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Page 72
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.
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