the door securely.

He was anxious to get home and then to the hospital, to impart to his
mother and father in turn the assurance that they had a bread-winner
able to work and glad to do so for their benefit.

Amid the buoyancy of the relief from the continuous strain and troubles
of the day, Bart was bent on a quick dash for home when he remembered
something that changed his plan.

"The roustabout, the poor fellow that I've got the ten dollars for, the
good fellow, if I don't mistake, who saved the books and the contents of
the safe!" exclaimed Bart. "Actually, I had forgotten all about him for
the moment."

Bart stood still thinking, looking around speculatively, his fingers
mechanically touching the bank note in his pocket which Mr. Leslie had
given him in trust.

He did not reflect long. He went at once to the freight car whence he
had seen the ragged arm extended two hours previous, and looked in.

Back at one end were some broken grapevine crates, and it was dim and
shadowy there, so he called out.

"Any one here?"

"Yes," came from the corner, and there was a rustling of straw.

"I guess I know who," said Bart. "Come out of that, my good friend, and
show yourself," he continued heartily.

"What for?" propounded a gloomy, wavering voice.

"What for? that's good!" cried Bart. "Oh, I know who you are, if I don't
know your name."

"Baker will do."

"All right, Mr. Baker, friend Baker, you're true blue and the best
friend I ever had, and I want to shake hands with you, and slap you on
the back, and--help you."

A timid, muffled figure shifted into full outline, but not into clear
view, against the side of the car.

Bart took a step nearer. He promptly caught at one hand of the
slouching figure. Then he regarded it in perplexity.

The roustabout held with his other hand a canvas bag on his head so that
it concealed nearly his entire face.

"Why!" said Bart, reaching suddenly up and momentarily pulling the
impromptu hood aside. "What's the matter now? Where is your beard and
long head of hair?"

"Burned."

"False?"

"Yes."

"Then you were disguised?"

"I tried to be," was responded faintly.

Bart stood for a moment or two queerly regarding the roustabout.

"Mr. Baker," he said finally, "I am bound to respect any wish you may
suggest, but I declare I can't understand you."

"Don't try to," advised the roustabout in a dreary way. "I'm not worth
it."

"Oh, yes, you are."

"And it wou