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Page 8
Reaching the tracks, Bart ran down a line of freights. The express shed
was in view at last. It was lighted up as usual, the door stood open,
and nothing suggested anything out of the ordinary.
"The fellow's cracked," reflected Bart. "Everything looks straight
here--no, it doesn't!" He checked himself abruptly. "Here! what are you
at?"
Sharp and clear Bart sang out. Approaching the express shed from the
side, his glance shifted to the rear.
The little structure had one window there, lightly barred with metal
strips. Two men stood on the platform beneath it. One of them had just
pried a strip loose with some long implement he held in his hand. The
other had just pushed up the sash by reaching through the convenient
aperture thus made.
Bart bounded to the platform with a nimble spring. As his feet clamped
down warningly on the boardway, the man who had pushed up the window
turned sharply.
"It's young Stirling!" Bart heard him mutter. "Drop it, and run."
The speaker sprang to the ground and disappeared around the corner of
the shed with the words.
His companion, who had been stooping on one knee in his prying
operations, essayed to join him, slipped, tilted over, and before he
could recover himself Bart was upon him.
"What are you about here?" demanded the latter.
The prisoner was of man-like build and proportions. He did not speak,
and tried to keep his features hidden from the rays of the near switch
light.
"Lemme go!" he mouthed, with purposely subdued intonation.
"Not till I know who you are--not till I find out what you're up to,"
declared Bart. "Turn around here. I'll stick closer than a brother till
I see that face of yours!"
He swung his captive towards the light, but a broad-peaked cap and the
partial disguise of a crudely blackened face defeated his purpose.
Bart was about to shout to his father in front, or to his roustabout
friend, whom he expected must be somewhere near by this time, when his
captive gave a jerk, tore one arm free, and whirled the other aloft.
His hand clenched the implement he had used to pry away the bars, and
Bart now saw what it was.
The object the mysterious robber was utilizing for burglarious
purposes, was the signal flag used at the switch shanty where Lem Wacker
had been doing substitute duty that day.
It consisted of a three foot iron rod, sharpened at the end. At the
blunt end the strip of red flag was wound, near the sharp end the
conventional track torpedo was held in place by its tin strap.
"Lemme go"; again growled the man.
"Never!" declared Bart.
The man's left arm was free, and he swung the iron rod aloft. Bart saw
it descending, aimed straight for his head. If he held on to the man he
could scarcely evade it.
He let go his grip, ducked, made a pass to grasp the burglar's ankle,
but missed it.
An explosion, a sharp flare, a keen shock filled the air, and before
Bart could grip the man afresh he had sprung from the platform and
vanished.
At the same instant the flag rod clattered to the boards, and a second
later, rubbing his face free from sudden pricking grains of powder, Bart
saw what had happened.
The blow intended for him had landed upon one of the iron bars of the
window with a force that exploded the track torpedo.
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