nd the hand car?"

"There's four men who live here who got the privilege of digging out
slate for a big plumbers' supply house in the city. They go to the
quarry and back on the hand car daily. Did they loan it to you?"

"No," said Bart, "I was in a hurry, and had to borrow it without
permission."

"They'll have a fine walk back here in this storm!"

"I was going to suggest," said Bart, taking half a dollar from his
pocket, "that you might hire some boy to run the hand car back to the
quarry."

"I can do that," answered the station agent.

Number 18 came sailing down the rails. As she slowed up, everyone on
duty from the fireman to the brakeman was on the lookout for the cause
of the unusual stop.

The conductor jumped off and ran up to the station agent, and while the
latter was busy explaining the situation Bart hammered on the door of
the express car.

"Why it's Stirling!" cried old Ben Travers, the veteran express
messenger, sliding back the door.

"You're right, Mr. Travers," assented Bart. "Here's a special and
urgent. Get it aboard before the conductor comes up and jumps all over
me for stopping the train."

Travers popped down in a lively fashion. They hoisted the trunk together
and sent it spinning into the car.

"Cedar Lake, make a sure delivery, Mr. Travers," directed Bart. "Here,
put your manifesto on that receipt, will you?" and Bart drew the slip of
paper he had written on in the depot from his pocket.

The conductor, a pompous, self-contained old fellow, started towards
Bart to haul him over the coals, but Bart wisely walked farther down the
platform, the conductor gave the go-ahead signal and shook his fist
sternly at Bart, while the latter with a gay, relieved laugh waved him
back a cheery, courteous good-by.

Bart told the station agent a very little about the history of the
trunk. He left a dollar to pay for the broken hand car lock. He was in
high spirits as he caught the east bound train. The whistles were
blowing for a quarter of six as he reached Pleasantville and leaped from
the engine, where a friendly engineer had given him a free ride, and in
three minutes was at the door of the little express office.

Animated voices reached him from the inside. Bart peered beyond the
threshold.

McCarthy, the night watchman, sat asleep in a chair in a corner. Darry
Haven was at the desk, a spruce, solemn-faced young man beside him.

"I'm here, Darry," announced Bart.

Darry turned with