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

AN EARLY "CALL"

The young express agent was conscious that he shouted outright in his nightmare, for the trunk he was dreaming about as it struck him seemed to explode into a thousand pieces.

The echoes of the explosion appeared to still ring in his ears, as he sat up and pulled himself together. Then he discovered that it was a real sound that had awakened him.

"Only five," he murmured, with a quick glance at the alarm clock on the bureau—"and someone at the front door!"

Rat, tat, tat! it was a sharp, distinct summons.

"Why," continued Bart briskly, jumping out of bed and hurrying on some clothes, "it's Jeff!"

Jeff was "the caller" for the roundhouse. He was a feature in the B. & M. system, and for ten years had pursued his present occupation.

"Something's up," ruminated Bart a little excitedly, as he ran down the stairs and opened the front door. "What is it, Jeff?"

"Wanted," announced the laconic caller.

"By whom?"

"McCarthy, down at the freight house."

"What's wrong?"

"He didn't tell—-just asked me to get you there quick as your feet could carry you."

"Thank you, Jeff, I'll lose no time."

Bart hurried into his clothes. Clear of the house, he ran all the way to the railroad yards.

As he rounded into them from Depot Street, he came in sight of the express office.

McCarthy, the night watchman, was seated on the platform looking down in a rueful way.

He got up as Bart approached, and the latter noticed that he looked haggard, and swayed as though his head was dizzy.

"What is it?" cried out Bart irrepressibly.

"I'm sorry, Stirling," said the watchman, "but—look there!"

Bart could not restrain a sharp cry of concern. The express office door stood open, and the padlock and staples, torn from place, lay on the platform. He rushed into the building. Then his dismay was complete.

"The trunk!" he cried—"it's gone!"

"Yes, it is!" groaned McCarthy, pressing at his heels.

Bart cast a reproachful look at the watchman. The lantern, too, had disappeared. He sank to the bench, overcome. Finally he inquired faintly:

"How did it happen?"

"I only know what happened to me," responded the watchman. "I was drugged."

"When—where—by whom?"

"It's guesswork, that, but the fact stands—I was dosed. You asked me to watch, and I did watch. Up to midnight that lantern on top of the trunk wasn't out of my sight fifteen minutes at a time."

"And then?" questioned Bart.

"I always go over to the crossing switch shanty about twelve o'clock to eat my lunch. The old switchman lends me his night key. I put my lunch in on the bench when I come on duty, and he always leaves the stove full of splinters to warm up the coffee quick. When I let myself in at midnight, the lantern here was right as a beacon—I particularly noticed it."

"How long was it before you came out again?"

"Four hours afterwards—just a little while ago."

"Then you—fell asleep?" said Bart.

"Yes, I did, and no blame to me. I'm no skulker, as you well know. I never did such a thing before in all my ten years of duty here. I was doped."

"How do you know that?" asked Bart.

"I warmed up the coffee and had my lunch," narrated the watchman. "Then I settled down for a ten minutes' comfortable smoke, as I always do. I felt sort of sickish, right away. I had noticed that the coffee tasted queer, but I fancied it might have been burned. Anyhow, half an hour ago I seemed to come out of a stupor, my head fairly splitting, and my stomach burning as though I'd taken poison. I thought of poison, somehow, and more so than ever as I reached over to see if there was any coffee left, for my throat was dry as a piece of pine board. There wasn't, but at the bottom of the pail were two or three little sticky brown dabs. I tasted the stuff. It was opium. I know, for I've used it in sickness. I stumbled out to get the air. The minute I glanced over at the express office I guessed it all out. It's a burglary, right and proper, Stirling, and the fellows who did it knew I was on the watch, got into the switch shanty, fixed the coffee and put me to sleep."

Bart rapidly turned over in his mind all that the watchman had disclosed.

"See here," he said promptly, "how many keys are there to the switch shanty?"

"Only one that I know anything of," responded McCarthy. "There can't be many, or the old switchman wouldn't have to lend me his key."

"Lem Wacker subbed for him once, didn't he?" inquired Bart pointedly.

"Yes, for a day or two—say! you don't think—" began the watchman, with a start of suspicion.

"I'm not thinking anything positive," interrupted Bart—"I am only seeking information. When Wacker subbed for the old switchman, did he have a special key?"

"N—no," answered the watchman hesitatingly, "for I remember Wacker loaned me the old switchman's key the first night. Hold on, though!" cried McCarthy with a spurt of memory, "it comes back to me clear now. The next night he told me to keep the key till the old switchman came back on duty—so he must have had an extra one of his own. They are easily got—it's a common, ordinary lock."

Bart's lips shut close. He went outside, looked keenly around, and jumped down from the platform.

The watchman trailed out after him, watching him in a worried, discouraged way. There was no doubting the word of a trusted employee like McCarthy, and Bart realized that he felt very badly over the matter.

"What is it, Stirling—have you found anything?" asked the watchman eagerly, as Bart, after inspecting the roadway, still more narrowly regarded the edges of the platform boards, running his finger over them in a critical way.

"Yes, I have," announced Bart—"that trunk was taken away from here in a wagon."

"How do you know?"

"Look at those fresh wheel tracks," directed Bart, pointing to the road. "They sided a wagon up to the platform, right here. So close, that a wheel or the body of the wagon scraped along the edges of the boards. The paint was fresh. And it was bright red," added Bart.

"You're a good one to guess that out," muttered the watchman. "Why, say—"

McCarthy gave a prodigious start and put his hand up to his head, as if some idea had occurred to him with tremendous force. "You mentioned Lem Wacker. It's funny, but last week Wacker bought a new wagon."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, it was the same one that his scapegrace nephew, Dale Wacker, was caught peddling the stolen pickles in. I saw Lem painting it fresh out in his shop only two days ago. You know I live just beyond him."

"What color?"

"Red."

"Then Lem Wacker must know something about this burglary!" declared Bart.

AT FAULT

"I am sorry," again said the night watchman, after a long thoughtful silence on the part of Bart.

"I know you are, Mr. McCarthy," returned Bart, "but nobody blames you. I've got to get back that trunk, though! you are positive about Lem Wacker's wagon being newly painted?"

"Oh, sure."

"And red?"

"Yes, a bright red. Wacker lives near us, as I said. I strolled down the alley day before yesterday. I saw his shed doors open, and Wacker putting on the paint. I remember even joking him about his experience in painting the town the same color once in awhile. He took that as a compliment, Lem did. It seems he traded for the wagon some time ago. He told me he was going to start an express company of his own."

"He seems to have done it—so far as that trunk is concerned!" murmured Bart. "Mr. McCarthy, you and I are friends?"

"Good friends, Stirling."

"And I can talk pretty freely to you?"

"I see your drift—you think Lem Wacker had a hand in this burglary?"

"I certainly do."

"Well, I'll say that I don't think he's beyond it," observed the watchman. "You'll find, though, he only had a hand in it. His way is generally using someone else for a cat's-paw."

"I am going to ask you to do something for me," resumed Bart seriously—"I'm going to get back that trunk—I've got to get it back."

"The company ought to provide you with a safe, decent building."

"That will come in time."

"No one can blame you. They can't expect you to sit up watching all night, nor carrying trunks to bed with you for safe-keeping."

"No, but the head office, while it might stand an accidental fire, will not stand a big loss on top of it. My ability to handle this express proposition successfully is at stake and, besides that, I would rather have almost anybody about my ears than Mrs. Harrington."

"The colonel's wife is a Tartar, all right," bluntly declared the night watchman. "Hello! here's somebody from Harrington's, now."

The same buckboard that had driven up the afternoon previous, came dashing to the platform as McCarthy spoke.

It was in charge of the same driver, who promptly hailed Bart with the words:

"That trunk gone yet?"

"No, not yet," answered Bart.

"Then I'm in time. Mrs. Harrington wanted to put something else in—this box. Forgot it, yesterday," and the speaker fished up an oblong package from the bottom of the wagon.

"It will have to go separate," explained Bart.

"Can't do that—it's a silk dress, and not wrapped for any hard usage. Why, what's happened!" pressed the colonel's man, shrewdly scanning the disturbed countenances of Bart and the watchman. "Door lock smashed, too, and—say! I don't see the trunk!"

He had stepped to the platform and looked inside the express shed.

Bart thought it best to explain, and did so. It made him feel more crestfallen than ever to trace in the way his auditor took it, that he anticipated some pretty lively action when Mrs. Harrington was apprised of her loss.

"You can tell Mrs. Harrington that everything possible is being done to recover the trunk," Bart told the man as he drove off. "Now then, Mr. McCarthy," he continued, turning to his companion, "I am going to ask you to take charge here till I return. I will pay you a full day's wages, even if you have to stay only an hour."

"You'll pay me nothing!" declared the watchman vigorously. "I'll camp right in your service as soon as the seven o'clock whistle blows, and you get on the trail of that missing trunk."

"I intend to," said Bart. "I will get Darry Haven to come down here. He knows the office routine. In the meantime, we had better not say much about the burglary."

"Are you going on a hunt for Lem Wacker?"

"I am."

Bart went first to the Haven home. He found Darry Haven chopping wood, told him of the burglary, and asked him to get down to the express office as soon as he could.

"If you don't come back by nine o'clock, I will arrange to stay all day," promised Darry.

Then Bart went to the house where Lem Wacker lived. It was characteristic of its proprietor—ricketty, disorderly, the yard unkept and grown over with weeds.

Smoke was coming out of the chimney. Someone was evidently astir within, but the shades were down, and Bart stole around to the rear.

The shed doors were open, and the wagon gone and the horse's stall vacant.

Bart went to the back door of the house and knocked, and in a few minutes it was opened by a thin-faced, slatternly-looking woman.

Bart knew who she was, and she apparently knew him, though they had never spoken together before. The woman's face looked interested, and then worried.

"Good morning, Mrs. Wacker," said Bart, courteously lifting his cap. "Could I see Mr. Wacker for a moment?"

"He isn't at home."

"Oh! went away early? I suppose, though, he will be back soon."

"No, he hasn't been home all night," responded the woman in a dreary, listless tone. "You work at the railroad, don't you? Have they sent for Lem? He said he was expecting a job there—we need it bad enough!"

She glanced dejectedly about the wretched kitchen as she spoke, and Bart felt truly sorry for her.

"I have no word of any work," announced Bart, "but I wish to see Mr. Wacker very much on private business." When did he leave home?

"Last night at ten o'clock."

"With his horse and wagon?"

"Why, yes," admitted the woman, with a sudden, wondering glance at Bart. "How did you know that?"

"I noticed the wagon wasn't in the shed."

"Oh, he sold it—and the horse."

"When, Mrs. Wacker?"

"Last night some men came here, two of them, about nine o'clock. They talked a long time in the sitting room, and then Lem went out and hitched up. He came into the kitchen before he went away, and told me he had a chance to sell the rig, and was going to do it, and had to go down to the Sharp Corner to treat the men and close the bargain."

"I see," murmured Bart. "Who were the men, Mrs. Wacker?"

"I don't know. One of them was here with Lem about two weeks ago, but I don't know his name, or where he lives. He don't belong in Pleasantville. Oh, dear!" she concluded, with a sigh of deep depression, "I wish Lem would get back on the road in a steady job, instead of scheming at this thing and that. He'll land us all in the poorhouse yet, for he spends all he gets down at the Corner."

Bart backed down the steps, feeling secretly that Lem Wacker would have a hard time disproving a connection with the burglary.

"Take care of the dog!" warned Mrs. Wacker as she closed the door.

Bart, passing a battered dog-house, found it tenantless, however.

"I wonder if Lem Wacker has sold the dog, too?" he reflected. "Poor Mrs. Wacker! I feel awfully sorry for her."

Bart walked rapidly back the way he had come. It was just a quarter of seven when he reached a half-street extending along and facing the railroad tracks for a single square.

The Sharp Corner was a second-class groggery and boarding house, patronized almost entirely by the poorest and most shiftless class of trackmen.

Its proprietor was one Silas Green, once a switchman, later a prize fighter, always a hard drinker, and latterly so crippled with rheumatism and liquor that he was just able to get about.

Bart went into the place to find its proprietor just opening up for the day. The dead, tainted air of the den made the young express agent almost faint. As it vividly contrasted with the sweet, garden scented atmosphere of home, he wondered how men could make it their haunt, and was sorry that even business had made it necessary for him to enter the place.

"Mr. Green," he said, approaching the bar, "I am looking for Lem Wacker. Can you tell me where I may find him?"

"Eh? oh, young Stirling, isn't it? Wacker? Why, yes, I know where he is."

He came out slowly from the obscurity of the bar, blinking his faded eyes.

Bart knew he would not be unfriendly. His father, one stormy night a few years previous, had picked up Green half frozen to death in a snowdrift, where he had fallen in a drunken stupor.

Every Christmas day since then, Green had regularly sent a jug of liquor to his father, with word by the messenger that it was for "the squarest man in Pleasantville, who had saved his life."

Mr. Stirling had set Bart a practical temperance example by pouring the liquor into the sink, but had not offended Green by declining his well-meant offerings.

Bart remembered this, and felt that he might appeal to Green to some purpose.

"Mr. Wacker is not at home," he explained, "and I wish to find him. I understand he was here last night."

"He was," assented Green. "Came here about ten, and hasn't left the house since."

"Why!" ejaculated Bart—and paused abruptly. "He is here now?"

"Asleep upstairs."

"And he has been here since—he is here now!" questioned Bart incredulously.

"He was, ten minutes ago, when I came down—" asserted Green.

Bart stood dumbfounded. He was at fault—the thought flashed over his mind in an instant.

It would not be so easy as he had fancied to run down the burglars, for if what Silas Green said was true, Lem Wacker could prove a most conclusive alibi.

A FAINT CLEW

"What's the trouble, Stirling?" inquired Silas Green, as Bart stood silently thinking out the problem set before him. "You seem sort of disappointed to find Wacker here. If you didn't think he was here, why did you come inquiring for him?"

"I knew he came here last night," said Bart. "Mrs. Wacker told me so."

"Do you want to see him?"

"No, I think not," answered Bart after a moment's reflection.

"Then is there anything else I can do for you, or tell you? You seem troubled. They say I'm a crabbed, treacherous old fellow. All the same, I would do a good turn for Robert Stirling's son!"

"Thank you," said Bart, feeling easier. "If you will, you might tell me who was with Lem Wacker last night."

"Two men—don't know them from Adam, never saw them before. Lem drove up with them in his rig about ten o'clock. They took the horse and wagon around to the side shed and came in, drank and talked a lot among themselves, and finally started playing cards in the little room yonder."

"By themselves?"

"Yes. Once, when I went in with refreshments, Wacker was in a terrible temper. It seemed he had lost all his money, and he had staked his rig and lost that, too. One of the two men laughed at him, and rallied him, remarking he would have 'his share,' whatever that meant, in a day or two, and then they would meet again and give him his revenge. By the way, I'm off in my story—Wacker did leave here, about eleven o'clock."

"Alone?"

"Yes. He was gone half an hour, came back looking wise and excited, joined his cronies again, and at midnight was helpless. My man and I carried him upstairs to bed."

"What became of the two men?"

"They sat watching the clock till closing time, one o'clock, went out, unhitched the horse, and drove off."

"I wish I knew who they were," murmured Bart.

"I suppose I might worry it out of Wacker, when he gets his head clear," suggested Green.

"I don't believe he would tell you the truth—and he might suspect."

"Suspect what?" demanded Green keenly.

"Never mind, Mr. Green. Can I take a look into the room where they spent the evening?"

"Certainly—go right in."

Bart held his breath, nearly suffocated by the mixed liquor and tobacco taint in the close, disorderly looking apartment.

His eye passed over the stained table, the broken glasses and litter of cigar stubs. Then he came nearer to the table. One corner was covered with chalk marks.

They apparently represented the score of the games the trio had played. There were three columns.

At the head of one was scrawled the name "Wacker," at the second "Buck," at the third "Hank."

Bart wondered if he had better try to interview Lem Wacker. He decided in the negative.

In the first place, Wacker would not be likely to talk with him—if he did, he would be on his guard and prevaricate; and, lastly, as long as he was asleep he was out of mischief, and helpless to interfere with Bart.

The young express agent left the Sharp Corner without saying anything further to Silas Green.

He had his theory, and his plan. His theory was that Lem Wacker, with a perfect knowledge of the express office situation, had "fixed" the night watchman's lunch, and employed two accomplices to do the rest of the work.

When Wacker woke up, he would simply say he had sold his rig to two strangers, and, so far as the actual burglary was concerned, would be able to prove a conclusive alibi.

The men who had committed the deed had driven off with the wagon and trunk, and by this time were undoubtedly at a safe distance in hiding.

Bart went home, got his breakfast, told his mother a trunk had got lost and he might have to go down the road to look it up, returned to the express office, found Darry Haven and McCarthy on duty, gave them some routine directions, and left the place.

Darry Haven followed him outside with a rather serious face.

"Bart," he said anxiously, "Mrs. Colonel Harrington drove down here a few minutes ago."

"About the trunk, I suppose."

"Yes, and she was wild over it. Said you had got rid of the trunk to spite her, because she had had some trouble with your mother."

"Nonsense! Anything else?"

"If the trunk don't show up to-day, she says she will have you arrested."

Bart shrugged his shoulders, but he was consciously uneasy.

"What did you tell her, Darry?" he inquired.

"I put on all the official dignity I could assume, but was very polite all the time, informed her that mislaid, delayed and irregular express matter were common occurrences, that the company was responsible for its contracts, counted you one of its most reliable agents, and assured her that very possibly within twenty-four hours she would find her trunk delivered safe and sound at its destination."

"Good for you!" laughed Bart. "Keep an eye on things. I'll show up, or wire, by night."

"Any clew, Bart?"

"I think so."

Bart went straight to the home of Professor Abner Cunningham.

That venerable gentleman—antiquarian, scientist and profound scholar—had a queer little place at the edge of the town where he raised wonderful bees, and grew freak squashes inside glass molds in every grotesque shape imaginable.

He was a friend to all the boys in town, and Bart joined him without ceremony as he found him out on the lawn in his skull cap and dressing gown, studying a hornets' nest with a magnifying glass.

"Ah, young Bartley—or Bartholomew, is it?" smiled the innocent-faced old scientist jovially. "I have a new volume on nomenclature that gives quite an interesting chapter on the Bartholomew subject. It takes you back to the eleventh century, in France—"

"Professor, excuse me," interrupted Bart gracefully, "but something very vital to the twentieth century is calling for urgent attention, and I wanted to ask you a question or two."

"Surely. Glad to tell you anything," assured the professor, happiest always when he was talking, and willing to talk for hours with anyone who would listen to him. "Come into the library."

"I really haven't the time, Professor," said Bart. "Please let me ask if you had charge of getting up that directory of the county that a city firm published?"

"Two years ago? yes," nodded the professor assentingly. "It was quite a pleasant and profitable task. I believe I saw about every resident in the county in preparing that directory."

"I am going to ask you a foolish question, perhaps, Professor," continued Bart, "for an accurate person like you of course took down only correct names, and not nicknames. Here is the gist of it, then. I am looking for two men, and I know only that they live outside of Pleasantville, and call themselves Buck and Hank."

"Well! well! well!" muttered Professor Cunningham in a musing tone. "Hank, proper name Henry; Buck, proper name Buckingham—hold on, I've got it! Come in!" insisted the professor animatedly. "Oh, you haven't time? Buckingham? Sure thing! Wait here, just a minute."

The professor rushed into the house, and in about two minutes came rushing out again.

He had an open book in his hand, and stumbled over flower beds and walks recklessly as he consulted it on the run, spilling out some loose papers it contained, and leaving a white trail behind him.

"You see here the value of keeping notes of everything," he panted, on reaching Bart—"nothing is lost in this world, however small. Here we are: 'County at large.' Now then, in my private notes: 'Allessandro' uncommon name—'look up—probably Greek.' 'Alaric, Altemus, Artemas, Benno, Borl, Bud—derived from Budlongor, Budmeister—Buck'—I've got it: 'Buckingham, last name Tolliver, residence: Millville, occupation none.' Hold on. We've got the clew—now for the town record."

The Professor again flitted away to the house, and darted back again with a new volume in his hand.

"Here you are!" he cried, selecting a printed page. "'Millville, population two hundred and sixty, not on railroad. R.S.T. Tappan, Tevens, Tolliver'—Ah, 'Buckingham Tolliver, Henry Tolliver,' must be brothers, I fancy. That's all I've got on record. Information any use to you?"

"Is it?" cried Bart, in profound admiration of the old bookworm's system. "Professor, you are the wisest man and one of the best men I ever met!"

A DUMB FRIEND

At three o'clock that afternoon Bart Stirling sat down to rest at the side of a dusty country road, pretty well tired out, and about ready to return to Pleasantville.

When old Professor Cunningham gave him the names Buck and Hank Tolliver, Bart was positive that the same covered the identity of the two men who had been at the Sharp Corner with Lem Wacker.

Bart had started at once for Millville. His first intention was to get a conveyance at the livery stable, his first impulse to solicit the co-operation of the town police.

While discussing these points mentally, however, a farmer driving west came down the road. He had a good team, said he was passing through Millville, seemed glad to give Bart a lift, and so it was that the young express agent found himself on the solitary lookout there, two hours before noon.

He experienced no difficulty whatever in finding out all about the Tollivers inside of twenty minutes after his arrival.

They were the last members of a shiftless, indolent family who had lived on the edge of Millville for twenty years.

When the father and mother died the family broke up. The two boys, Buck and Hank, kept bachelor's hall at the ricketty old ruin of a house on the river until ejected by its owner for non-payment of rent, and then went to the bad generally.

They patched up an abandoned shack over on the bottoms, the postmaster at Millville told Bart, and lived by fishing, hunting and their depredations on orchards and chicken coops.

In one of their nightly forays about a year previous they were captured and fined heavily. They could not pay the fine and were sent to jail for six months.

About the first of June they were released, came back to Millville, found their old shack burned down, and since then, the postmaster understood, had camped out in the woods, giving the town a wide berth—in fact, only occasionally appearing, to buy a little flour, sugar or coffee, or, mostly, tobacco.

Nobody had seen them for over a week—nobody knew anything of a newly-painted red wagon.

It seemed probable, Bart theorized, that if they had made for hiding in any of their familiar woodland haunts, they had reached the same by driving through Millville before daylight, and when nobody was astir.

Bart finally found a woodcutter who knew where the Tollivers had had their camping place the week previous. He described the spot and Bart was soon there—a secluded gully about two miles from town.

The place showed evidences of having been used as a camp, but not recently, and Bart went on a general blind hunt.

He traversed the woods for miles, both sides of a dried up rivercourse, and inquired at farmhouses and of occasional pedestrians he met.

It was all of no avail. At three o'clock in the afternoon, tired, bramble-torn and a little discouraged, he sat down by the roadside to rest and think. He began to censure himself for taking the independent course he had pursued.

"I should have telegraphed the company the circumstances of the burglary, and put the matter in the hands of the Pleasantville police," he reflected. "If the trunk had belonged to anybody except Mrs. Colonel Harrington, I would have done so at once. Somebody coming!" he interrupted his soliloquy, as he caught a vague movement through the shrubbery where the road curved.

"No—it's only a dog."

The animal came into view going a straight, fast course, its head drooping, a broken rope trailing from its neck.

Bart suddenly sprang to his feet, for, studying the animal more closely, something familiar presented itself and he ran out into the middle of the road.

"Come here—good fellow!" he hailed coaxingly, as the animal approached.

But with a slight growl, and eyeing him suspiciously, it made a detour in the road, passing him.

"Lem Wacker's dog—I am sure of that!" explained Bart, naturally excited. "Come, old fellow—here! here! what is his name? I've got it—Christmas. Come here, Christmas!"

The dog halted suddenly, faced about, and stared at Bart.

Then, when he repeated the name, it sank to its haunches panting, and, head on one side, regarded him inquiringly.

The animal was a big half-breed mastiff and shepherd dog that Lem Wacker had introduced to his railroad friends with great unction, one Christmas day.

He had claimed it to be a gift from a friend just returned from Europe, who had brought over the famous litter of pups of which it was one.

Wacker had estimated its value at five hundred dollars. Next day he cut the price in half. New Year's day, being hard up, he confidentially offered to sell it for five dollars.

After that it went begging for fifty cents and trade, and no takers. Lem kicked the poor animal around as "an ornery, no-good brute," and had to keep it tied up on his own premises all of the time to evade paying for a license tag.

Meeting the dog now, gave a new animation to Bart's thoughts.

The sequence of its appearance, here, ten miles away from home, was easy to pursue. It had broken away from its new owners—Buck and Hank Tolliver—and they were somewhere further up the road.

Christmas was making for home. It was hardly possible that the animal knew Bart, for, although he had seen it several times, he had never spoken to it before. The call of its name, however, had checked the animal, and now as Bart drew a cracker from his pocket and extended it, the dog began to advance slowly and cautiously towards him.

Bart saw the importance of making a friend of the animal. He stood perfectly still, talking in a gentle, persuasive tone.

Christmas came up to him timorously, sniffed all about his feet, and suddenly wagged its tail and put its feet up on him in a friendly manifestation of delight.

Its keen sense of scent had apparently recognized that Bart had been a visitor to the Wacker home that day. It now took the cracker from Bart's hand, then another, and as Bart sat down again stretched itself placidly and contentedly at his side.

"This looks all right," ruminated Bart speculatively. "If I can only get Christmas to go back the way he came, I feel I have found the right trail."

Bart finally arose, and the dog, too. The animal turned its face east, wagged its tail expectantly, and eagerly studied Bart's face and movements.

As he took a step up the road the animal's tail went down, nerveless, and its eyes regarded him beseechingly.

"Come on, old fellow!" hailed Bart encouragingly, patting the dog. It followed him reluctantly. Then he made a rollic of it, jumping the ditch, racing the animal, stopping abruptly, leaping over it, apparently making Christmas forget everything except that it had a friendly companion.

At length Bart induced the dog to go ahead. It led the way with evident reluctance. It would stop and eye Bart with a decidedly serious eye. He urged it forward, and finally it got down to a slow trot, sniffing the road and looking altogether out of harmony with its forced course.

Christmas was about twenty yards ahead of Bart at the end of a two miles' jaunt, when he shied to the extreme edge of the road and drew to his haunches.

Here wagon tracks led into the timber. The road had been used lately, Bart soon discerned.

"Come on, Christmas!" he hailed, branching off into the new obscure roadway.

The dog circled him, but could not be induced to leave the main road. Bart made a grab for the trailing rope. The animal eluded him, gave him one reproachful look, turned its nose east, and shot off, headed for home like an arrow.

"I've lost my ally," murmured Bart, "but I think I have got my clew. Christmas does not like this road, which looks as if he left his captors somewhere down its length. I'll try to locate them."

Bart followed the tortuous windings of the narrow road, through brush, over hillocks, down into depressions, and finally into the timber.

He came to a clearing, forcing his way past a border of prickly bushes, the tops of which seemed freshly broken, as though a wagon had recently passed over them.

As he got past them, Bart came to a decisive halt, and stared hard and with a thrill of satisfaction.

Twenty feet away, under a spreading tree, a horse was tethered, and right near it was a red wagon—holding a trunk.

FOOLING THE ENEMY

Our hero's impulse was to at once spring into the wagon and see if the trunk was still intact.

A natural cautiousness checked him, however, and he was glad of it a minute later as he detected a rustling in the thick undergrowth back of the tree.

A human figure seemed suddenly to drop to the ground, and a little distance to the left of it Bart was sure he saw two sharp human eyes fixed upon him.

He never let on that he suspected for a moment that he was not entirely alone, but, walking over to a tree stump, where, spread out on a newspaper, was the remains of a lunch, he acted delighted at the discovery, picked up a hunk of bread in one hand, a piece of cheese in the other, and, throwing himself on the green sward at full length, proceeded to munch the eatables, with every semblance of satisfaction.

Bart's mind worked quickly. He felt that it was up to him to play a part, and he prepared to do so.

He was morally certain that two persons in fancied hiding were watching his every movement, and they must be Buck and Hank Tolliver.

Bart hoped they had never seen him before; he felt pretty certain that they did not know him at all.

Bart sprang to his feet. He had thrown his cap back on his head in a "sporty," off-handish way, and he tried hard to impersonate a reckless young adventurer taking things as they came, and audacious enough to pick up a handy meal anyhow or anywhere. He paid not the least apparent attention to the wagon or the trunk, although he cast more than one sidelong glance in that direction.

He walked up to the horse, stroked its nose, and said boisterously:

"Wish I had this layout—wouldn't I reach California like a nabob, though!"

Then Bart went back to the stump. He purposely faced the patch of brush where he knew his watchers were lurking.

Ransacking his pockets, with a comical, quizzical grin on his face, he produced a solitary nickel, placed it ostentatiously on the tree stump and remarked:

"Honesty is the best policy—there you are, landlord! and much obliged for the handout."

Then, striking a jaunty dancing step, he started to cross the clearing, whistling a jolly tune.

"Hey!"

Bart half expected the summons. He halted in professed wonderment, looked up, to the right, to the left, in every direction except that from which he was well aware the hail had come.

"Look here, you!"

Bart now turned in the right direction. A man of about thirty had revealed himself from the brush.

He had small, bright eyes, a shrewd, narrow face, and Bart knew from discription who he was—Buck Tolliver.

"Why, hello! somebody here?" exclaimed Bart, feigning surprise and then fright, and he made a movement as if to run for it.

"Don't you bolt," ordered Buck Tolliver, advancing—"come back here, kid."

Bart slowly retraced his steps. Then he manifested new alarm as a second figure stepped out from the brush.

Recalling what the Millville postmaster had told him, the young express agent was quickly aware that this second individual was Buck's brother, Hank.

Buck was the spokesman and leader. He came up near to Bart and looked him over critically.

"What you doing here?" he demanded, with a suspicious frown.

"Nothing," said Bart, with a grin.

"Where do you come from?"

"Me—nowhere!" chuckled Bart, winking deliberately and then, walking over to the horse, he fondled his long ears, with the remark: "If I had a dandy rig like you've got here, I bet I'd go somewheres, though!"

"Where would you go?" inquired Buck Tolliver curiously.

"I'd go to California—that's the place to do something, and make a name, and amount to something."

Bart's off-handed ingenuousness had completely disarmed the men. He pretended to be busy petting the horse, but saw Buck Tolliver slip back to his brother, and a few quick questions and answers passed between them. Then Buck came up to him again.

"See here, kid, are you acquainted around here at all?"

"Did you ever see me around here before?" chaffed Bart audaciously.

"Don't get fresh! This is business."

"Why, yes—I reckon I could find my way from Springfield to Bascober."

Bart had mentioned two points miles remote from the Millville district.

"He'll do," spoke Hank Tolliver for the first time. "Ask him, Buck."

"Do you want to drive that rig a few miles for us for a dollar?" asked Buck Tolliver.

"Me?" cried Bart. "I guess so!"

"Can you obey orders?"

"Try me, boss."

"He'll do, I tell you. What do you want to waste time this way for!" snapped Hank Tolliver irritably.

"Hitch him up," ordered Buck to Bart. "Come on, Hank."

Bart chuckled to himself. He did not know what all this might lead to, but it was a famous start.

While he was putting on the horse's harness and hitching him up, the brothers spread a piece of canvas over the wagon box. This they tucked in, and completely covered trunk and canvas with long grass pulled from the edge of a water pit near by.

Bart had the rig in full starting shape by the time they had concluded their labors.

"What's the ticket, Captain?" he inquired of Buck, looking him squarely in the face.

"You seem to know enough not to answer questions about yourself," observed Buck—"try and be as clever if anybody quizzes you about this wagon."

"Why should they?"

"Oh, they may. If they do, you're from—let me see—Blackberry Hill, remember?"

"All right—with a load of garden truck, eh?" propounded Bart ingeniously.

"You hit it correct. What we want you to do is this: Drive down to the main road, and turn west. Keep on straight ahead, and don't turn anywhere. About nine miles west you'll hit Hamilton. Drive right through the town, but as soon as you get out of it take the first branch south from the turnpike, and keep on till you reach an old mill on the river. Wait for us there."

"Why," said Bart, "aren't you going with me?"

"No," answered Buck Tolliver definitely.

"Why not?"

"None of your business," snapped out Hank.

"Oh!"

"You mind yours, strictly, or there will be trouble," warned Buck, and Bart saw from the look in his hard face that he was a dangerous man, once aroused. "You do this job with neatness and dispatch, and it will mean a good deal more than a dollar."

"Crackey!" cried Bart, snapping the whip hilariously—"maybe this is one of those story-book happenings where a fellow strikes fame and fortune!"

"Maybe it is," assented Buck drily.

Bart climbed up to the seat. He started up the horse, the Tollivers following after the wagon till they reached the main road.

"When I get to the mill—" began Bart.

"We'll be there to meet you," announced Buck Tolliver.

"I don't see," growled Hank in an undertone to his brother, "why we would take any risk riding under that grass."

"You leave this affair to me," retorted Buck. "If the kid gets through all right, then we're all right, aren't we?"

"I suppose so."

"And we've got to wait as we agreed—for Wacker."

Bart had just turned into the main road. At the mention of that ominous name, the young express agent brought the whip down upon the horse's flanks with a sharp snap.

BART ON THE ROAD

"Get up!"

The rig that Bart was driving sped along the dusty country road at a good sharp pace.

The young express agent was undergoing the most vivid mental perturbation of his career.

He kept whistling a jolly air, with a sidelong glance observed that his recent companions had turned back towards their camp in the clearing, and then, dropping his assumption of the reckless young adventurer, stared seriously ahead and began to figure out the situation in all its details.

What had come about was quite natural and ordinary: the Tollivers were anxious to get further away from the scene of their recent crime, to a safer and more obscure haunt than the open camp in the woods.

They dared not take the journey in the day time, as they did not wish to be seen by anyone and Bart coming along, they had caught at the idea of sending him on with the wagon and its load.

If Bart got through in safety, they could assume that the hunt for the missing trunk was not very active, or had been started in some other direction.

Bart had comprehended that they could take a short cut to the old mill. He had actually laughed to himself at the ease with which he had obtained possession of the trunk, until they had mentioned that ominous name: Lem Wacker.

"They are going to wait for Wacker!" murmured Bart, as he urged on the horse. "That means that they expect him soon, for they calculate on being at the old mill as soon as I can make it by road. When he does come, and they tell him about me, he's sure to guess the truth. Then it's three to one—get up!"

Bart did not allow the horse to lag, but his best pace was a poor shambling trot. All the time Bart thought deeply and practically.

"I have decided," he spoke definitely after a quarter of an hour. "I shall turn to my left the first road I come to. The B. & M. does not touch short of eight miles from here, but somewhere to the southeast is Clyde Station. Once there, I'll risk the rest."

The road was not an easy one. It was not very smooth, and grew more stony and rutty as he proceeded, and there was a sharp climb for the horse as they reached a hilly landscape.

Bart halted finally. A road branched to the left. It did not look very inviting, nor did it seem to be much in use, but as it led away from the main highway, it broke the trail, and without hesitation he turned the horse's head in the direction of Clyde Station.

The country was open here, all rocks, gullies and pits. He was surprised to observe how little distance he had really put between himself and the Tolliver camp as the road wound out along the crest of a hill.

He jumped out to lighten the load and coax up the horse. Then he stood stock-still, straining his eyes across the valley.

"I declare!" said Bart in a tone of profound concern, "I got away just in time, but if that is Lem Wacker, he has appeared on the scene just ten minutes too soon to suit me."

Over at the break in the woods a man had appeared from the direction of Millville. He was waving a hand, and then placing it to his mouth as though hailing someone, probably the Tollivers at the camp.

Then he turned straight around. If Bart could read anything at that distance, he could certainly trace that the man was looking fixedly at the red wagon, and the white horse, and himself.

If it was Lem Wacker—and Bart believed that it was—just one thing was in order: to get that trunk to some town, to some station, to some friendly farmhouse, in hiding anywhere, before the pursuit, sure to follow, was started.

Bart ran on, with a last glance at the lone distant figure. He could not afford to wait to see if the Tollivers joined it. Every minute was precious.

"Where is the horse?" exclaimed Bart.

Dobbin had "got up." While Bart was surveying the landscape, the old animal had plodded on, and was now out of sight.

Bart ran along the road. It turned between two walls of slate. Then came the open again. Here the road descended somewhat. The horse stood at a halt. He had run easily a few rods, one wheel had struck a deep rut, and the wagon had broken down. It lay tilted over on one side, one wheel completely caved in.

Bart was dismayed. He reflected for a moment, and then followed the road ahead for about a hundred feet.

It turned through some slate heaps, lined the side of a deep excavation, and came to an abrupt end where some boards, placed crosswise, barred the sheer descent.

Just such a valley spread out beyond the barrier as on the other edge of the hill whence Bart had seen the man he believed to be Lem Wacker.

Here, however, the landscape was barren in the extreme. There was not a house visible.

Bart was in a dilemma, but he decided how he would act. He first ran back to the spot whence he had last viewed the break in the woods.

A glance stirred him up to prompt and decisive action.

Three men were now in view. They were running at their top bent of speed up the road he had taken.

"Lem Wacker and the Tollivers, sure!" murmured Bart. "They know the wagon is up here somewhere, and they will be here in less than half an hour."

Bart's one idea now was to locate some pit or cranny where he could stow the trunk where it could not be readily found.

This done, he would start on foot in the direction of Clyde Station to get assistance and return before his enemies discovered it.

There were all kinds of holes and heaps around him, but too open and public to his way of thinking. Exploring, he came to the board barrier again, climbed over it, and more critically than before scanned the fifty-foot descent, and what lay at the bottom.

"Why!" said Bart, in some astonishment, "there's a railroad track—"

He leaned over, and scrutinizingly ran his eye along the dull brown stretch of raised rails.

"And a hand car!" shouted the young express agent joyfully.

A LIMB OF THE LAW

The single track which Bart had discovered lined the bottom of the hill, followed it for a distance, and then running across the valley disappeared in among other hills and the timber.

It was a rickety concern, was unballasted, and looked as if, loosely thrown together, it had never filled its original mission and had been practically abandoned.

"I don't know of any branch of the B. & M. hereabouts," ruminated the young express agent—"certainly none corresponding to this is on the map. It is not in regular use, but that hand car looks as if it was doing service right along."

No one was in sight about the place, yet lying in plain view on the hand car were three or four coats and jumpers and as many dinner pails.

"I have no time to figure it out," breathed Bart quickly. "The first thing to do is to get the trunk down there."

Bart ran back to the wagon. He hurriedly pulled away the grass covering and then the canvas.

The trunk was revealed. He had his first full glance at it since it had been delivered to him at the express office at Pleasantville, the afternoon previous.

"It's all right," he said with satisfaction, after a critical inspection. "There is the paster I slapped over the front. The trunk could not have been opened without tearing that."

He got a good purchase on a handle and landed the trunk in the road. Then he dragged it up to the barrier, removed a board, and, perspiring and breathing hard, held it at the sheer edge of the decline and let it slide.

The hand car was a light-running affair, well-greased, in pretty good order, and he could readily observe was in constant use.

Upon it lay the clothing and dinner pails he had noticed from overhead. They evidently belonged to workmen—but where were they?

"I can hardly wait to find out," declared Bart.

He pushed off the clothing and dinner pails and lifted on the trunk.

Then Bart made a depressing discovery—the hind gearing was locked with a chain running from wheel to wheel.

This was unfortunate. Turning a heap of slate, he came suddenly and with delight upon an open tool box.

It was a regular construction case, and full of shovels, crowbars, pickaxes, sledges and drills. Bart selected a crowbar and his efforts to twist and snap the chain resulted in final success. With a thrill of satisfaction he sprang upon the car. The handles moved easily and responsively to the touch.

A grumbling roar caused him to survey the sky, which had been dull and lowering since noon.

"Storm coming," he murmured—"now for action!"

Bart started up the car. It ran as smooth as a bicycle. He was anxious to get away from the face of the hill, not knowing how near the enemy might be.

They were nearer than he fancied, for a sudden shout rang out, then a chorus of them.

A piece of rock, hurled down from the crest of the hill, struck his wrist, nearly numbing it. Glancing up, Bart saw the two Tollivers and Lem Wacker getting ready to descend.

There was a sharp incline and a short curve not ten feet ahead. Bart let the hand car drive at its own impetus.

"Stop!" yelled Buck Tolliver.

He held some object in his hand. Bart crouched by the side of the pumping standard, and the hand car spun out on the tracks crossing the valley, just as the thunder-storm broke forth in all its fury.

Bart's back was to the wind, and the wind helped his progress. As the tracks led into the timber, Bart took a last glance backwards, but rain and mist shut out all sight of the hill and his enemies.

He had no idea as to the terminus or connections of the railroad, but never relaxed his efforts as long as clear tracks showed beyond.

Bart must have gone six or seven miles, when he saw ahead some scattered houses, then a church steeple and a water tower, and he caught the echo of a locomotive whistle.

"It's the B. & M., and that is Lisle Station!" he soliloquized with unbounded satisfaction.

Fifteen minutes later, wringing wet with rain and perspiration, Bart drove the hand car up to a bumper just behind a little country depot, and leaped to the ground.

"Hello!" hailed a man inside, the station agent, staring hard at him through an open window.

Bart nodded calmly, consulting his watch and calculating mentally in a rapid way.

"See here," he said briskly, "this is Lisle Station?"

"Sure."

"On the B. & M. Then the afternoon express is due here from the east in twelve minutes."

"You seem to be well-posted."

"I ought to be," answered Bart—"I am the express agent at Pleasantville."

"What!" ejaculated the man incredulously.

"Yes," nodded Bart, smiling. "Won't you help me get this trunk to the platform?"

The station agent came outside and lent a hand as suggested, but he remarked:

"The express doesn't stop here."

"Flag it."

"My orders—"

"Won't interfere, in this case," insisted Bart. "That trunk has got two thousand dollars worth of stuff in it, and was stolen. I recovered it, the thieves are after me, and it has got to go to Cedar Lake on Number 18."

"Well! well! well!" muttered the station agent in a daze, but hastening to place the stop signal.

Bart went inside and unceremoniously approached the office desk. He wrote on a slip of paper, placed it in his pocket, shifted the trunk to the head end of the platform, and stationed himself beside it.

"Is all that you're telling me true?" propounded the bewildered station agent, sidling up to Bart's side.

"Every word of it."

"Where did you get the hand car?"

"I found it. Oh, by the way! I wish you would explain to me about that railroad; what is it, what excuse has it got for existing?"

"Oh, that?" said the station agent "It's the old quarry spur. A company built it five years ago with grand plans for shipping mottled tiling slate all over the country. Their money gave out and the scheme was never put through."

"And the hand car?"

"There's four men who live here who got the privilege of digging out slate for a big plumbers' supply house in the city. They go to the quarry and back on the hand car daily. Did they loan it to you?"

"No," said Bart, "I was in a hurry, and had to borrow it without permission."

"They'll have a fine walk back here in this storm!"

"I was going to suggest," said Bart, taking half a dollar from his pocket, "that you might hire some boy to run the hand car back to the quarry."

"I can do that," answered the station agent.

Number 18 came sailing down the rails. As she slowed up, everyone on duty from the fireman to the brakeman was on the lookout for the cause of the unusual stop.

The conductor jumped off and ran up to the station agent, and while the latter was busy explaining the situation Bart hammered on the door of the express car.

"Why it's Stirling!" cried old Ben Travers, the veteran express messenger, sliding back the door.

"You're right, Mr. Travers," assented Bart. "Here's a special and urgent. Get it aboard before the conductor comes up and jumps all over me for stopping the train."

Travers popped down in a lively fashion. They hoisted the trunk together and sent it spinning into the car.

"Cedar Lake, make a sure delivery, Mr. Travers," directed Bart. "Here, put your manifesto on that receipt, will you?" and Bart drew the slip of paper he had written on in the depot from his pocket.

The conductor, a pompous, self-contained old fellow, started towards Bart to haul him over the coals, but Bart wisely walked farther down the platform, the conductor gave the go-ahead signal and shook his fist sternly at Bart, while the latter with a gay, relieved laugh waved him back a cheery, courteous good-by.

Bart told the station agent a very little about the history of the trunk. He left a dollar to pay for the broken hand car lock. He was in high spirits as he caught the east bound train. The whistles were blowing for a quarter of six as he reached Pleasantville and leaped from the engine, where a friendly engineer had given him a free ride, and in three minutes was at the door of the little express office.

Animated voices reached him from the inside. Bart peered beyond the threshold.

McCarthy, the night watchman, sat asleep in a chair in a corner. Darry Haven was at the desk, a spruce, solemn-faced young man beside him.

"I'm here, Darry," announced Bart.

Darry turned with a joyful face. It fell as he glanced beyond his young employer to the empty platform.

"No trunk!" he murmured in a low, disappointed tone.

"Too heavy to carry around, you see!" smiled Bart lightly. "Who is this gentleman? Oh, I see—good afternoon, Mr. Stuart."

"Afternoon," crisply answered the stranger.

He was a young limb of the law, employed since the previous year in the office of Judge Monroe, the principal attorney of Pleasantville.

Stuart was a butt for even the well-meaning boys of the town. He was only nineteen, but he affected the dignity of a sage of sixty, seeming to have the idea that nothing but a severe and forbidding manner could represent the high and lofty calling he had condescended to follow.

"Ah," he observed, turning upon Bart and critically adjusting a single eyeglass, "is this the express agent?"

"That's me," assented Bart bluntly.

"I represent Monroe, Purcell & Abernethy, Attorneys," grandly announced Stuart. "We are employed by Mrs. Harrington to prosecute an inquiry as to a missing trunk."

Darry looked very serious, Bart smiled serenely in the face of his imperturbable visitor.

"What is there to prosecute, Mr. Stuart?" he inquired.

"We have come to demand certified copies of all entries and receipts of this office covering the trunk in question," announced the young sprig of the law.

"Well?" interrogated Bart.

"Your employee—assistant? here, declined to act without your authority."

"Quite right. I give it, though. Darry, make out transcripts of the records. That is all clear and regular."

Bart turned on his heel, ran his eye over the office books, and bored young Mr. Stuart terribly by paying no further attention to him.

The latter stood watching the industrious Darry with owl-like solemnity. Finally the latter handed a duplicate receipt and a copy of the entry to Stuart.

"Will you officially attest to the correctness of these, Mr.—Ah, Mr. Agent?" propounded Stuart.

"Sure," answered Bart with an off-handed alacrity that was distressing to the responsibility burdened personality of the accredited representative of Monroe, Purcell & Abernethy.

He dashed off an O.K. on the two documents, tendered them with exaggerated courtesy to his visitor, who he was well aware knew his name perfectly, and said, with the faintest suggestion of mimicry:

"Ah, Mr.—Representative, would you kindly inform me for what purpose you want these transcripts?"

"They form the basis of a criminal prosecution," announced young Stuart in a tone positively sepulchral.

"So?" murmured the young express agent smoothly. "In that case, let me suggest that you also take a copy of this document to submit to your—superiors."

Bart Stirling drew from his pocket the receipt signed by old Ben Travers on the afternoon express less than two hours previous.

Stuart adjusted his eyeglass and superciliously regarded the document. Then he turned and gasped:

"What—what is this?" he spluttered.

"A receipt for the delivery of the basis of your criminal prosecution," said Bart simply. "Mrs. Colonel Harrington's trunk is safe and sound on its way to its destination."

"Hurrah!" irresistibly shouted Darry Haven.