Bart Stirling's Road to Success by Allen Chapman

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CHAPTER XX

BART ON THE ROAD

"Get up!"

The rig that Bart was driving sped along the dusty country road at a
good sharp pace.

The young express agent was undergoing the most vivid mental
perturbation of his career.

He kept whistling a jolly air, with a sidelong glance observed that his
recent companions had turned back towards their camp in the clearing,
and then, dropping his assumption of the reckless young adventurer,
stared seriously ahead and began to figure out the situation in all its
details.

What had come about was quite natural and ordinary: the Tollivers were
anxious to get further away from the scene of their recent crime, to a
safer and more obscure haunt than the open camp in the woods.

They dared not take the journey in the day time, as they did not wish to
be seen by anyone and Bart coming along, they had caught at the idea of
sending him on with the wagon and its load.

If Bart got through in safety, they could assume that the hunt for the
missing trunk was not very active, or had been started in some other
direction.

Bart had comprehended that they could take a short cut to the old mill.
He had actually laughed to himself at the ease with which he had
obtained possession of the trunk, until they had mentioned that ominous
name: Lem Wacker.

"They are going to wait for Wacker!" murmured Bart, as he urged on the
horse. "That means that they expect him soon, for they calculate on
being at the old mill as soon as I can make it by road. When he does
come, and they tell him about me, he's sure to guess the truth. Then
it's three to one--get up!"

Bart did not allow the horse to lag, but his best pace was a poor
shambling trot. All the time Bart thought deeply and practically.

"I have decided," he spoke definitely after a quarter of an hour. "I
shall turn to my left the first road I come to. The B. & M. does not
touch short of eight miles from here, but somewhere to the southeast is
Clyde Station. Once there, I'll risk the rest."

The road was not an easy one. It was not very smooth, and grew more
stony and rutty as he proceeded, and there was a sharp climb for the
horse as they reached a hilly landscape.

Bart halted finally. A road branched to the left. It did not look very
inviting, nor did it seem to be much in use, but as it led away from the
main highway, it broke the trail, and without hesitation he turned the
horse's head in the direction of Clyde Station.

The country was open here, all rocks, gullies and pits. He was surprised
to observe how little distance he had really put between himself and the
Tolliver camp as the road wound out along the crest of a hill.

He jumped out to lighten the load and coax up the horse. Then he stood
stock-still, straining his eyes across the valley.

"I declare!" said Bart in a tone of profound concern, "I got away just
in time, but if that is Lem Wacker, he has appeared on the scene just
ten minutes too soon to suit me."

Over at the break in the woods a man had appeared from the direction of
Millville. He was waving a hand, and then placing it to his mouth as
though hailing someone, probably the Tollivers at the camp.

Then he turned straight around. If Bart could read anything at that
distance, he could certainly trace that the man was looking fixedly at
the red wagon, and the white horse, and himself.

If it was Lem Wacker--and Bart believed that it was--just one thing was
in order: to get that trunk to some town, to some station, to some
friendly farmhouse, in hiding anywhere, before the pursuit, sure to
follow, was started.

Bart ran on, with a last glance at the lone distant figure. He could not
afford to wait to see if the Tollivers joined it. Every minute was
precious.

"Where is the horse?" exclaimed Bart.

Dobbin had "got up." While Bart was surveying the landscape, the old
animal had plodded on, and was now out of sight.

Bart ran along the road. It turned between two walls of slate. Then came
the open again. Here the road descended somewhat. The horse stood at a
halt. He had run easily a few rods, one wheel had struck a deep rut, and
the wagon had broken down. It lay tilted over on one side, one wheel
completely caved in.

Bart was dismayed. He reflected for a moment, and then followed the road
ahead for about a hundred feet.

It turned through some slate heaps, lined the side of a deep
excavation, and came to an abrupt end where some boards, placed
crosswise, barred the sheer descent.

Just such a valley spread out beyond the barrier as on the other edge of
the hill whence Bart had seen the man he believed to be Lem Wacker.

Here, however, the landscape was barren in the extreme. There was not a
house visible.

Bart was in a dilemma, but he decided how he would act. He first ran
back to the spot whence he had last viewed the break in the woods.

A glance stirred him up to prompt and decisive action.

Three men were now in view. They were running at their top bent of speed
up the road he had taken.

"Lem Wacker and the Tollivers, sure!" murmured Bart. "They know the
wagon is up here somewhere, and they will be here in less than half an
hour."

Bart's one idea now was to locate some pit or cranny where he could stow
the trunk where it could not be readily found.

This done, he would start on foot in the direction of Clyde Station to
get assistance and return before his enemies discovered it.

There were all kinds of holes and heaps around him, but too open and
public to his way of thinking. Exploring, he came to the board barrier
again, climbed over it, and more critically than before scanned the
fifty-foot descent, and what lay at the bottom.

"Why!" said Bart, in some astonishment, "there's a railroad track--"

He leaned over, and scrutinizingly ran his eye along the dull brown
stretch of raised rails.

"And a hand car!" shouted the young express agent joyfully.

CHAPTER XXI

A LIMB OF THE LAW

The single track which Bart had discovered lined the bottom of the hill,
followed it for a distance, and then running across the valley
disappeared in among other hills and the timber.

It was a rickety concern, was unballasted, and looked as if, loosely
thrown together, it had never filled its original mission and had been
practically abandoned.

"I don't know of any branch of the B. & M. hereabouts," ruminated the
young express agent--"certainly none corresponding to this is on the
map. It is not in regular use, but that hand car looks as if it was
doing service right along."

No one was in sight about the place, yet lying in plain view on the hand
car were three or four coats and jumpers and as many dinner pails.

"I have no time to figure it out," breathed Bart quickly. "The first
thing to do is to get the trunk down there."

Bart ran back to the wagon. He hurriedly pulled away the grass covering
and then the canvas.

The trunk was revealed. He had his first full glance at it since it had
been delivered to him at the express office at Pleasantville, the
afternoon previous.

"It's all right," he said with satisfaction, after a critical
inspection. "There is the paster I slapped over the front. The trunk
could not have been opened without tearing that."

He got a good purchase on a handle and landed the trunk in the road.
Then he dragged it up to the barrier, removed a board, and, perspiring
and breathing hard, held it at the sheer edge of the decline and let it
slide.

The hand car was a light-running affair, well-greased, in pretty good
order, and he could readily observe was in constant use.

Upon it lay the clothing and dinner pails he had noticed from overhead.
They evidently belonged to workmen--but where were they?

"I can hardly wait to find out," declared Bart.

He pushed off the clothing and dinner pails and lifted on the trunk.

Then Bart made a depressing discovery--the hind gearing was locked with
a chain running from wheel to wheel.

This was unfortunate. Turning a heap of slate, he came suddenly and with
delight upon an open tool box.

It was a regular construction case, and full of shovels, crowbars,
pickaxes, sledges and drills. Bart selected a crowbar and his efforts to
twist and snap the chain resulted in final success. With a thrill of
satisfaction he sprang upon the car. The handles moved easily and
responsively to the touch.

A grumbling roar caused him to survey the sky, which had been dull and
lowering since noon.

"Storm coming," he murmured--"now for action!"

Bart started up the car. It ran as smooth as a bicycle. He was anxious
to get away from the face of the hill, not knowing how near the enemy
might be.

They were nearer than he fancied, for a sudden shout rang out, then a
chorus of them.

A piece of rock, hurled down from the crest of the hill, struck his
wrist, nearly numbing it. Glancing up, Bart saw the two Tollivers and
Lem Wacker getting ready to descend.

There was a sharp incline and a short curve not ten feet ahead. Bart
let the hand car drive at its own impetus.

"Stop!" yelled Buck Tolliver.

He held some object in his hand. Bart crouched by the side of the
pumping standard, and the hand car spun out on the tracks crossing the
valley, just as the thunder-storm broke forth in all its fury.

Bart's back was to the wind, and the wind helped his progress. As the
tracks led into the timber, Bart took a last glance backwards, but rain
and mist shut out all sight of the hill and his enemies.

He had no idea as to the terminus or connections of the railroad, but
never relaxed his efforts as long as clear tracks showed beyond.

Bart must have gone six or seven miles, when he saw ahead some scattered
houses, then a church steeple and a water tower, and he caught the echo
of a locomotive whistle.

"It's the B. & M., and that is Lisle Station!" he soliloquized with
unbounded satisfaction.

Fifteen minutes later, wringing wet with rain and perspiration, Bart
drove the hand car up to a bumper just behind a little country depot,
and leaped to the ground.

"Hello!" hailed a man inside, the station agent, staring hard at him
through an open window.

Bart nodded calmly, consulting his watch and calculating mentally in a
rapid way.

"See here," he said briskly, "this is Lisle Station?"

"Sure."

"On the B. & M. Then the afternoon express is due here from the east in
twelve minutes."

"You seem to be well-posted."

"I ought to be," answered Bart--"I am the express agent at
Pleasantville."

"What!" ejaculated the man incredulously.

"Yes," nodded Bart, smiling. "Won't you help me get this trunk to the
platform?"

The station agent came outside and lent a hand as suggested, but he
remarked:

"The express doesn't stop here."

"Flag it."

"My orders--"

"Won't interfere, in this case," insisted Bart. "That trunk has got two
thousand dollars worth of stuff in it, and was stolen. I recovered it,
the thieves are after me, and it has got to go to Cedar Lake on Number
18."

"Well! well! well!" muttered the station agent in a daze, but hastening
to place the stop signal.

Bart went inside and unceremoniously approached the office desk. He
wrote on a slip of paper, placed it in his pocket, shifted the trunk to
the head end of the platform, and stationed himself beside it.

"Is all that you're telling me true?" propounded the bewildered station
agent, sidling up to Bart's side.

"Every word of it."

"Where did you get the hand car?"

"I found it. Oh, by the way! I wish you would explain to me about that
railroad; what is it, what excuse has it got for existing?"

"Oh, that?" said the station agent "It's the old quarry spur. A company
built it five years ago with grand plans for shipping mottled tiling
slate all over the country. Their money gave out and the scheme was
never put through."

"And 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 a joyful face. It fell as he glanced beyond his young
employer to the empty platform.

"No trunk!" he murmured in a low, disappointed tone.

"Too heavy to carry around, you see!" smiled Bart lightly. "Who is this
gentleman? Oh, I see--good afternoon, Mr. Stuart."

"Afternoon," crisply answered the stranger.

He was a young limb of the law, employed since the previous year in the
office of Judge Monroe, the principal attorney of Pleasantville.

Stuart was a butt for even the well-meaning boys of the town. He was
only nineteen, but he affected the dignity of a sage of sixty, seeming
to have the idea that nothing but a severe and forbidding manner could
represent the high and lofty calling he had condescended to follow.

"Ah," he observed, turning upon Bart and critically adjusting a single
eyeglass, "is this the express agent?"

"That's me," assented Bart bluntly.

"I represent Monroe, Purcell & Abernethy, Attorneys," grandly announced
Stuart. "We are employed by Mrs. Harrington to prosecute an inquiry as
to a missing trunk."

Darry looked very serious, Bart smiled serenely in the face of his
imperturbable visitor.

"What is there to prosecute, Mr. Stuart?" he inquired.

"We have come to demand certified copies of all entries and receipts of
this office covering the trunk in question," announced the young sprig
of the law.

"Well?" interrogated Bart.

"Your employee--assistant? here, declined to act without your
authority."

"Quite right. I give it, though. Darry, make out transcripts of the
records. That is all clear and regular."

Bart turned on his heel, ran his eye over the office books, and bored
young Mr. Stuart terribly by paying no further attention to him.

The latter stood watching the industrious Darry with owl-like solemnity.
Finally the latter handed a duplicate receipt and a copy of the entry to
Stuart.

"Will you officially attest to the correctness of these, Mr.--Ah, Mr.
Agent?" propounded Stuart.

"Sure," answered Bart with an off-handed alacrity that was distressing
to the responsibility burdened personality of the accredited
representative of Monroe, Purcell & Abernethy.

He dashed off an O.K. on the two documents, tendered them with
exaggerated courtesy to his visitor, who he was well aware knew his name
perfectly, and said, with the faintest suggestion of mimicry:

"Ah, Mr.--Representative, would you kindly inform me for what purpose
you want these transcripts?"

"They form the basis of a criminal prosecution," announced young Stuart
in a tone positively sepulchral.

"So?" murmured the young express agent smoothly. "In that case, let me
suggest that you also take a copy of this document to submit to
your--superiors."

Bart Stirling drew from his pocket the receipt signed by old Ben Travers
on the afternoon express less than two hours previous.

Stuart adjusted his eyeglass and superciliously regarded the document.
Then he turned and gasped:

"What--what is this?" he spluttered.

"A receipt for the delivery of the basis of your criminal prosecution,"
said Bart simply. "Mrs. Colonel Harrington's trunk is safe and sound on
its way to its destination."

"Hurrah!" irresistibly shouted Darry Haven.

CHAPTER XXII

BART STIRLING, AUCTIONEER

It was "busy times" at the little express office at Pleasantville.

Bart had made home and lunch in half the noon hour, and entered upon a
renewal of his duties with a brisk hail to his subordinates and
assistants, Darry and Bob Haven.

On that especial day the services of both had been required. They had
arranged to give their full time, and Bart noted that never were there
more industrious and enthusiastic colleagues.

There was the sound of active hammering as Bart entered the office,
which Darry suspended long enough to remark:

"How's that for the audience?"

The office space proper containing the desk and the safe had been railed
off, the express stuff in and out packed conveniently in one corner,
and thus three-quarters of the room was given up solely to the
requirements of the day.

A dozen rough benches filled in half the space. Its other half, also
railed off, held a heap of packages, bundles, boxes, barrels, a mass of
heterogeneous plunder, packed up neatly, and convenient for handling.

Beside it was a raised platform, and this in turn held a rough board
table on which lay a home-made gavel, and beside this was a high desk
holding a blank book and a tin box.

What was "coming off" was the much advertised unclaimed package sale of
the express company.

Bart had followed out the instructions received from Mr. Leslie, the
superintendent, when he first took charge of the office at
Pleasantville, and the sale and its details had been quite an element in
his life during the past three weeks.

The various small offices in the division had sent in their uncalled for
express matter, and this was now grouped under the present roof.

Mr. Haven, an ex-editor, had written up a good "puff" for a local paper,
inserted gratis an exciting comment and anticipation in reference to the
impending sale, and Darry and Bob had printed fifteen hundred dodgers on
their home press, very neat and presentable in appearance, and these
had been judiciously distributed for miles around, and posted up in
stores and depots.

Bart had heard nothing further from the Harringtons--not even the echo
of a "thank you" had reached him. Pleasantville for a day or two had
been full of rumors as to the express robbery, but Bart decided to say
very little about it, and only his intimate friends knew the actual
circumstances.

McCarthy, the night watchman, however, accidentally spread Bart's fame
in the right direction. He had a cousin working for the express company
in the city to whom he told the story. It got to the ears of the
superintendent of the express company.

Bart received a letter from Mr. Leslie the next day, requiring a
circumstantial report of the stolen trunk. He answered this and received
a prompt reply, directing him thereafter to always report such
happenings at once, but his zeal and shrewdness were heartily commended,
and a check for twenty-five dollars for extra services was inclosed.

The twenty-five dollars Bart received was the nest egg of a fund being
saved up for his father's benefit.

Mr. Stirling could now distinguish night from day, and in a few weeks
they intended to take him to an expert oculist in the city for special
treatment.

Amid all this encouragement, Bart's life was filled with contentment and
earnest endeavor, and he tried to deserve the good fortune that was his
lot, and fulfill every duty thoroughly. About a week before the present
time he had received a brief letter from his roustabout friend, Baker,
dated from a town about fifty miles away, telling him that he had been
working on a steady job, but had some business in Pleasantville in a few
days, and asked Bart to write him as to the whereabouts of Colonel
Harrington.

Bart had replied to this letter, wondering what mystery could possibly
connect this homeless vagabond and the great ruling magnate of
Pleasantville.

"Now then, my friends," said Bart briskly, as he saw to it that
everything was in order for the sale, "the motto for the hour is quick
action and cash on delivery!"

About two o'clock there were several arrivals. Half an hour later the
place was pretty well filled. There were several village storekeepers,
some traveling men from the hotel, and railroad men off duty.

Nearly a dozen country rigs drove up to the platform, and the rural
population was well represented.

At three o'clock prompt, as advertised, Bart ascended the little
platform and took up the gavel.

Just then he nodded at a newcomer who entered the doorway and quietly
took a seat. It was Mr. Baker.

Bart was more pleased than surprised to see him. He had anticipated his
arrival the last two days.

Bart tapped the table to call the crowd to order and silence.

Then he looked again at the doorway, and this time with vivid interest.

He saw Lem Wacker shuffle into view, glance keenly around, fix his eye
on Baker, and steal into the room and sit down directly behind that
mysterious individual.

CHAPTER XXIII

"GOING, GOING, GONE!"

Bart made a first-class auctioneer--everybody said so after the sale was
over, and the pleased grins and the good-natured attention of his
audience assured the young novice of this as he concluded the
introductory speech.

He had prepared a simple, witty preface to actual business, telling many
truths of people who had spent a few cents for what had turned out to be
worth many dollars, and inviting a good many guesses by hinting what
might be in the heap upon which all eyes were fixed intently.

"Number 1129," said Bart, after taking a brief breathing spell.

Bob Haven lifted a box about two feet square to the table.

"Shipped to William Brothers, Ross Junction," announced Bart, reading
the tag, "not found. Come, gentlemen! what am I bid for lot 1129?"

"What's in it?" inquired a big farmer sitting near the front.

"You will have to guess that," answered Bart pleasantly. "Ah! some kind
of liquid, I should imagine," and he shook the box, its contents echoing
out a mellow, gurgling sound.

"Mebbe it's paint, Samantha?" suggested the farmer to his wife. "There'd
be two gallons of it--enough to cover the smokehouse. Ten cents."

"The charges are eighty-five," explained Bart--"can't start it any
lower."

A blear-eyed, unsteady individual, whom Bart recognized as a member of
the Sharp Corner contingent, advanced to the table.

He was thirsty-looking and eager as he poked at the box and tried to
peer into it.

"A demijohn!" he muttered, his mouth watering. "Two gallons--probably
prime old stuff. Eighty-five cents."

"Eighty-five--eighty-five!" repeated Bart.

"Ninety," said the farmer.

"Dollar!" mumbled the thirsty-looking man.

"Do I hear any more?" challenged Bart, gavel suspended, "once, twice,
and sold to--cash."

The inebriate paid his money, chuckled and took the box to one side,
hugging it like a pet child, reached over and picked up the hatchet
from inside the railing, and pried open the corner of the box.

A gleesome roar of merriment interrupted Bart as he called out the
second lot.

The inebriate stood disgustedly looking down at the label on the
demijohn he had brought to light: "Bubbly Spring Mineral Water."

Lot 943 was a cardboard box. The suggestion of millinery made the
farmer's wife a reckless bidder, and the lot brought two dollars.

Another roar went up from the crowd as she eagerly inspected her
purchase. It turned out to be a man's silk hat.

She looked spiteful enough to throw it out of the window, but her
husband, laughing at her, doffed his worn straw, coolly put on the
elaborate headgear, and became thenceforward a target for the quips of
the merry idlers about the door.

An oblong crate brought four dollars. Bob Haven got this. He did not
inspect his purchase at once, but with glowing eyes whispered to his
brother as he pushed it to one side that he knew it was a new bicycle.

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