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Page 12
Bart set briskly at work to put into motion a plan his quick, sensible
mind had suggested.
About one hundred feet away was a rough unpainted shed-like structure.
He remembered the time, several years back, when the express office had
been located there.
It was, however, forty feet from any tracks, and for convenience sake,
when the railroad gave up the burned building which they had occupied
for unclaimed freight storage, it had been turned over to the express
people.
Bart went down to the old quarters. The door had lost its padlock and
stood half open. Inside was a heap of old boards, and empty boxes and
barrels thrown there from time to time to keep them from littering the
yards.
A truck and the little delivery cart, being outside of the burned shed,
Bart found intact. He ran them down to the building he had determined to
utilize, temporarily at least, as express headquarters for
Pleasantville.
The yards were fairly deserted except for a sleepy night watchman here
and there. It was not yet seven o'clock, but when Bart reached the
in-freight house he found it open and one or two clerks hurrying through
their work so as to get off for the day at ten.
There was a good deal of questioning, for they knew of the fire, and
knew Bart as well, and liked him, and when he made his wants known
willing hands ministered to his needs.
Bart carried back with him a hammer and some nails, a broom, a marking
pot and brush, pens, ink and a couple of tabs of paper.
As he neared the switch shanty where Lem Wacker had been on duty the day
previous, he noticed that it had been opened up since he had passed it
last. Some one was grumbling noisily inside. Bart was curious for more
reasons than one.
He placed his load on the bench outside and stuck his head in through
the open doorway.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Evans," he hailed, as he recognized the regular
flagman on duty for whom Wacker had been substituting for three days
past. "Glad to see you back. Are you all well?"
"Eh? oh, young Stirling. Say, you've had a fire. I hear your father was
burned."
"He is quite seriously hurt," answered Bart gravely.
"Too bad. I have troubles of my own, though."
"What is the matter, Mr. Evans?"
"Next time I give that lazy, good-for-nothing Lem Wacker work he'll
know it, I'm thinking! Look there--and there!"
The irate old railroader kicked over the wooden cuspidor in disgust. It
was loaded to the top with tobacco and cigarette ends. Then he cast out
half a dozen empty bottles through the open window, and went on with his
grumbling.
"What he's been up to is more than I can guess," he vociferated. "Look
at my table there, all burned with matches and covered with burnt cork.
What's he been doing with burnt cork? Running a minstrel show?"
Bart gave a start. He thought instantly of the black streaked face he
had tried to survey at the express shed window the night previous.
"My flag's gone, too," muttered old Evans, turning over things in a vain
search for it. "I'll have a word or two for Lem Wacker when it comes to
settling day, I'm thinking. He comes up to the house late last night and
tells me he don't care to work for me any longer."
"Did he?" murmured Bart thoughtfully. "Why not, I wonder?"
"Oh, he flared up big and lofty, and said he had a better job in view."
Bart went on his way surmising a good deal and suspecting more.
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