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Page 7
It bore the inscription "1812," and according to the colonel, portrayed
a military man life-size, epaulettes, sword, uniform and all--his
maternal grandfather as he had appeared in the battle scene where he had
lost a limb.
Now, in effigy, the valiant warrior was prostrate. The colonel's
servants were rushing to the spot where the statue had tumbled over on
the velvety sward.
"See here!"--cried Bart stormingly, turning on Dale Wacker.
"Loaded," significantly observed the latter with a diabolical grin.
A rush of keen realization made Bart shiver. He recognized what the
foolhardy escapade might have cost had that whirling cannon ball met a
human, instead of an inanimate, target.
As it was, he easily calculated the indignation and resentment of the
haughty village magnate who was given to outbursts of wrath which
carried all before him.
"You've spoiled my Fourth," began Bart in a tumult. "I'll spoil your--"
"Cut for it, fellows! they're coming for us!"
"They" were the village officers. Bart had made a jump towards Dale
Wacker, but the latter had faded into the vortex of pell-mell fugitives
rushing away downhill to hiding.
Bart put after them, trying to single out the author of the scurvy joke
that he knew had serious trouble at the end of it.
"Hold on!" gasped a breathless voice.
"Don't stop me!" shouted Bart, trying to tear loose from a frantic grip.
"Oh, it's you--what do you want?"
He halted to survey the person who detained him--the man who haunted the
freight tracks--to whom he had given money earlier in the evening.
"Come, quick!" the man panted. "Express shed--where your father
is--trouble. Don't wait--not a minute."
"See here," challenged Bart, instantly startled into a new tremor of
anxiety, "what do you mean?"
But the forlorn roustabout could not be coherent. He continued to gasp
and splutter out excited adjectives, fragmentary sentences.
"Plot--get you into trouble--father--I heard 'em."
Then as his glance fell upon the people coming up the hill, the officers
in their lead, his eyes bulged with terror, he grasped Bart's arm, let
out an unearthly yell of fear, and by sheer force carried Bart
pell-mell down the other side of the hill with him.
"See here," panted Bart, as, still running, they were headed in the
direction of the railroad, "my business is here. Don't you hurry me off
in this fashion unless there's something to it."
"Told you--express shed--robbers!"
"Robbers? You mean some one is stealing something there?"
"Yes!" gulped Bart's companion.
"Who is it?"
"Don't know."
"Why didn't you stop them?"
"I don't dare do anything," the man wailed. "I'm a poor, miserable
object, but I'm your friend. I heard two fellows whispering on the
tracks near the express shed. Said they were going to steal some
fireworks. I ran to the shed to warn your father. He was asleep in his
chair. They might see me--didn't dare do anything."
Bart now believed there might be some basis to the man's statements. He
plunged forward alone, not conscious that he was outdistancing his late
companion.
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