded that cannon—two, C.O.D. before ten o'clock to-morrow morning, or I'll sweep you off the map!" shouted the colonel.

He marched off, puffing up as his vain senses were tickled with the fancy that he was a born orator, and had just given utterance to some profoundly apt and clever sentiments. Bart stared after him in sheer dismay.

"It's a bad outlook," he murmured, "but—I have tried to do my duty. I would like to have money and influence, but would rather be plain Bart Stirling than that man. He is coming back."

Bart thought this, for, just about to round the end of a dead freight and cross to the public street, his late visitor turned abruptly.

He did not, however, retrace his steps. Instead, he came to the strangest rigid pose Bart had ever seen a human being assume.

He stood staring, spellbound, at the partly open door of the nearest freight car. His cane had fallen from his hand, his head was thrown up as if he had been struck a stunning blow under the chin, and even at the distance he was, Bart could see that his usually red-puffed face was the color of chalk. Almost immediately, through the open doorway space of the freight car an arm was protruded.

Its index finger was pointed, inflexible as an iron rod, directly at the colonel. It fascinated and transfixed the military man, and Bart Stirling, staring also at the strange tableau, was overcome with perplexity and mystification.

QUEER COMRADES

So many sensational occurrences had marked the last twenty-four hours of Bart Stirling's career, that it seemed as though the accumulating series would never end.

It was a particularly ragged and miserable-looking arm, and why it could so summarily check, halt and hold the great magnate of Pleasantville, was the problem that now tried Bart's reasoning faculties.

Bart closed the door of the express office and stepped out to where he could get a clearer view of the colonel and his environment.

Suddenly the strain was removed. The colonel threw up his arms with a gasp. He started to turn around, clutched at his neck in a strangling kind of a way, tottered, reeled, and plunged forward on his face against a heap of cinders.

"This is serious," murmured Bart.

He rapidly covered the two hundred foot space between the express shed and the freight car.

"Colonel—Colonel Harrington!" he called in some alarm, kneeling by the prostrate body of his enemy.

Bart tried to pull him over on his back. As he partially succeeded, he noticed that the colonel's face was pitted, and in one or two places scratched and bleeding from contact with the cinder particles.

The bulky form was quivering and convulsed. The colonel had been dazed, it seemed, but not rendered entirely unconscious, for now with a groan he struggled to a sitting posture.

Bart drew out his handkerchief and tried to clean the dirt from the military man's face.

The colonel resisted, he swayed and mumbled. Then he groaned again as his eyes lit on the freight car.

"Get me away from here," he moaned—"get me away! What's happened to me?"

"That is what I was going to ask you," said Bart. "Don't you know?"

The colonel passed his hand over his face and mumbled, but made no coherent reply.

Bart glanced at the freight car. It afforded no evidence of present occupancy. He reflected for moment.

"Wait for just two minutes," he directed.

Running over to the drug store on the next street, he spoke a few words to the man in charge, and darted out again as the druggist hurried to his telephone to call up the livery stable.

When he got back to the colonel, Bart found the latter sitting propped up against the cinder heap, his eyes open, and breathing heavily, but still in a helpless kind of a daze.

He worked over the colonel, and finally got the man on his feet. His position was so unsteady, however, that he had to support him with one hand while he dusted off his clothes with the other.

As he stood trying to keep his charge on his feet, a cab rushed across the tracks. Its driver, bluff Bill Carey, nodded familiarly to Bart, and looked the colonel over critically. He got the latter into the cab in an experienced way.

"Same old complaint!" he intimated to Bart with a wink. "Drinks pretty heavily."

Bart leaned over into the cab.

"Colonel Harrington," he said, "do you wish to be driven home?"

The colonel gave him a fishy stare, groaned and put out a wavering hand.

"Come," he mumbled.

"Jump in," directed Carey. "You'll be useful explaining the 'fall' up at the house!"

As they went on their way, the young express agent experienced a striking sensation.

A topsy-turvy day of excitement was ending with the peculiar combination of his riding in the same carriage with his most bitter enemy, and acting the good Samaritan.

They proceeded slowly, or rather cautiously, for the popping and banging had recommenced all over town.

Carey had to keep the spirited horses in strong check as they passed groups of boys, reckless of the quantity of firecrackers they deliberately fired off as the team neared them.

Suddenly the horses were pulled to their haunches with a vociferous shout. The cab swerved and creaked, and the horses' hoofs beat an alarming tattoo on the cobblestones.

"Whoa! whoa!" yelled Bill Carey. "You young villains! get that infernal machine out of the way. Can't you see—"

Bart stuck his head out of the cab window to view an animated scene.

A fourteen-inch cannon cracker was hissing and spitting out smoke barely two feet ahead of the terrified horses in the middle of the street.

At that moment it exploded. The horses gave a wild snort, a frightened jerk at the reins.

Bart saw the staunch driver dragged from his seat. He lit on his feet, braced, but was pulled over, as, with a fierce tug, the horses snapped the line in two.

Then, unrestrained, the team shot down the street without guide or hindrance and with the speed of the wind.

"FORGET IT!"

The young express agent acted quickly. A single glance told him that the driver of the cab could do nothing.

The frightened horses were speeding ahead at a furious rate, could not be overtaken, and Bart doubted if anyone could stop them.

No one tried, but all got out of the way promptly as the team went tearing along. The horses came to a crossing, and, terrified anew at a spitting "Vesuvius" ahead, abruptly veered and turned down a side lane.

It was at this moment that Bart threw open the door of the cab, grasped a handle at the side of the vehicle, and drew himself up to the driver's seat.

The swing the horses made just then sent his feet flying out in a wild circle, but he held on, and the rebound landed him on the seat.

Our hero cast a quick look within the vehicle. The colonel had "rousted" up somewhat. Buffeted from side to side by the erratic and violent movements of the horses, he was trying to maintain his balance by frantically clinging with both hands to the cushion under him.

As a wheel struck a stone the jar drove him forward. His head smashed out the front glass, and he uttered a yell of fear.

"Don't stir—don't jump!" shouted Bart through the opening thus made.

"We'll be killed!" cried the man.

"No, we won't. Do as I say. I'm on deck, and I'll—"

Bart sized up the situation, counted its risks and possibilities, and described a sudden forward leap.

The lines were torn and trailing under the horses' feet. He cut the air in a reckless, but well planned dive.

Bart landed sprawling between the two horses, his knee striking the carriage pole.

Bracing himself there, he caught out at the head of either horse. With a firm grip his fingers closed on the bridle reins.

Ahead was a stony wagon track lining a deep gravel pit dangerously near its edge.

About a hundred feet further on ran the creek, sunk between banks some fifteen feet high.

Bart drew the bridles taut. He feared the tremendous strain would break them. The heads of the horses were now held as in a vice, but they snorted and continued to plunge forward with undiminished speed.

As a wheel landed in a rut full of thick mud, their pace was momentarily retarded. Bart jerked at the bridles. The horses paused fully, but pranced and backed.

"Jump—crawl out—quick, now!" shouted Bart breathlessly to the occupant of the cab.

The colonel had been bouncing around, groaning and yelling ever since he had awakened to a realization of his desperate plight.

"Wait a minute!" he puffed. "Gently! Wait till I get out. Then you can go on," was his remarkable concession.

Bart saw the bulky body of the magnate fall, rather than step from the vehicle. He landed clumsily at the side of the road, rolled up like a ball, but unhurt.

He was so near to the grinding wheels of the vehicle and kicking hoofs of the horses that Bart relaxed the bridles.

Instantly the horses sprang forward again, but, once clear of the colonel's prostrate body, Bart focused his strength on a final mastery of the maddened steeds.

He drew the bridles at a sharp, taut slant that must have cut their mouths fearfully at the tenderest part, for they fairly screamed with pain and terror.

He succeeded in facing them sideways, ran their heads into some brush, vaulted over them, and, landing safely on his feet in front of them, grabbed them near the bits and held them snorting and trembling at a standstill.

Then he unshipped one of the lines and tied it around a sapling, stroked the horse's heads, and succeeded in quieting them down.

Going back to the road, he discerned Colonel Harrington sitting up rubbing his head and staring about abstractedly.

Farther away was a flying excited figure. Bart recognized the disenthroned cabman. They met where the colonel sat.

"All gone to smash, I suppose!" hailed Carey.

"No, a window broken, wheels scraped a little—nothing worse," reported Bart.

"Where is the team?" panted Carey.

Bart pointed and explained, and the cabman forged ahead with a gratified snort.

"You stuck till you landed 'em," applauded Carey. "Stirling, you're nerve all through!"

Bart went up to Colonel Harrington and the latter got on his feet. Bart could see that either the druggist's potion or his succeeding violent experience had quite restored the magnate to his original self. He nursed a slight abrasion on his chin, looked at Bart sheepishly, and then stepped over to a big bowlder and rested against it.

"Are you feeling all right now, Colonel Harrington?" asked Bart courteously.

"Me? Now? Ah yes! Quite—er—er—thank you."

Bart was somewhat astonished at the words and manner of his whilom enemy.

Colonel Harrington looked positively embarrassed. He would glance at Bart, start to speak, lower his eyes, and, turning pale as he seemed to remember, and turning red as he seemed to realize, would fumble at his watch fob, run his fingers through his hair and act flustered generally.

"The cab will be back in a few minutes," remarked Bart. "It was a pretty bad shaking up, but I hope you are none the worse for it. Good day, Colonel Harrington."

Bart turned to leave. He heard the colonel spluttering.

"Hold on," ordered the magnate. "I want to give you—I want to give you—some money," he observed.

"I can't take it, Colonel Harrington," said Bart definitely. "If I have been of service to you I am glad, but you will remember I was in the same danger as yourself, and quite anxious to save my own skin."

"Bosh! I mean—maybe," retorted the colonel, getting bombastic, and then humble.

"Well, put up your money, Colonel," advised Bart. "As I say, if I have been of service to you I am glad."

"You hold on!" ordered Colonel Harrington, as Bart again moved to leave the spot.

The speaker poked in his wallet and brought out a strip of paper, which Bart recognized as the one he had so menacingly waved in his face an hour previous at the express shed.

Colonel Harrington again poked about in his pockets till he found a pencil. With somewhat unsteady fingers he inscribed his name at the bottom of the paper, and handed it to Bart.

"You take that," he directed.

"Why, this is a receipted bill for the damage done to your statue," said Bart.

"Eighty-five dollars—just so."

"But I haven't paid it!"

"You needn't. Serious mistake—I see that," said the colonel. "That is, I see it now. Satisified you didn't mean any harm. Sick of whole muddle. And about getting you discharged and all that rot—didn't mean it. Forget it! Was a little mad and excited; see!"

"I can't take your receipt for what I haven't paid, and what I am willing to pay as fast as I can," said Bart.

"Then tear it up—I won't take a cent!" declared Colonel Harrington obstinately.

"The cab is coming," remarked Bart. "Shall Mr. Carey drive you home?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Come here, quick!"

He grabbed Bart's arm and drew our hero close up to him, as though he had some pressing intelligence to impart before the cab interrupted.

"Forget it!" he whispered hoarsely.

"About the statue—I'll be glad to," said Bart frankly.

"No—no, the—the—"

"Runaway? I shall not mention it, Colonel Harrington."

The colonel released Bart's arm, but with a desperate groan. It was evident he was not fully satisfied.

"Sure you'll forget It!" he persisted, very much perturbed. "I don't mean my abusing you, or the runaway, or—or—I mean I had an accident after I left you at the express office. Someone hailed me—but you know, you know!"

The colonel cast a penetrating look on Bart, who shook his head negatively.

"I don't know, Colonel," he declared.

"Oh, come, now!" croaked the colonel, making a ghastly attempt to give the statement the aspect of a joke. Honest, you didn't hear anyone call to me?"

"No," replied Bart.

The cab drove up and halted.

"Don't do any talking. Don't start any gossip about—about—of course you won't! I've got your word. You're a truthful, reliable boy, Stirling, and I—I respect you," stumbled on the colonel. "Mum's the word, and I'll—I'll make you no trouble, see?"

"Thank you, Colonel Harrington," said Bart in a queer tone.

The colonel again regarded him penetratingly, and then got into the cab. He took the trouble of leaning out and waving his hand as the vehicle started up. He smiled in a sickly way at Bart, and once made a movement as if inclined to get out and once more suggest to the young express agent that he "forget it."

"That man is scared half to death over something," reflected Bart, as he took a short cut to regain the express office.

THE MYSTERIOUS MR. BAKER

The little express office looked good to Bart as its precincts again sheltered him.

Things appeared better and clearer to him now than at any time during the past twenty-four hours, and his heart warmed up as he put his papers and books in order, saw that the safe was secured, and decided to close up business for the day.

Doctor Griscom from the hospital had dropped in for a few moments, and brought some news that lifted something of a cloud from the heart of the young express agent.

"I do not want to hold out any false hopes," he told Bart, "but there is a bare possibility that your father may not become totally blind."

"That is blessed news!" cried Bart fervently.

"It is all a question of time, and after that of skill," continued the surgeon. "Your father must have absolute rest and cheerful, comfortable surroundings; above all, peace of mind. I shall watch his case, and when I see the first indication of the services of some skilled specialist being of benefit to him I will tell you. It will cost you some money, but I will do all I can to make the expert reasonable in his charges."

"Don't think of that," said Bart impetuously. "With such a hope in view I am willing to work my finger ends off!"

Bart was, therefore, in high spirits as he left the express office, padlocking the door securely.

He was anxious to get home and then to the hospital, to impart to his mother and father in turn the assurance that they had a bread-winner able to work and glad to do so for their benefit.

Amid the buoyancy of the relief from the continuous strain and troubles of the day, Bart was bent on a quick dash for home when he remembered something that changed his plan.

"The roustabout, the poor fellow that I've got the ten dollars for, the good fellow, if I don't mistake, who saved the books and the contents of the safe!" exclaimed Bart. "Actually, I had forgotten all about him for the moment."

Bart stood still thinking, looking around speculatively, his fingers mechanically touching the bank note in his pocket which Mr. Leslie had given him in trust.

He did not reflect long. He went at once to the freight car whence he had seen the ragged arm extended two hours previous, and looked in.

Back at one end were some broken grapevine crates, and it was dim and shadowy there, so he called out.

"Any one here?"

"Yes," came from the corner, and there was a rustling of straw.

"I guess I know who," said Bart. "Come out of that, my good friend, and show yourself," he continued heartily.

"What for?" propounded a gloomy, wavering voice.

"What for? that's good!" cried Bart. "Oh, I know who you are, if I don't know your name."

"Baker will do."

"All right, Mr. Baker, friend Baker, you're true blue and the best friend I ever had, and I want to shake hands with you, and slap you on the back, and—help you."

A timid, muffled figure shifted into full outline, but not into clear view, against the side of the car.

Bart took a step nearer. He promptly caught at one hand of the slouching figure. Then he regarded it in perplexity.

The roustabout held with his other hand a canvas bag on his head so that it concealed nearly his entire face.

"Why!" said Bart, reaching suddenly up and momentarily pulling the impromptu hood aside. "What's the matter now? Where is your beard and long head of hair?"

"Burned."

"False?"

"Yes."

"Then you were disguised?"

"I tried to be," was responded faintly.

Bart stood for a moment or two queerly regarding the roustabout.

"Mr. Baker," he said finally, "I am bound to respect any wish you may suggest, but I declare I can't understand you."

"Don't try to," advised the roustabout in a dreary way. "I'm not worth it."

"Oh, yes, you are."

"And it wouldn't do any good."

"It might. It must!" declared Bart staunchly, "See here, I want to ask you a few questions and then I want to give you some advice, or rather tender my very friendly services. Do you know what you have done for me to-day?"

"No. If I have done anything to help you I am glad of it. You have been a friend to me—the only friend I've found."

"I'll be a better one—that is, if you will let me," pledged Bart warmly. "You warned me about the burglars last night; you helped me save my father's life."

"Anybody would do what I have done."

"No one did but yourself, just the same. Don't be cynical—you're something of a hero, if you only knew it. It was you who went into the burning express shed and saved the account books and closed the safe door."

"Who says so?" muttered Baker.

"I say so, and you know it—don't you?"

Baker made no response.

"Do you know what all this means for me and my family?" went on Bart. "You have done for me something I can never pay you for, something I can never forget. You are true blue, Mr. Baker! That's the kind of a worthless good-for-nothing person you are, and I want to call you my friend! Hello, now what is the matter?"

The matter was that the roustabout was crying softly like a baby. Bart was infinitely touched.

"I don't know your secrets," continued Bart earnestly, "and I certainly shall not pry into them without your permission, but I want to repay your kindness in some way. I can't rest till I do. All I can do is to guess out that you are in some trouble, maybe hiding. Well, let me share your troubles, let me hide you in a more comfortable way than lounging around cold freight cars with half enough to eat. You've done something grand in the last twenty-four hours—don't lose sight of that in mourning over your sins, if you have any, or in running away from some shadow that scares you. I'm not the only one who thinks you're a hero, either. There's someone else."

"Is there?" murmured the roustabout weakly.

"There is. It is Mr. Leslie, the express superintendent. I told him about you. He left this ten dollars for you, and the way he did it ought to make you proud."

Bart forced the bank note into Baker's hand. The man was shaking like a leaf from emotion. He stood like one spellbound, unable to take in all at once the good that was said of him and done him.

"Come," rallied Bart, giving him a ringing slap on the shoulder, "brace up and be what you have proved yourself to be—a man!"

Baker started electrically. His tones showed some force as he said:

"All right—you've made me feel good. But you don't know a whole lot, and I can't tell you. You say you're my friend."

"You believe that I am, do you not?"

"Yes, I do, and that's why I don't want to drag you into any complications. This ten dollars is mine, isn't it?"

"Certainly."

"Will you spend it for me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I want you to give me a pencil and some paper, and I will write out a list of some things I want. You take it and the ten dollars and bring me the things here to-morrow. I want you to promise in the meantime, though, that if you come upon me unawares, or when I'm asleep, or under any circumstances whatever, you will turn your head away and not look at my face."

Bart was very much puzzled.

"I think I see how it is," he said after a brief period of reflection, "you are afraid of being recognized?"

"Think that if you want to, maybe you're right," returned Baker. "Anyway, I don't want to do anything or have you do anything that will mix you up in my troubles. My way is the safe way. Will you do what I ask?"

"Yes," answered Bart promptly. "Can't I get the things you want to-night?"

"I am afraid not, for most of the stores are closed."

"That's right. Well, then, let me make a suggestion: I have two keys to the new express office. I'll give you one. After dark, if you don't want to do it in daylight, go over and unlock the door. Pick out two or three dry-goods boxes from the heap behind the shed, carry them in and rig up any kind of private quarters you like at the far corner of the shed. I'll see that nobody disturbs you. In a couple of hours I will bring you a blanket from the house and a nice warm lunch, and you can be comfortable and safe. I will relock the door on you, and if you want to leave at any time you can unfasten a window and get out."

Baker did not reply. Bart heard him mumbling to himself as though debating the proposition submitted to him.

"I don't want to make you a lot of trouble," he finally faltered out.

"Of course you don't, and won't," asserted Bart—"you want to give me pleasure, though, don't you? So you do as I suggest, and I'll sleep a good deal sounder than if you didn't. Here's the key. I will be over to the express office about eight o'clock. Is it a bargain?"

"Yes," answered the strange man.

"HIGHER STILL!"

About eight o'clock that evening Bart came down to the express office carrying a lunch basket and a blanket, as he had promised his erratic friend, Mr. Baker.

The young express agent had spent a busy day, and the evening promised to continue to furnish plenty for him to do.

He had the infinite pleasure of seeing his mother's face brighten up magically, when he related sufficient to her of the day's experience to satisfy her that the revenue from the express business was secure.

She had received some intimation of this from her husband's lips an hour previous at the hospital, and said that Mr. Stirling was feeling relieved and hopeful over the visit of the express superintendent, and the prospects of Bart succeeding to his position.

Bart very much wished to visit his father at once, but Mrs. Stirling said he had quieted for the night, was in no pain or mental distress, and it might not be wise to disturb him.

Bart told his mother something about the roustabout and their friendly relations, and the bottle of hot coffee, home-made biscuit sandwiches, and half a pie were put up for Bart's pensioner with willing and grateful care.

Bart also took a shade lantern with him, and lighted it when he came to the express office. He found the padlock loose.

He glanced over to the far dim end of the place. Baker had built a regular cross-corner barricade of packing boxes, man-high.

Bart set the lantern on the bench and approached the roustabout's hide-out.

"Are you there, Mr. Baker?" he inquired.

"Yes, I did just as you told me to do," came the reply, but the speaker did not show himself.

"Well, here's a blanket. Can you make up a comfortable bed?"

"Oh, yes, I've got a broad board on a slant, and plenty of room."

Bart lifted over the lunch basket.

"There you are!" he said briskly—"now enjoy yourself, and don't take a single care about anything. Have you made out that list of things you want?"

"Yes, here it is," and Baker handed over a piece of paper inclosing the ten-dollar bill.

"I'll attend to this promptly," said Bart. "Supposing I look it over right here? There may be some things you have noted down I want to ask you about."

"Maybe you'd better," assented Baker.

Bart sat down near the lantern. The bit of paper was covered with crude handwriting, the same as that which had announced to him that afternoon that the contents of the safe in the old express shed ruins were safe.

The list was not a very long one, but it was not easy to fill.

Baker gave the measurements of a very cheap cotton suit and the size of a cap with a very deep peak. He also notated a green eye-shade, a pair of goggles, and the ingredients for making a dark brown face stain.

In addition to this he wanted a dark gray hair switch, and it was easy to discern that his main idea was to prepare an elaborate disguise.

"All right," reported Bart, as he finished reading the list. "I'll have the things here just as early in the morning as I can get them. I'm going to put out the lantern, but I will then hand it over to you with some matches. It has got a shade, and you can focus the rays so they will not show outside. Here are a couple of magazines—I brought them from the house."

"You're mighty kind," said the refugee. "Hold on. I want to tell you something. Of course you think I'm acting strange. Some day, though, if things come out right, I'll explain to you, and you will say I did just right. There's another thing: you may think from my actions I am some desperate character. I hope I may burn up right in this shed to-night if I'm not telling the truth when I say to you that I never touched a dishonored penny, never harmed a soul, never did a wrong thing knowingly."

"I have confidence in your word, Mr. Baker," said Bart simply.

"Thank you, I'll prove I deserve it yet," declared the strange man.

There was a spell of silence. Finally Bart decided to venture a question on a theme he was very curious about.

"Do you know Colonel Jeptha Harrington?" he asked suddenly.

"Hoo—eh?"

He had startled Baker—his incoherent mutterings persuaded Bart of this.

"Don't you want to tell?" continued Bart. "All right, only it was you who waved an arm at him from the freight car this afternoon, wasn't it, now?"

"Well, yes, it was," admitted Baker in a low tone.

"And you said something to him."

"Yes, I did. See here, I heard him calling you down and threatening you, for I slunk up to the shed here to see what he was up to. I'm interested in him, I am, and so are others. When I got back in hiding I spoke out, I told him something—something that made his crabbed old soul wizen up, something that scared the daylights out of him. He had a brother, once. He's dead, now. I said something that made this old rascal think his brother's ghost had come back to earth to haunt him."

"How could you do that?" inquired Bart, very much interested.

"Because I had certain knowledge. Don't ask any further. It will all come out, some day—the day I'm waiting and working for. You saw how he was affected. Well, I threatened things that laid him out flat if he dared to so much as place a straw in your path."

"I understand, now," said Bart.

He waited for a minute or two, hoping Baker would divulge something further, but he did not do so, and Bart said good night, secured the padlock on the outside, and left the place with a parting cheery direction to his strange pensioner to sleep soundly and rest well.

The little ones were in bed when Bart got home, but his mother and the girls were sitting on the porch. Pretty well tired out, Bart joined them, and they all sat watching the last of the display of fireworks over near the common.

"This has been a pretty dull Fourth for you, Bart," said his mother sympathizingly.

"It has been a very busy Fourth, mother," returned Bart cheerfully—"I might say a very hopeful, happy Fourth. Except for the anxiety about father, I think I should feel very grateful and contented."

A graceful rocket parted the air at a distance, followed by the delighted shouts of juvenile spectators.

"Upward and onward," murmured Mrs. Stirling, placing a tender, loving hand on Bart's shoulder.

A second rocket went whizzing up. It raced the other, outdistanced it, seemed bound for the furthest heights, never swerving from a true, straight line.

Then it broke grandly, sending a radiant glow across the clear, serene sky.

"That's my motto," said Bart, a touch of intense resolve in his tones—"higher still!"

MRS. HARRINGTON'S TRUNK

"Hey, there! Stirling."

Bart was busy at his desk in the express office, but turned quickly as he recognized the tones.

Trouble in the shape of Lem Wacker loomed up at the doorway.

"What is it?" asked Bart.

It was a week after the Fourth, and in all that time Bart had not seen anything of the man whom he secretly believed was responsible for the fire at the old express office.

"Who's the responsible party here?" demanded Lem, making a great ado over consulting a book he carried.

"I am."

"All right, then—I represent Martin & Company, pickle factory."

"Oh, you've found a job, have you," spoke Bart, forced to smile at the bombastic business air assumed by his visitor.

"I represent Martin & Company," came from Wacker, in a solemn, dignified way. "Inspector. We want a rebate on that bill of lading."

Lem removed a slip from his loose-leaf book and tendered it to Bart.

"What's the matter with it?" inquired Bart.

"Consignment short," announced Wacker.

Bart looked him squarely in the eyes. Wacker had made the announcement malignantly. His gaze dropped.

"I'm hired to stop the leaks," he mumbled, "and if this office is responsible for any of them I'm the man to find it out."

"Well, in the present instance your claim is sheer folly. I see you note here one hundred and fifty pounds shortage. What is your basis?"

"I weighed them myself."

Bart consulted his books. Then he turned again to Wacker.

"This consignment was shipped as nine hundred and fifty pounds," he said. "It weighed that at the start."

"That's what the shipping agent says, yes."

"And you claim eight hundred pounds?"

"Exactly."

"It was weighed up here when received—nine hundred and fifty pounds."

"Come off!" jeered Wacker. "Wasn't I an express agent once and don't I know the ropes? What receiving agent ever takes the trouble to re-weigh!"

"My father did—I always do," announced Bart flatly.

"Even if you did," persisted Wacker, "what little one-horse agent dares to dispute the big company's weight at the other end of the line?"

"Oh," observed Bart smoothly, "you think there is a sort of collusion, do you?"

"Yes, I do—I am an expert!"

"Sorry to disturb the profundity of your calculations, Mr. Wacker," said Bart quietly, "but in the present instance there could not possibly be any mistake. Our scales were burned up in the fire. The new ones have not yet arrived, and in the meantime, as a temporary accommodation, our weighing is done up at the in-freight platform by the official weigh master of the road. I fancy Martin & Company will accept that verification as final. Don't you think so, Mr. Wacker?"

Lem Wacker snatched the paper Bart returned to him with a positive growl.

"I'll catch you Smart-Alecks yet!" he muttered surlily.

"What are you so anxious to catch us for?" inquired Bart coolly.

"Never you mind—I'll get you!"

Lem Wacker had said that before, and as he backed away Bart dismissed him with a shrug of his shoulders.

There were too many practical things occupying his time to waste any on fancies. Bart had put in a very busy week, and a very satisfactory one. He had started in with a system, and had never allowed it to lag. In fact, he improved it daily.

Thanks to his brief, but thorough apprenticeship under his father's direction, he had acquired a knowledge of all the ins and outs of the office work proper.

He had shown great diligence in clearing up the old business. In three days after taking official charge Bart had forwarded to headquarters all the claims covering the fire.

He had also listed the unclaimed packages in the safe, together with those burned up, had followed out Mr. Leslie's direction to collect all not-called-for express matter at little stations in his division, and was now awaiting an order from headquarters as to their final disposition.

The strange "Mr. Baker" had drifted out of his life, temporarily at least.

Bart had purchased the articles the roustabout had required, and that evening Baker came out from his hiding-place marvelously unlike the great-bearded, shock-headed individual Bart had previously known.

A green patch and goggles, a deep brown face-stain, and a pair of thin artistically made "side-burns" comprised a puzzling make-up.

Baker told Bart that he felt himself perfectly disguised, that he could now venture freely down the road a distance where he had business.

"I'll be back, though," he promised. "Perhaps in two weeks. I'm not through with Pleasantville. Oh, no! There's going to be an explosion here some time soon. You've put me on my feet, Stirling, and you won't be sorry when you know what I'm after."

Bart had half planned to hire Baker for what extra work he had to give out. He had to look about for someone else, and Darry Haven and his brother, Bob, alternately came around to the express office before and after school, and helped Bart.

The company allowed for this extra service, but Bart had to take a separate voucher for each task done.

Colonel Harrington had left for a fashionable resort two days after the Fourth, and Bart understood that Mrs. Harrington was preparing to join him there.

Bart's father had been taken home after spending two days in the hospital.

The surgeon there had told him that his case was not at all hopeless, and the old express agent was cheerful and patient under his affliction, and nights Bart made a great showing of the necessity of going over the business of the day, so as to keep his father's mind occupied.

So far Bart's affairs had settled down to what seemed to be a clear and definite basis, and when that afternoon a new platform scale arrived, and he received a letter of instructions from Mr. Leslie concerning the sale of the unclaimed express packages, he felt a certain spice of pleasant anticipation injected into the business routine.

"Why, it will be a regular circus!" said Darry Haven that afternoon, when Bart told him about it. "Last year they advertised the sale at Marion. I was up there at my uncle's. All the farmers came in for miles around, and the way they bid, and the funny things they found in the packages, made it jolly, I tell you!"

When Bart got through with the routine work the next day, he started in to formulate his plans for the sale.

It was to take place in thirty days, and the superintendent had relied on Bart's judgment to make it a success.

Darry Haven came in as Bart was laboring over an advertisement for the four weekly papers of Pleasantville and vicinity.

"Here," he said promptly, "you are of a literary family. Suppose you take charge of this, and get up the matter for a dodger, too."

"Say, Bart," said Darry eagerly, "we can print the dodgers—my brother and I—as good as a regular office. You know we've got a good amateur outfit at home. Father was an editor, and I'll get him to write up a first-class stunner of an advertisement. Can't you throw the job our way?"

"If you make the price right, of course," answered Bart.

"We can afford to underbid them all," declared Darry; and so the matter was settled.

"Oh, by the way," said Darry, as he was about to leave—"Lem Wacker's out of a job again."

"You don't surprise me," remarked Bart, "but how is that?"

"Why, Martin & Company are buying green peppers at seventy cents a bushel. They heard that down at Arlington someone was offering them to the storekeepers at one dollar for two bushels, investigated, detected Dale Wacker peddling the peppers from factory bags, and found that his uncle, Lem, was mixed up in the affair. Anyway, Dale's father had to settle the bill, and they fired Lem."

"Mr. Lem Wacker is bad enough when at work," remarked Bart, "but out of work I fear he is a dangerous man. All right!" he called, hurrying to the door as there was a hail from outside.

Colonel Harrington's buckboard was backed to the platform and its driver was unloading a large trunk.

Bart helped carry it in, dumped it on the scales, went to the desk, got the receipt book, and reading the label on the trunk found that it was directed to Mrs. Harrington at Cedar Springs, the summer resort to which the colonel had already gone.

"Value?" he asked.

"Mrs. Harrington didn't say, and I don't know. If you saw all the finery in that trunk, though, you'd stare. You see, Mrs. Harrington is going to stay three weeks at the Springs, and is sending on her finest and best. I'll bet they amount to a couple of thousand dollars."

Bart filled out a blank receipt, stamping it: "Value asked, and not given."

"It can't go till morning," he said.

"That don't matter. The missus won't be going down to the Springs till Saturday."

"You have just missed the afternoon express," went on Bart.

"Yes, Lem Wacker said I would."

"What has he got to do with it?" asked Bart.

"Why, nothing, I gave him a lift down the road, and he told me that."

The driver departed. Bart stood so long looking ruminatively at the trunk that Darry Haven finally nudged his arm.

"Hi! come out of it," he called. "What's bothering you, Bart?"

"Nothing—I was just thinking."

"About that trunk, evidently, from the way you stare at it."

"Exactly," confessed Bart. "I believe I am getting superstitious about anything connected with the Harringtons or the Wackers. Here, give me a lift."

"All right. Where?"

"Swing it up—I want to get it on top of the safe."

"What!" ejaculated Darry in profound amazement.

"Yes, we don't handle property in the thousands every day in the week."

"But the company is responsible only up to fifty dollars, when they don't pay excess."

"That doesn't satisfy the shipper if there is any loss. I feel we ought to be extra careful until we get a new office with proper safeguards, and that expensive outfit staying here all night worries me. Up—hoist!"

Bart settled the trunk on top of the safe, and on top of that he set the lantern.

When he locked up for the night he lit the lantern, and went over to the freight platform where the night watchman had just come on duty.

Bart knew him well and liked him, and the feeling was reciprocal.

He explained that a valuable trunk had to remain overnight in the express shed, and how he had placed it.

"Just take a casual glance over there on your rounds, will you, Mr. McCarthy?" he continued.

"I certainly will. You set the lantern so it shows things inside, and I'll keep an eye open," acquiesced the watchman.

Bart went home feeling satisfied and relieved at the arrangement he had made.

All the same he did not sleep well that night. About daybreak he woke up with a sudden jump, for he had dreamed that Colonel Harrington had thrown him into a deep pit, and that Lem Wacker was dropping Mrs. Harrington's precious trunk on top of him.