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

BART STIRLING, AUCTIONEER

It was "busy times" at the little express office at Pleasantville.

Bart had made home and lunch in half the noon hour, and entered upon a renewal of his duties with a brisk hail to his subordinates and assistants, Darry and Bob Haven.

On that especial day the services of both had been required. They had arranged to give their full time, and Bart noted that never were there more industrious and enthusiastic colleagues.

There was the sound of active hammering as Bart entered the office, which Darry suspended long enough to remark:

"How's that for the audience?"

The office space proper containing the desk and the safe had been railed off, the express stuff in and out packed conveniently in one corner, and thus three-quarters of the room was given up solely to the requirements of the day.

A dozen rough benches filled in half the space. Its other half, also railed off, held a heap of packages, bundles, boxes, barrels, a mass of heterogeneous plunder, packed up neatly, and convenient for handling.

Beside it was a raised platform, and this in turn held a rough board table on which lay a home-made gavel, and beside this was a high desk holding a blank book and a tin box.

What was "coming off" was the much advertised unclaimed package sale of the express company.

Bart had followed out the instructions received from Mr. Leslie, the superintendent, when he first took charge of the office at Pleasantville, and the sale and its details had been quite an element in his life during the past three weeks.

The various small offices in the division had sent in their uncalled for express matter, and this was now grouped under the present roof.

Mr. Haven, an ex-editor, had written up a good "puff" for a local paper, inserted gratis an exciting comment and anticipation in reference to the impending sale, and Darry and Bob had printed fifteen hundred dodgers on their home press, very neat and presentable in appearance, and these had been judiciously distributed for miles around, and posted up in stores and depots.

Bart had heard nothing further from the Harringtons—not even the echo of a "thank you" had reached him. Pleasantville for a day or two had been full of rumors as to the express robbery, but Bart decided to say very little about it, and only his intimate friends knew the actual circumstances.

McCarthy, the night watchman, however, accidentally spread Bart's fame in the right direction. He had a cousin working for the express company in the city to whom he told the story. It got to the ears of the superintendent of the express company.

Bart received a letter from Mr. Leslie the next day, requiring a circumstantial report of the stolen trunk. He answered this and received a prompt reply, directing him thereafter to always report such happenings at once, but his zeal and shrewdness were heartily commended, and a check for twenty-five dollars for extra services was inclosed.

The twenty-five dollars Bart received was the nest egg of a fund being saved up for his father's benefit.

Mr. Stirling could now distinguish night from day, and in a few weeks they intended to take him to an expert oculist in the city for special treatment.

Amid all this encouragement, Bart's life was filled with contentment and earnest endeavor, and he tried to deserve the good fortune that was his lot, and fulfill every duty thoroughly. About a week before the present time he had received a brief letter from his roustabout friend, Baker, dated from a town about fifty miles away, telling him that he had been working on a steady job, but had some business in Pleasantville in a few days, and asked Bart to write him as to the whereabouts of Colonel Harrington.

Bart had replied to this letter, wondering what mystery could possibly connect this homeless vagabond and the great ruling magnate of Pleasantville.

"Now then, my friends," said Bart briskly, as he saw to it that everything was in order for the sale, "the motto for the hour is quick action and cash on delivery!"

About two o'clock there were several arrivals. Half an hour later the place was pretty well filled. There were several village storekeepers, some traveling men from the hotel, and railroad men off duty.

Nearly a dozen country rigs drove up to the platform, and the rural population was well represented.

At three o'clock prompt, as advertised, Bart ascended the little platform and took up the gavel.

Just then he nodded at a newcomer who entered the doorway and quietly took a seat. It was Mr. Baker.

Bart was more pleased than surprised to see him. He had anticipated his arrival the last two days.

Bart tapped the table to call the crowd to order and silence.

Then he looked again at the doorway, and this time with vivid interest.

He saw Lem Wacker shuffle into view, glance keenly around, fix his eye on Baker, and steal into the room and sit down directly behind that mysterious individual.

"GOING, GOING, GONE!"

Bart made a first-class auctioneer—everybody said so after the sale was over, and the pleased grins and the good-natured attention of his audience assured the young novice of this as he concluded the introductory speech.

He had prepared a simple, witty preface to actual business, telling many truths of people who had spent a few cents for what had turned out to be worth many dollars, and inviting a good many guesses by hinting what might be in the heap upon which all eyes were fixed intently.

"Number 1129," said Bart, after taking a brief breathing spell.

Bob Haven lifted a box about two feet square to the table.

"Shipped to William Brothers, Ross Junction," announced Bart, reading the tag, "not found. Come, gentlemen! what am I bid for lot 1129?"

"What's in it?" inquired a big farmer sitting near the front.

"You will have to guess that," answered Bart pleasantly. "Ah! some kind of liquid, I should imagine," and he shook the box, its contents echoing out a mellow, gurgling sound.

"Mebbe it's paint, Samantha?" suggested the farmer to his wife. "There'd be two gallons of it—enough to cover the smokehouse. Ten cents."

"The charges are eighty-five," explained Bart—"can't start it any lower."

A blear-eyed, unsteady individual, whom Bart recognized as a member of the Sharp Corner contingent, advanced to the table.

He was thirsty-looking and eager as he poked at the box and tried to peer into it.

"A demijohn!" he muttered, his mouth watering. "Two gallons—probably prime old stuff. Eighty-five cents."

"Eighty-five—eighty-five!" repeated Bart.

"Ninety," said the farmer.

"Dollar!" mumbled the thirsty-looking man.

"Do I hear any more?" challenged Bart, gavel suspended, "once, twice, and sold to—cash."

The inebriate paid his money, chuckled and took the box to one side, hugging it like a pet child, reached over and picked up the hatchet from inside the railing, and pried open the corner of the box.

A gleesome roar of merriment interrupted Bart as he called out the second lot.

The inebriate stood disgustedly looking down at the label on the demijohn he had brought to light: "Bubbly Spring Mineral Water."

Lot 943 was a cardboard box. The suggestion of millinery made the farmer's wife a reckless bidder, and the lot brought two dollars.

Another roar went up from the crowd as she eagerly inspected her purchase. It turned out to be a man's silk hat.

She looked spiteful enough to throw it out of the window, but her husband, laughing at her, doffed his worn straw, coolly put on the elaborate headgear, and became thenceforward a target for the quips of the merry idlers about the door.

An oblong crate brought four dollars. Bob Haven got this. He did not inspect his purchase at once, but with glowing eyes whispered to his brother as he pushed it to one side that he knew it was a new bicycle.

Bart hustled the various packages up for sale and disposition with briskness and dispatch, and Darry was more than busy keeping tab on his record book and piling the cash into the tin box.

One fuming, perspiring man, looking too fat to ever get cool, found the prize he had drawn was a moth-eaten fur overcoat.

Peter Grimm, notoriously the stingiest man in Pleasantville, who raised the sourest apples in the town and spent most of his time watching the boys and picking up what fruit rolled outside of the fence, bided his time with watchful ferret eyes until a promising-looking package came along.

It was bid up pretty high, and the crowd urged him to disclose his treasure, but Grimm was not responsive to any mutual human sentiment and sat down with the package in his lap.

He began a secret inspection, however, gradually working off the paper covering at one end, and with snapping eyes worming his fingers inside the parcel.

Suddenly a sharp click echoed out, followed by a frightful yell.

Grimm sprang to his feet, jumping quickly about and swinging one arm wildly through the air, the parcel dangling from it like a bulldog hanging on to a coat tail.

"Murder!" he screamed. "Take it off! take it off!"

Bart had to step down to the rescue. Peter Grimm had drawn a patent mink trap, and was its first victim. He sneaked from the express office nursing his crushed fingers and kicking his unlucky purchase out into the road.

The pile of unclaimed stuff diminished rapidly. The various purchases were productive of all kinds of fun. Tom Partridge, the colored porter at the hotel, got a case of face powder, and an exquisite traveling man for a lace house drew a pair of rubber boots that would fit a giant.

One man disclosed his purchase to be a setting of eggs. They were packed in cotton and intact, though probably a year old.

"Take them out—take them out," yelled the crowd.

Somebody dropped a piece of wood in the box, and there was a pop. The farmer with the plug hat he-hawed at the top of his voice, the miserable owner of the eggs got mad at him, some words ensued, the farmer started after him, the egg owner ran, once outside fired an egg which struck the smooth, shiny tile with a splatter, and the farmer came back into the express office holding his nose, bareheaded, and looking for his rejected straw head-covering.

Some, however, were more fortunate. Bart encouraged and hurried the bidding on a large crate, the contents of which he easily guessed, as did also Tim Hager, the crippled son of a poor widow. Tim got it for two dollars and twenty-five cents, and it turned out to hold a first-class sewing machine.

"Your attention for a few moments, gentlemen," called out Bart as there was a hustle on the part of the audience getting together the mass of stuff they had bought. "All the unclaimed heavy express matter at Pleasantville was burned up in the fire of July third, but some twenty small parcels were in the safe, and those we will now dispose of."

"Money, jewelry, and such, I suppose?" propounded Lawyer Stebbings, who loaned money at a high rate of interest.

"We make no such representations," responded Bart. "I will say this, that no money packages are among the lot. There may be valuable papers, there may be jewelry—in fact, some of the parcels have a given value up to two hundred dollars—but the express company guarantees nothing and you bid at your own risk."

"Good! let's have a sample," demanded Stebbings. "Can I examine? Ah, thanks."

The crowd passed from hand to hand a small well-wrapped package.

"Watch!" hoarsely whispered someone.

"Feels like it!" said a second.

Stebbings bid the lot up to four dollars and got it. There was more fun as he unrolled the numerous wrappings of the package to disclose a small metal disc used in a threshing machine.

One purchaser got a gold pen, another a very pretty stick pin.

Lem Wacker had not engaged in the general commotion. He had retained his place on a bench, looking bored, but for some reason sitting out the session, and Bart wondered why.

Baker took a mild interest in what was going on, smiling appreciatively once in a while when Bart made a witty hit or an unusually good sale.

Finally, however, Wacker put up his forefinger as Bart was bidding off a thin wooden box about four inches square.

"Sender: Novelty Jewelry Company, no address," read Bart, "shipped to James Barclay, Millville—not found. This is a promising-looking package. Gentlemen, what am I bid?"

Lem Wacker seemed to have some spare cash, for he paid two dollars for the box, swaggered off with it, and opening it disclosed a very small and neat pocket alarm clock.

He wound it up, sent out its silvery call once or twice for the edification of the crowd about him, hoping to sell it off to someone, and then, there being no purchaser, with a disappointed grunt slipped it into his pocket.

"Number 529," announced Bart a few minutes later—"the last package, gentlemen!"

The crowd was dispersing, Darry was counting up the heap of bank notes and coin in the cash box, Bob was gloating and wild with delight as uncovering his purchase he brought to light a new bicycle.

The package Bart tendered was thin and flat. Two tough pieces of cardboard held it stiff and straight. It seemed to contain papers of some kind, and so many bidders had bought old deeds, contracts, plans, manuscripts and the like, utterly valueless to them, that the lot hung at twenty-five cents for several minutes.

"Come, come, gentlemen!" urged Bart—"the last may be the best. The charges are sixty-five cents. Sender's name not given. Directed to 'A.A. Adams, Pleasantville'—not found."

"Hoo! S—s—say!"

Bart experienced something of a shock.

The familiar cry of the ex-roustabout, Mr. Baker, rang out sharp and sudden.

Glancing at him, Bart saw that he had arisen to his feet.

His face was bloodless and twitching, his whole frame a-quake. His eyes were snapping wildly. He was like a man who could hardly speak or stand, and fairly on the verge of a fit.

A wavering finger he pointed at the young auctioneer, and gasped out.

"One dollar—two—three!"

MR. BAKER'S BID

The attitude, actions and announcement of the mysterious Mr. Baker filled Bart Stirling with profound surprise and wonderment.

The young express agent well knew the erratic temperment of his singular friend, but Baker had been so placid and natural up to the present moment, and this excitable outburst was so vivid and unaccountable, that Bart felt sure that there was some important reason for the same.

All eyes were now fixed on Baker. He seemed to put a dramatic climax to a varied entertainment, and appeared unconscious of everything except the package Bart held in his hand. His eyes were fixed upon this steadfastly—they seemed to burn right into it.

Lem Wacker had also arisen to his feet. Bart noticed him intently studying Baker, sidling up to him and sinking to the bench directly next to him.

There was a suspiciousness in the action that enhanced Bart's interest and curiosity, but he preserved his composure.

"Three dollars, did you say?" he inquired, in an insinuating and soothing, but strictly business tone.

"Yes!" gasped out Baker.

"I am bid—"

"Four."

Bart looked fixedly at Lem Wacker, for it was he who had spoken. Darry Haven dropped the cover of the cash box, and also stared at Wacker. There was something suggestive in the sensation of the moment.

Lem Wacker's face was as bold as brass. He was dressed pretty well and looked prosperous, and there was a mean sneer on his lips as he shamelessly returned the glance of the boy he had wronged, defiantly relying, apparently, on some reserved power he fancied he possessed.

Baker did not even look at the rival bidder. His very soul seemed centered on the package in Bart's hand.

"Five," he uttered with an effort—"six, seven!"

"Eight," said Wacker calmly, striking a cigarette between his lips.

"Ten."

"Twelve."

Baker was silent. A frightful spasm crossed his face. He swayed from side to side. Then, grasping at the bench rails to steady himself, he came up to the platform.

"Stirling!" he panted hoarsely, "I have no more money, but I must—must have that package! Lend me—"

"Whatever you wish," answered Bart promptly.

"Fifteen dollars!" said Baker.

Lem Wacker jumped to his feet, excited. He shot a hand into a pocket, drew it out again holding a pocketbook, ran over its contents, and shouted!

"Sixteen dollars!"

"Twenty!" cried Baker.

"I am offered twenty dollars," said Bart, outwardly cool as a cucumber, inwardly greatly perturbed over the incident in hand, and hastening to close it in favor of a friend. "Twenty dollars once, twenty dollars twice—"

"Stop!" yelled Lem Wacker.

"Do you bid more?" asked Bart.

"I—I do!"

"How much?"

"Double—treble—if I have to!" retorted Wacker. "Only I want you to wait until I can get the cash. I have only sixteen dollars with me—I can get a hundred and sixty in two minutes, I—"

"Terms strictly cash," said Bart simply. "Going, going, at twenty dollars—"

"Hold on! Don't you dare!" raved Wacker, swinging his arms about like a windmill. "I demand that this sale be suspended until I can get further funds."

"Twenty dollars—gone!" sung out Bart in the same business tone, "and sold to—cash."

With a sigh of relief and weakness Baker swayed sideways to a bench, first extending to Darry Haven with a shaking hand a little roll of bills.

"Charge me with the balance," said Bart quickly to his assistant, in a low tone.

"You've no right!" raved Lem Wacker loudly, shaking his fist at Bart, and in a passion of uncontrollable rage. "You'll suffer for this! I protest against this sale—I demand that you do not deliver that package, you young snob! you—"

Lem Wacker was getting abusive. He pranced about like a mad bull.

A heavy hand dropped suddenly on his collar, McCarthy, the watchman, gave him a shove towards the door.

"No talk of that kind allowed here," he remarked grimly. "Get out, or I'll fire you out!"

As Wacker disappeared through the doorway, Bart leaned from the platform.

"Here is your package, Mr. Baker," he said. "What is the trouble—are you ill?"

Baker struggled to his feet. He was in a pitiable state of agitation and nervousness.

"No! no!" he panted, "you keep the package—for a time. Till—till I explain. I've got it! I've got it at last!" he quavered in an exultant tone. "Air—I'm choking! I—I'll be back soon—"

He rushed to the door overcome, like a man on the verge of a fit.

Bart started to follow him. Just then, however, one of the recent bidders came up to ask some question about a purchase which required that Bart consult the record book.

When he had disposed of the matter, Bart hurried to the outside. Baker was nowhere in sight.

A NIGHT MESSAGE

The crowd had melted away, Bob Haven was totally engrossed with the magnificent prize he had drawn, and Darry was busily engaged in closing up the records of the sale.

Bart was thoroughly mystified at the strange conduct of Baker, and very much disappointed at not finding him, now that he sought the mysterious man.

McCarthy had gone home, and Lem Wacker was not in evidence. Some boys were guarding a pile of stuff that had been purchased and thrown aside. Bart set at work cleaning up the package coverings that littered the place inside and outside.

Things were back to normal when the afternoon express came in. It was nearly two hours late, and closing time.

There was the usual grist of store packages, which Darry attended to, and several special envelopes. These Bart placed in the safe along with the proceeds of the day derived from the sale, barely glancing over the duplicate receipt he had signed for the messenger.

He noticed that two of the specials were for the local bank, and the third for the big pickle factory of Martin & Company, at the edge of the town.

"Both closed up by this time," ruminated Bart. "We can't deliver to-night. Anything very urgent among that stuff, Darry?"

"Nothing," replied his young assistant.

"You can go home, then," directed Bart. "Pretty tired, eh? A big day's work, this."

"Say, Bart," spoke up Darry, as he dallied at the door, "who was the fellow that bought that last package?"

"A friend of mine, Darry," answered Bart seriously. "And I am worried about him. He is the man I told you about who helped me save my father the night of the fire."

"He acted very queerly. And Lem Wacker, too," added Darry thoughtfully. "Is something new up, Bart? The way Wacker carried on, he seemed to have some idea in his head."

"He had the idea he could bulldoze me," said Bart bluntly, "and found he couldn't. What bothers me is, why were both of them so anxious to get this package?"

Bart took it out of his pocket as he spoke, nodded good night to Darry, and sat down on a bench, turning the parcel over and over in his hand.

"A.A. Adams," he read from the tag, "a queer name, and no one answering to it here in Pleasantville. I wonder why Baker was so excited when he heard that name? I wonder why Lem Wacker bid it up? Is he aware of the mystery surrounding Baker? Has this package got something to do with it? Wacker looked as though he had struck a prosperous streak, and bragged recklessly about the lot of money he could get. I must find Baker. He was in no condition, mentally or physically, to wander about at random."

The package in question, Bart decided, held papers. It had been given him in trust, and he could not open it without Baker's permission. He replaced it in his pocket and went forth.

Bart visited all of Baker's old familiar haunts in the freight yards, but found no trace of him. Then he called at the Sharp Corner. Its proprietor claimed that Lem Wacker had not been there since noon.

Bart spoke to two of the yards night watchmen. He described Baker, and requested them to speak to him if they ran across him, and to tell him that Bart Stirling was very anxious to see him up at his house.

Affairs at the little express office had settled down to routine when, one morning, Darry Haven dropped into the place.

He found Bart engrossed in reading a letter very carefully. Its envelope lay on the desk. Glancing at it casually, Darry saw that it was from express headquarters.

"Anything wrong?" he inquired, as Bart folded up the letter and placed it in his pocket.

"Not with me, anyway," replied Bart with a smile. "There is something wrong at Cardysville, a hundred miles or so down the main line," he went on.

"And how does that interest you, Bart?"

"Why, it seems I have got to go down there on some business for the Company."

"To-day?"

"The sooner the better, that letter says. It is from the inspector. It is quite flattering to me, for he starts out with complimenting the excellent business system this office has always sustained."

"H'm!" chuckled Darry—"any mention of your valued extra help?"

"No, but that may come along, for you have got to represent me here again to-day, and possibly to-morrow."

"Is that so?" said Darry. "Well, I guess I can arrange."

"You see," explained Bart, "the letter is a sort of confidential one. Reading between the lines, I assume that a certain Peter Pope, now express agent at Cardysville, and evidently recently appointed, is a relative of one of the officials of the company. Anyway, he has been running—or not running—things for a week. The inspector writes that the man has very little to do, for it is a small station, but that very little he appears to do very badly."

"How, Bart?"

"His reports and returns are all mixed up. He doesn't have the least idea of how to run things intelligently. The inspector asks me to go and see him, take some of our blanks, open a set of books for him, and try and install a system that will bring things around clearer."

"Why, Bart," exclaimed Darry, "they have promoted you!"

"I don't see it, Darry."

"That's traveling auditor's work. Besides, a delicate and confidential mission for an official. Wake up! you've struck a higher rung on the ladder, and I'll wager they'll boost you fast."

"Nonsense, Darry, I happen to be handy and accommodating, and they don't want to turn the fellow down on account of his 'pull.' Maybe they think the offer and suggestions of a boy will have a result where a regular official visit would offend Mr. Peter Pope's backer—see?"

All the same, Bart felt very much pleased over this unexpected communication. He blessed his lucky stars that he had such a bright and dependable substitute at hand as Darry Haven.

The latter soon made his school and home arrangements, and Bart left affairs in his hands about ten o'clock, catching the train west after getting a pass for the Cardysville round trip.

It was two o'clock when the train arrived at Bart's destination. He found Cardysville to be a place of about 2,000 inhabitants. Most of the town, however, lay half-a-mile away from the B. < M. Railroad, another line cutting in farther north.

Bart noticed crowds of people and a circus tent in the distance. The express shed was a gloomy little den of a place on a spur track. Near the depot was a small lunch counter. Bart got something to eat, and strolled down the tracks.

As he drew near to the express shed, Bart noticed an old armchair out on its platform.

A very stout man in his shirt sleeves sat in this, smoking a pipe.

He got up and waddled around restlessly. Bart noticed that he approached the door of the express office on tiptoe. He acted scared, for, bending his ear to listen, he retreated precipitately. Then he stood stock-still, staring stupidly at the building.

He gave a nervous start as Bart came up behind him—quite a jump, in fact. Bart, studying his flabby, uneasy face, wondered what was the matter with the man.

"Hello!" jerked out the Cardysville express agent. "Sort of startled me."

"Are you Mr. Pope?" inquired Bart.

"Yes, that's me," assented the other. "Stranger here? looking for me?"

"I am," answered Bart. "My name is Stirling. I work at the express office at Pleasantville."

"Oh, yes, I've heard of you," said Peter Pope. "The express inspector wrote me about you. He said you was a young kid, sort of green in the business, who might drop in on me to get some points on the business."

"Quite so," nodded Bart with a side smile, "catching on," as the phrase goes, and at once falling in with the way the inspector was working matters. "We can't learn too much about the express business, you know, and I thought that by comparing notes with you we might dig out something of mutual benefit."

"You bet!" responded Pope, perking up quite grandly. "The Vice-President of the express company is my cousin. I've got a big pull. Soon as I get the ropes learned, I'm going for a manager's job in the city."

"That will be quite fine," said Bart. "I brought some books and blanks with me, and, if you can spare the time, I would like to have you see how our system strikes you."

"Sure. Come in—no, that is, I'll bring out a chair. I keep only one record. I've got this business simplified down to a lead pencil and a scratch book, see?"

Bart did "see," and knew that the express inspector had "seen," also. He wondered why Pope did not take him into the office. He marveled still more as, watching Pope, he noticed he hesitated at the door of the express shed. Then Pope moved forward as if actually unwilling to enter the place.

Half a minute after he had disappeared within the shed, Pope came rushing out, pale and flustered. He tumbled over the chair he was bringing to Bart, and a book he carried went flying from under his arm into the dirt of the road beyond the platform.

"Why," exclaimed Bart, in some surprise, "what is the matter, Mr. Pope?"

"Matter!" gasped Pope, his eyes rolling, as he backed away from the doorway, "say, that place is haunted!"

"What place?"

"The express room. I've been worried for an hour. It's nigh tuckered me out."

"What has?" inquired Bart

"Groans, hisses, rustlings. I thought a while back that someone was hiding in among the express stuff, and trying to scare me. 'Taint so, though. I went among it, and there's no place for anybody to hide."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Bart reassuringly, "you are only nervous, Mr. Pope. It's some live freight, likely. Can I take a look?"

"Sure—wish you would. I've been posting up on express business, you see, maybe that's the matter. Read about fellows hiding in boxes, and jumping out and murdering the messenger. Read about enemies sending a man exploding bombs, and blowing him to pieces."

"Nonsense, Mr. Pope!" said Bart, "you don't look as if you had an enemy in the world."

"I haven't," declared Peter Pope, "but every business man has his rivals, of course. I've heard that those city chaps have an eye on any fellow that makes a record like I'm making here. They don't want to see him get ahead. They must guess that I'm in line for a big promotion, and that might worry them into playing some tragical trick on me."

Bart wanted to laugh outright. He kept a straight face, and solemnly started to investigate the trouble. He stepped into the express room and took a keen look around, Pope timorously following him.

"There!" panted Pope suddenly, "what did I tell you?"

"That's so," said Bart. "It is sort of mysterious. Someone groaned, sure. What have you here, anyway?"

Bart went over to a heap of express matter, come in just that morning. There were several small crates, a box or two, and a very large trunk. Bart centered his attention on this latter. He stooped down as his quick eye observed a row of holes at one end, just under the hauling strap.

"Quiet, for a minute," he whispered warningly to Pope, who, big-eyed and trembling, resembled a man on the threshold of some most appalling discovery.

Bart's strained hearing shortly caught a rustling sound. It was followed by a kind of choking moan. Unmistakably, he decided, both came from the trunk.

"Is it locked? No," he said, examining the front of the trunk. Then Bart snapped back its two catches. He seized the cover and threw it back.

"Gracious!" gasped Peter Pope.

Bart himself was a trifle startled.

As the trunk cover lifted, a man stepped out.

ON THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

"Air—and water!" panted the mysterious occupant of the trunk.

Bart looked him over in some wonder. He was a short, wiry man, and arrayed in a close-fitting costume resembling that of the circus athlete on duty.

The man was drenched with perspiration and so nearly exhausted with his suffocating imprisonment, that his voice was rasping and hollow.

He was weak, too. As he stepped over the side of the trunk he staggered feebly. Then, making out an open window and a pail of drinking water on a bench near it, he made a swift dive in that direction.

First the man stuck his head out of the window and drew in great draughts of pure, fresh air.

Then he seized the tin cup near the pail. He dipped up the water and drank cupful after cupful until Bart eyed him in some alarm.

"Ah—h!" breathed the man in a long aspiration of relief and enjoyment, "that's better. Say, ten minutes more and there would have been no Professor Rigoletto."

As he spoke he went back to the trunk. He took out a long gossamer rain coat that had been used as a pillow. This he proceeded to put on.

It came to his feet. He buttoned it up, drew a jaunty crush cap from one of its pockets, and grinned pleasantly into the face of the petrified Peter Pope.

"See here!" blurted out the Cardysville express agent, "this isn't—isn't regular. It isn't schedule, you know."

"I hope not—sincerely," airily retorted the stranger. "Fifty miles on a slow train, three hours waiting in a close trunk. Ah, no. But I've arrived. Ha, ha, that's so!"

He glanced into the trunk. Its bottom seemed covered with some coarse burlap. Professor Rigoletto threw shut the cover.

"Aha!" he said suddenly, bending his ear as a strain of distant circus music floated on the air. "Show on, I'll be late. I'll call later—"

"No, you don't!" interrupted Pope, recovering from his fright, and placing his bulky form in the doorway.

"Don't what, my friend?" mildly asked the Professor.

"Deadhead—beat the express company. You're one trunk—and excess weight."

"I don't dispute it. What, then?"

"Pay," promptly and definitely announced the agent.

"Can't. Haven't a cent. That's why I had to get a friend to ship me this way. But he said he'd wire ahead to my partner with the circus, who would call for me here. I'll go and find him, and settle the bill."

"You don't leave here until those charges are paid. You want to be rapid, too," declared Pope, "or I'll see if the railroad company don't want to collect fare, as well."

"Want to keep me here, eh?" murmured the Professor thoughtfully. "Well, I'm agreeable, only you'll have to feed and bed me. If I'm live stock, I demand live-stock privileges, see?"

The express agent looked worried.

"What am I to do?" he asked, in a quandary, of Bart.

"Oh," smiled Bart, "I guess you had better trust him to find his friend and come back with the money."

"I'll hold the trunk, anyway," observed Pope. "What have you got in it? Some old worthless togs, I suppose."

"Mistake—about a thousand dollars in value," coolly retorted the Professor.

"Yes, you have! I thought so. Some old burlap."

"Careful, my friend!" spoke the deadhead sharply. "There's nothing there that you will care to see."

"Isn't there? I'll investigate, just the same," declared Pope, throwing back the trunk cover and delving in the heap of burlap. "Murder! Help!"

Peter Pope uttered a fearful yell. He backed from the trunk suddenly, A sinuous, hissing form had risen up before his face.

This was an enormous cobra, and, under the circumstances, very frightful to see. The Cardysville express agent made a headlong bolt for the door. He slid clear outside across the platform, and landed in the mud of the road.

"Prt! prt! Caesar, so—so!" spoke Professor Rigoletto in a peculiar, purring tone, approaching the serpent.

He coaxed and forced the big snake back into its warm coverings, and shut down the trunk cover and clasped it. Bart, highly edified at the unique incident, followed him outside.

"I'm the Cingalese snake-charmer," explained Professor Rigoletto. "Sorry, my friend," he observed to the wry-faced Pope, who was busy scraping the mud from his clothing, "but I told you so."

"Ugh!" shuddered the agent. "You get that trunk out of here double-quick, or I'll have you arrested."

"Sure, I will," answered the Professor with alacrity, "and I promise you that I will bring or send you the express charges by the time the show is over."

Professor Rigoletto dragged the trunk to the platform. It was not a heavy burden, now. Bart good-humoredly assisted him in getting it balanced properly on his shoulder. The professor courteously thanked him and asked him to come and see the show free, and marched off quite contented with the result of his daring deadhead experiment.

The Cardysville express agent was greatly worked up over the incident of the hour. It was some time before he could get his mind sufficiently calmed down to discuss business affairs coherently.

Bart, however, handled the man in a pleasant, politic manner, and soon had results working.

He let Peter Pope imagine that he was the originator of every idea that he, Bart himself, suggested. He very deftly introduced the system in vogue at the Pleasantville express office.

In fact, at the end of two hours Bart had accomplished all he had been sent to do. He had got Pope's records into sensible shape, had opened a small set of books for him, and knew that the inspector must be pleased with the results.

Bart had missed the early afternoon train. There was no other running to Pleasantville direct until eleven o'clock that night.

He had planned to put in the time strolling about town, when Professor Rigoletto appeared. He was accompanied by a friend.

The latter ascertained the express charges on the trunk, paid them, and handed both Bart and Pope a free ticket to the evening's entertainment.

Bart took a stroll by himself, got his supper at a neat little restaurant, and met Pope as agreed at the door of the main show tent at seven o'clock.

They were given good seats, and they had the pleasure of seeing Professor Rigoletto and his big snake under more agreeable conditions than those of their first introduction to them.

The show was a very good one, and at half-past ten they left the tent. The Cardysville express agent accompanied Bart to the depot, where the east bound train was due to arrive in thirty minutes.

As they walked up and down the platform, a horse and wagon drove up to the little express shed. Pope went over to it. Bart accompanied him.

The driver of the wagon was a brisk, smart-looking farmery individual. Pope knew him, and nodded to him in a friendly fashion.

"Come after something?" inquired the agent "I don't recall that there is anything here for you."

"No, I want to express these hives," answered the farmer.

He indicated six boxes lying in his wagon, covered with gauze.

"Bother!" said Pope, a little crossly. "That's no midnight job. Why don't you come in the daytime, Mr. Simms? You just caught me here by chance, at this outlandish hour."

"Particular shipment," explained Simms, "and I've got to catch the trains just right. You see, these are special imported Italian bees, Breeders. I reckon every one of those beauties is worth half-a-dollar. They're very delicate in this climate, and call for great care. I want you to instruct the messenger to follow the directions carded on the boxes."

"I can do that," said Pope. "What he will do, is another thing."

"You see," continued the farmer, "if they handle them carefully at Pleasantville, and see that they catch the early express to the city from there, someone will be waiting to take them in charge at the terminus. I'd be awful glad to tip the messenger handsomely to have someone at Pleasantville, where they transfer the hives, open the ventilators for a spell and tip down into the pans some of the honey syrup."

"I will do that for you, sir," spoke up Bart—"I am in charge of the express office at Pleasantville. I am going on this train, and I will be glad to see that your goods are attended to just right, and transferred on time."

"Say, will you?" exclaimed the farmer in a pleased tone. "Now, that's just the ticket! The wrong draught on those bees, or too much bad air, or too little feed, and they die off in dozens. You see, at fifty cents apiece, that means quite a loss on an unlucky shipment."

"It does, indeed, Mr. Simms," responded Bart "I am very much interested in the little workers, and you can rest easy as to their being rightly cared for. I believe I will ride to Pleasantville in the express car, so your bees will be right under my eye till they are put on the city express."

"Thank you, thank you," said the farmer heartily.

As the train whistled in the distance, he came up to Bart and slipped a bank note in his hand.

Bart demurred, but it was no use. He found himself two dollars richer for his accommodating proposition.

As the train drew up, Peter Pope rapped at the door of the express car. A sleepy-eyed messenger opened it. The hives were shoved in. Bart made a brief explanation to the messenger, showing his pass. He waved a pleasant adieu to Pope and the farmer as the express car door was closed and locked.

When Bart got home he was more than tired out. But he had done well and in the end got full praise for his work.

A day passed, and Bart failed to find Baker. He hunted everywhere and kept up the search until he knew not where to look further.

Bart went home. He had scarcely reached his bedroom when there was a vigorous summons at the front door.

"I hope it is Baker," murmured Bart, as he slipped on the coat he had just taken off.

"A telegram, Bart," said his mother, at the bottom of the stairs.

She had receipted for it. Bart tore it open wonderingly, glancing first at the signature, and marveling at its unusual length. It was signed by Robert Leslie, superintendent of the express company, at the city end of the line.

This is what it said:

"Special II. 256 by afternoon express, for Martin & Company, Pleasantville, contains fifteen thousand dollars in cash, sender Dunn & Son, Importers. They ask me to make a special delivery, and will defray any extra cost for having it accepted personally by A.B. Martin, and receipted for by him in the presence of witnesses. Delivery to be legal, must be made before twelve, midnight, and this certified to. This is a very important matter for one of the company's largest customers. Be sure to make delivery on time."

Bart read the telegram over twice, taking in its important details, with a serious face.

"Fifteen thousand dollars!" he repeated. "It has saved me some worry that I did not discover the amount before. As to the delivery, that is easy. I've got over two hours yet. I see what it is. Martin & Company probably want to throw up a contract because prices have gone up, the contract must be made binding by payment of fifteen thousand dollars by midnight, or Dunn & Son lose. All right."

His mother noticed that some important business was on her son's mind, and only told Bart to take care of himself.

Bart hurried towards the express office. At a street crossing he paused, to let pass a close carriage that was driven along at a furious rate of speed in the direction from which he had just come.

"Hello!" he forcibly ejaculated, as it flashed by him, the corner street lamp irradiating its interior brightly—"there's queer company for you!"

The remark was warranted. The occupants of the vehicle were Colonel Jeptha Harrington and Lem Wacker.

LATE VISITORS

The little express office was dark and lonely-looking when Bart again reached it.

Bart unlocked the office door, shot the inside bolt carefully after him, lighted the lantern, placed it on the desk, and opened the safe.

As he selected the big brown envelope marked "Martin & Company," and bearing the express company's shining green seals, his fingers tingled. The immensity of the sum intrusted to his charge perturbed him a trifle.

Bart relocked the safe, stowed the envelope in an inner pocket, and opened the drawer of a little stand leaning against the safe.

He took out a revolver. Mr. Leslie himself had advised him to always have one handy in the express office. Bart had never touched the weapon before. It had been loaned him by Mr. Haven, and Darry had brought it to the office. Bart slipped it now into a side pocket.

He noticed in detail the entry on the messenger's slip. The prepaid charges on the Martin & Company consignment were seven dollars and seventy-five cents, or five cents for every hundred dollars or fraction of it over the first fifty dollars, which was charged for at regular tariff rates, twenty-five cents.

"It is fifteen thousand dollars, right enough!" mused Bart. "Now, to make sure of the form of receipt."

He filled out a special receipt that acknowledged besides the usual delivery, a verification of the amount of the inclosure, its acceptance as correct, and left a blank for the names of two witnesses.

Bart was now ready to sally forth on his peculiar errand, and had fully decided in his mind the persons he would get to act as his witnesses.

"What is that!" he questioned, suddenly and sharply.

He could hear a springy vehicle bound over the near tracks, and then its wheels cut the loose cindered road leading up to the express office.

It halted. He could catch the quick, labored breathing of two horses, a carriage door creaked! some low voices made a brief hum of conversation, and the vehicle seemed to depart.

Bart stood stock-still, wondering and guessing. Footsteps sounded on the platform. There came a thundering thump as of a heavy cane on the office door.

"Who is there?" demanded Bart.

"Colonel Harrington. I've got to see you."

"Come in," Bart said, unbolting the door.

Colonel Harrington was red of face and fussy of manner. He threw the door shut with his foot, and sank to a bench, breathing heavily.

"Was there something you wanted to say to me, Colonel Harrington?" inquired Bart.

"Yes there was!" snapped out the rich man of Pleasantville. "Anxious to see you! Just drove up to your house. They told me you were here. I once offered you a hundred dollars."

Bart nodded, with a faint smile.

"It wasn't enough," stumbled on the colonel. "I am now going to make it a thousand."

"Why, what for, Colonel Harrington?" demanded Bart in surprise.

"Because you can earn it."

"How?"

"Shall I be blunt and plain?"

"It is always the best way."

"Very well, then," resumed the colonel desperately. "A certain unclaimed express package was sold here to-day, marked A.A. Adams. You've got it."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, you know it and I want it. Hand it over, and here"—the colonel made a dive for his pocketbook—"here's your thousand dollars."

Bart made a signal of remonstrance with his hand, his face grave and decided.

"Stop right there, Colonel Harrington," he said forcibly. "Are you aware that you are offering a bribe to a bonded representative of the express company?"

"Rot take your express company!" growled the colonel angrily. "I am one of its stock-holders. I could buy the whole concern out, if I wanted to!"

"Until you do, I obey official instructions," announced Bart. "Please do not degrade yourself and embarrass me, Colonel Harrington, by saying anything further on this score. I will not sell my honor, nor swerve a hair's breadth from a line of duty plain and clear. The package you refer to was legally purchased by the highest bidder, I hold it temporarily in trust for him. It is as safe and sacred with me as if it was the property of the First National Bank of Pleasantville."

Colonel Harrington squirmed, got red and pale by turns, gripped his cane fiercely, and then, relaxed with a groan.

"It's my property!" he declared. "I can prove it's my property."

"Then I suggest that you persuade the person who bought it of that fact," said Bart.

"Say!" shot out the colonel eagerly, his eye brightening, "if I bring an order from that same person, will you give up the package?"

Bart hesitated.

"You know where he is, then?" he inquired suspiciously.

"I—I might find him," stammered the military man.

"I do not think I would," said Bart. "Bring him here personally, and I will hand it over to him—in your presence, if he says so."

The colonel groaned again. It was plainly to be seen that he was in an intense inward frenzy.

"Stirling, you've got to give me that package!" he cried, springing to his feet and lifting his cane threateningly.

"Have I?" said Bart, facing him watchingly.

"Be careful, Colonel Harrington! you are pretty near committing a criminal offense."

"You're in the plot—you know all about it! Give up that package, or—or—"

"Colonel Harrington," said Bart calmly, but every word ringing out as clear as the tone of a bell, "I am no ruffian, and I hate violence, but if you lift that cane to me again—I'll shoot."

Bart showed the gleaming top of the weapon in his pocket, backing to the door.

Just then the door behind him was forcibly thrust open, its edge hitting him violently. Then someone pounced upon him.

The attack was sudden and effective. A piece of rope was looped deftly about Bart's arms, holding him helpless, secured behind, and as he was pushed roughly against the desk. Lem Wacker's evil face leered down upon him.

"Don't you holler!" ordered Lem.

As he spoke, he leaned over the railing. The waste box held a mass of cotton that had packed some of the parcels disposed of at the sale that afternoon. Lem grabbed up a handful, and forcibly stuffed it into Bart's mouth.

"Wacker! Wacker!" gasped Colonel Harrington in affright, "don't—don't hurt him. This is dreadful—"

"Shut up!" ordered Lem Wacker recklessly, "you want something and don't know how to get it. I do—and will."

He snatched at Bart's tightly-buttoned coat and tore it loose, groped inside and drew out a package.

"I've got it," he announced. "No!—he ripped off the end of the parcel—here's a haul."

Bart writhed, choked on the loose strangling filaments of cotton, but could not utter a word.

"Give me that package!" cried the colonel. "Stop! where are you going?"

Lem Wacker had bolted. The colonel stared in marveling astonishment as his cohort sprang through the open doorway. Bart had managed to wad the cotton in his mouth into a compact wet mass, enabling him to speak.

"Colonel Harrington!" he cried, "that man has not got the package you were after. He has instead stolen a money envelope for Martin & Company containing fifteen thousand dollars in currency, and is making off with it. Cut this rope instantly that I may pursue him, or I give you my word that, as a partner in his crime, rich as you are, and influential as you are, you shall go to the State penitentiary."

THIRTY SECONDS OF TWELVE

It was an exciting moment. Bart was intently worked up, but he kept his head level. Everything hung on the action of the next two minutes.

Whatever price the rich Colonel Harrington was paying Lem Wacker for his coöperation, it was not enough to blind that individual to a realization of the fact that accident had placed in Wacker's grasp the great haul of his life, and he was making off with this fortune, leaving the colonel in the lurch.

The latter stood shaking like an aspen, his face the color of chalk. Apparently he took in and believed every word that Bart had spoken.

"I'm in a fix—a terrible fix!" he groaned. "This is dreadful—dreadful!"

"Mend it, then!" cried Bart. "Quick! if you have one spark of sense or manhood in you. There's a knife—cut this rope."

With quivering fingers Colonel Harrington took up from the desk the office knife used for cutting string. It was keen-bladed as a razor. Unsteady and bungling as was his stroke, he severed the rope partly, and Bart burst his bonds free.

"Stay here," called out the young express agent sharply. "I hold you responsible for this office till I return!"

He dashed outside like a rocket, scanned the whole roadway expanse, and darted for the freight yards with the speed of the wind.

The electric arc lights were sparsely scattered, but there was sufficient illumination for him to make out a fugitive figure just crossing the broad roadway towards the freight tracks.

It was Lem Wacker. A train of empty box freights blocked his way. He stooped, made a diving scurry under one of them, and was lost to view.

Bart ran as he had never run before. The train cleared the tracks as he reached the spot where Wacker had disappeared.

At that moment above the jangling, clumping activity of the yards there arose on the night air one frightful, piercing shriek.

Bart halted with a nameless shock, for the utterance was distinctly human and curdling. He glanced after the receding train, fancying that Wacker might have got caught under the cars and was being dragged along with them.

That roadbed was clear, however. Two hundred feet to the right was a second train. Its forward section was moving off, having just thrown some cars against others stationary on a siding.

Bart ran towards these. Wacker could not have so suddenly disappeared in any other direction. He crossed between bumpers, and glanced eagerly all around. There was no hiding-place nearer than the repair shops, and they were five hundred feet distant.

Wacker could not possibly have reached their precincts in the limited space of time afforded since Bart had last lost sight of him.

"He is hiding in some of those cars," decided Bart, "or he has swung onto the bumpers of the section pulling out—hark!"

Bart pricked up his ears. A strange sound floated on the air—a low, even, musical tinkle.

Its source could not be far distant. Bart ran along the side of the stationary freights.

"It is Wacker, sure," he breathed, "for that is the same sound made by the little alarm clock he bought at the sale this afternoon."

The last vibrating tintinnabulations of the clock died away as Bart discovered his enemy.

Lem Wacker's burly figure and white face were discernible against the direct flare of an arc light. He seemed a part of the bumpers of two cars. Bart flared a match once, and uttered the single word:

"Caught."

Lem Wacker was clinging to the upright brake rod, and swaying there. His face was bloodless and he was writhing with pain. One foot was clamped tight, a crushed, jellied mass between two bumpers.

It seemed that his foot must have slipped just as the forward freights were switched down. This had caused that frenzied yell. Perhaps the thought of the money had impelled him not to repeat it, but the little alarm clock which he carried in his pocket had betrayed him.

Bart took in the situation at a glance. He was shocked and unnerved, but he stepped close to the writhing culprit.

"Lem Wacker," he said, "where is that money envelope?"

"In my pocket," groaned Wacker. "I've got it this time—crippled for life!"

The young express agent did not have to search for the stolen money package. It protruded from Wacker's side pocket. As he glanced it over, he saw that it was practically intact. Wacker had torn open only one corner, sufficient to observe its contents. Bart placed the envelope in his own pocket.

"I'm fainting!" declared Wacker.

Bart crossed under the bumpers to the other side of the freights. He swept the scene with a searching glance, finally detected the shifting glow of a night watchman's lantern, and ran over to its source.

He knew the watchman, and asked the man to accompany him, explaining as they went along that Lem Wacker had got caught between two freights, was held a prisoner in the bumpers with his foot crushed, and pointed the sufferer out as they neared the freights.

Wacker by this time had sunk flat on the bumpers, his limbs twisted up under him, but he managed to hold on to the brake rod. He only moaned and writhed when the horrified watchman spoke to him.

"I'll have to get help," said the latter. "They will have to switch off the front freights to get him loose."

The watchman took out his whistle and blew a kind of a call on the telegraphic system. Two minutes later Bart saw McCarthy hurriedly rounding a corner of the freight depot, and advanced towards him.

The young express agent briefly and confidentially imparted to his old friend the fact that Lem Wacker had tried to steal some money from the express office, and had got his deserts at last.

"Get him clear of the bumpers," said Bart, "carry him to the express office, call for a surgeon, and don't let him be taken away from there till I show up."

"What's moving, Stirling?" inquired McCarthy.

"Something very important. Wacker seems to be punished enough already, and I do not know that I want him placed under arrest, but he knows something he must tell me before he gets out of my reach."

"Then you had better wait."

"I can't do that," said Bart. "I have a special to deliver, on personal orders from Mr. Leslie, the express superintendent."

Bart consulted his watch. It was five minutes of eleven.

"Only a little over an hour," he reflected. "I want to hustle!"

He saw to it that the recovered package was safely stowed in an inner pocket, and started by the shortest cut he knew from the yards.

Bart did not even pause at the express office, where he had left Colonel Harrington. He ran all the way half across the silent, sleeping town, and never halted until he reached the Haven homestead.

He did not go to the front door, but, well acquainted with the disposition of the household, paused under a rear window, picked up a handful of gravel, threw it against the upper panes, and gave three low but distinct whistling trills.

He could hear a prompt rustling. In less than forty seconds Darry Haven stuck his head out of the window.

"Hello!" he hailed, rubbing his eyes.

"Come down, quick," directed Bart. "Bring Bob, too."

"What's the lark, Bart?"

"No lark at all," answered Bart—"strictly business. Don't take a minute. No need disturbing the folks. You can be back inside of an hour."

Bob, hatless and without a collar, came sliding down the lightning rod two minutes later. Darry landed on the ground almost simultaneously, simply letting himself drop from the window sill.

"Two dollars apiece for half an hour's work," said Bart, and then told his companions the details of the special mission in which he required their services.

"Ginger! but you're nerve and action," commented the admiring Bob.

"And good to your friends," put in Darry.

They passed the pickle factory. It stood on the edge of the town, and the residence of the senior partner of Martin & Company, whose name had been mentioned in the telegram, was nearly half a mile further away.

"Eleven thirty-five," announced Bart, a trifle anxiously. "It does not give us much time. I hope there's no slip anywhere."

At just fifteen minutes of midnight the strange trio passed up the graveled walk leading to the Martin mansion. The front door had a ponderous old-fashioned knocker, and Bart plied it without ceremony.

He began to grow nervous as three minutes passed by, and not the least attention was paid to his summons.

Suddenly an upper window was thrust up, and a man's head came into view.

"Who's there?" demanded a gruff, impatient voice.

"Is this Mr. Martin, Mr. A.B. Martin?" inquired Bart.

"Yes, it is—what do you want?"

"I have an express package for you," explained Bart.

"Oh, you have?" snapped Mr. Martin. "What the mischief do you mean waking a man up at midnight on a thing like that! Deliver it at the factory in the morning."

The speaker, muttering direfully under his breath, was about to slam down the window.

"Wait one moment, Mr. Martin," called up Bart sharply. "This is a special delivery, and a very important matter. I tender you this package in the presence of these witnesses, and it is a legal delivery. If you decline to come down and take it, and I leave it on your doorstep at the call of the first tramp who happens to come along, I have done my duty, and the loss is yours—a matter of fifteen thousand dollars."

"What! what!" shouted Martin.

"That is the amount."

"From—Dunn & Son?"

"I guess that's right," said Bart. "Will you come down and take it?"

Martin did not reply. He disappeared from the window, but left it open. Bart heard him muttering to himself.

"Supposing he doesn't come down?" questioned Bob, in a whisper.

"I think he will," said Bart. "Eleven forty-eight. Mr. Martin," he called out loudly, "I can't wait here all night."

"Shut up!" retorted an angry voice—"I'm hurrying all I can."

"He isn't!" spoke Darry, in a low tone to Bart. "He's on to the business, and playing for time."

"And he's beat us!" breathed Bob—"hear there! twelve o'clock. Your delivery is no good, Bart! It's just struck a new day!"

"S—sh!" warned Bart, as a clock inside the house rang out twelve silvery strokes. "The clock is wrong. We've got five minutes and a half yet."

In about two minutes a light flashed in the hall, the front door was unlocked, and Martin appeared, half-dressed. Bart relievedly put up his watch. It was just three minutes of twelve.

He instantly placed the express envelope in Martin's hands, slipping into the vestibule.

"Mr. Martin," he said, "it is necessary for you to verify the contents of this package. An accident happened to it, as you see."

Martin tore the envelope clear open, and glanced over fifteen bills of one thousand dollar denomination each.

"All right," he said gruffly.

"Will you sign this receipt?" asked Bart politely, tendering the slip of paper he had prepared at the office for this especial occasion. "Thank you," he added, as the pickle man scrawled a penciled signature at the bottom of the paper.

"I take this money," said Mr. Martin, looking up with a peculiar expression on his face, "because it is delivered by you, but I shall return it to Dunn & Son to-morrow."

"That is your business, Mr. Martin," said Bart politely.

"It is, and—something more! I call on you and your witnesses to notice that the fifteen thousand dollars was not delivered to me until six minutes after twelve, too late to make the tender legal, which makes the contract null and void."

Mr. Martin, with a triumphant sweep of his hand, pointed to a big clock at the end of the long hall.

"I beg your pardon," said Bart, holding up his watch, "but I keep official time, and it is exactly thirty seconds to midnight. Listen!"

And thirty seconds later, from the Pleasantville court house tower, the town bell rang out twelve musical strokes.