Bart Stirling's Road to Success by Allen Chapman

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Bart hustled the various packages up for sale and disposition with
briskness and dispatch, and Darry was more than busy keeping tab on his
record book and piling the cash into the tin box.

One fuming, perspiring man, looking too fat to ever get cool, found the
prize he had drawn was a moth-eaten fur overcoat.

Peter Grimm, notoriously the stingiest man in Pleasantville, who raised
the sourest apples in the town and spent most of his time watching the
boys and picking up what fruit rolled outside of the fence, bided his
time with watchful ferret eyes until a promising-looking package came
along.

It was bid up pretty high, and the crowd urged him to disclose his
treasure, but Grimm was not responsive to any mutual human sentiment and
sat down with the package in his lap.

He began a secret inspection, however, gradually working off the paper
covering at one end, and with snapping eyes worming his fingers inside
the parcel.

Suddenly a sharp click echoed out, followed by a frightful yell.

Grimm sprang to his feet, jumping quickly about and swinging one arm
wildly through the air, the parcel dangling from it like a bulldog
hanging on to a coat tail.

"Murder!" he screamed. "Take it off! take it off!"

Bart had to step down to the rescue. Peter Grimm had drawn a patent
mink trap, and was its first victim. He sneaked from the express office
nursing his crushed fingers and kicking his unlucky purchase out into
the road.

The pile of unclaimed stuff diminished rapidly. The various purchases
were productive of all kinds of fun. Tom Partridge, the colored porter
at the hotel, got a case of face powder, and an exquisite traveling man
for a lace house drew a pair of rubber boots that would fit a giant.

One man disclosed his purchase to be a setting of eggs. They were packed
in cotton and intact, though probably a year old.

"Take them out--take them out," yelled the crowd.

Somebody dropped a piece of wood in the box, and there was a pop. The
farmer with the plug hat he-hawed at the top of his voice, the miserable
owner of the eggs got mad at him, some words ensued, the farmer started
after him, the egg owner ran, once outside fired an egg which struck the
smooth, shiny tile with a splatter, and the farmer came back into the
express office holding his nose, bareheaded, and looking for his
rejected straw head-covering.

Some, however, were more fortunate. Bart encouraged and hurried the
bidding on a large crate, the contents of which he easily guessed, as
did also Tim Hager, the crippled son of a poor widow. Tim got it for two
dollars and twenty-five cents, and it turned out to hold a first-class
sewing machine.

"Your attention for a few moments, gentlemen," called out Bart as there
was a hustle on the part of the audience getting together the mass of
stuff they had bought. "All the unclaimed heavy express matter at
Pleasantville was burned up in the fire of July third, but some twenty
small parcels were in the safe, and those we will now dispose of."

"Money, jewelry, and such, I suppose?" propounded Lawyer Stebbings, who
loaned money at a high rate of interest.

"We make no such representations," responded Bart. "I will say this,
that no money packages are among the lot. There may be valuable papers,
there may be jewelry--in fact, some of the parcels have a given value up
to two hundred dollars--but the express company guarantees nothing and
you bid at your own risk."

"Good! let's have a sample," demanded Stebbings. "Can I examine? Ah,
thanks."

The crowd passed from hand to hand a small well-wrapped package.

"Watch!" hoarsely whispered someone.

"Feels like it!" said a second.

Stebbings bid the lot up to four dollars and got it. There was more fun
as he unrolled the numerous wrappings of the package to disclose a small
metal disc used in a threshing machine.

One purchaser got a gold pen, another a very pretty stick pin.

Lem Wacker had not engaged in the general commotion. He had retained his
place on a bench, looking bored, but for some reason sitting out the
session, and Bart wondered why.

Baker took a mild interest in what was going on, smiling appreciatively
once in a while when Bart made a witty hit or an unusually good sale.

Finally, however, Wacker put up his forefinger as Bart was bidding off a
thin wooden box about four inches square.

"Sender: Novelty Jewelry Company, no address," read Bart, "shipped to
James Barclay, Millville--not found. This is a promising-looking
package. Gentlemen, what am I bid?"

Lem Wacker seemed to have some spare cash, for he paid two dollars for
the box, swaggered off with it, and opening it disclosed a very small
and neat pocket alarm clock.

He wound it up, sent out its silvery call once or twice for the
edification of the crowd about him, hoping to sell it off to someone,
and then, there being no purchaser, with a disappointed grunt slipped it
into his pocket.

"Number 529," announced Bart a few minutes later--"the last package,
gentlemen!"

The crowd was dispersing, Darry was counting up the heap of bank notes
and coin in the cash box, Bob was gloating and wild with delight as
uncovering his purchase he brought to light a new bicycle.

The package Bart tendered was thin and flat. Two tough pieces of
cardboard held it stiff and straight. It seemed to contain papers of
some kind, and so many bidders had bought old deeds, contracts, plans,
manuscripts and the like, utterly valueless to them, that the lot hung
at twenty-five cents for several minutes.

"Come, come, gentlemen!" urged Bart--"the last may be the best. The
charges are sixty-five cents. Sender's name not given. Directed to 'A.A.
Adams, Pleasantville'--not found."

"Hoo! S--s--say!"

Bart experienced something of a shock.

The familiar cry of the ex-roustabout, Mr. Baker, rang out sharp and
sudden.

Glancing at him, Bart saw that he had arisen to his feet.

His face was bloodless and twitching, his whole frame a-quake. His eyes
were snapping wildly. He was like a man who could hardly speak or stand,
and fairly on the verge of a fit.

A wavering finger he pointed at the young auctioneer, and gasped out.

"One dollar--two--three!"

CHAPTER XXIV

MR. BAKER'S BID

The attitude, actions and announcement of the mysterious Mr. Baker
filled Bart Stirling with profound surprise and wonderment.

The young express agent well knew the erratic temperment of his singular
friend, but Baker had been so placid and natural up to the present
moment, and this excitable outburst was so vivid and unaccountable, that
Bart felt sure that there was some important reason for the same.

All eyes were now fixed on Baker. He seemed to put a dramatic climax to
a varied entertainment, and appeared unconscious of everything except
the package Bart held in his hand. His eyes were fixed upon this
steadfastly--they seemed to burn right into it.

Lem Wacker had also arisen to his feet. Bart noticed him intently
studying Baker, sidling up to him and sinking to the bench directly next
to him.

There was a suspiciousness in the action that enhanced Bart's interest
and curiosity, but he preserved his composure.

"Three dollars, did you say?" he inquired, in an insinuating and
soothing, but strictly business tone.

"Yes!" gasped out Baker.

"I am bid--"

"Four."

Bart looked fixedly at Lem Wacker, for it was he who had spoken. Darry
Haven dropped the cover of the cash box, and also stared at Wacker.
There was something suggestive in the sensation of the moment.

Lem Wacker's face was as bold as brass. He was dressed pretty well and
looked prosperous, and there was a mean sneer on his lips as he
shamelessly returned the glance of the boy he had wronged, defiantly
relying, apparently, on some reserved power he fancied he possessed.

Baker did not even look at the rival bidder. His very soul seemed
centered on the package in Bart's hand.

"Five," he uttered with an effort--"six, seven!"

"Eight," said Wacker calmly, striking a cigarette between his lips.

"Ten."

"Twelve."

Baker was silent. A frightful spasm crossed his face. He swayed from
side to side. Then, grasping at the bench rails to steady himself, he
came up to the platform.

"Stirling!" he panted hoarsely, "I have no more money, but I must--must
have that package! Lend me--"

"Whatever you wish," answered Bart promptly.

"Fifteen dollars!" said Baker.

Lem Wacker jumped to his feet, excited. He shot a hand into a pocket,
drew it out again holding a pocketbook, ran over its contents, and
shouted!

"Sixteen dollars!"

"Twenty!" cried Baker.

"I am offered twenty dollars," said Bart, outwardly cool as a cucumber,
inwardly greatly perturbed over the incident in hand, and hastening to
close it in favor of a friend. "Twenty dollars once, twenty dollars
twice--"

"Stop!" yelled Lem Wacker.

"Do you bid more?" asked Bart.

"I--I do!"

"How much?"

"Double--treble--if I have to!" retorted Wacker. "Only I want you to
wait until I can get the cash. I have only sixteen dollars with me--I
can get a hundred and sixty in two minutes, I--"

"Terms strictly cash," said Bart simply. "Going, going, at twenty
dollars--"

"Hold on! Don't you dare!" raved Wacker, swinging his arms about like a
windmill. "I demand that this sale be suspended until I can get further
funds."

"Twenty dollars--gone!" sung out Bart in the same business tone, "and
sold to--cash."

With a sigh of relief and weakness Baker swayed sideways to a bench,
first extending to Darry Haven with a shaking hand a little roll of
bills.

"Charge me with the balance," said Bart quickly to his assistant, in a
low tone.

"You've no right!" raved Lem Wacker loudly, shaking his fist at Bart,
and in a passion of uncontrollable rage. "You'll suffer for this! I
protest against this sale--I demand that you do not deliver that
package, you young snob! you--"

Lem Wacker was getting abusive. He pranced about like a mad bull.

A heavy hand dropped suddenly on his collar, McCarthy, the watchman,
gave him a shove towards the door.

"No talk of that kind allowed here," he remarked grimly. "Get out, or
I'll fire you out!"

As Wacker disappeared through the doorway, Bart leaned from the
platform.

"Here is your package, Mr. Baker," he said. "What is the trouble--are
you ill?"

Baker struggled to his feet. He was in a pitiable state of agitation and
nervousness.

"No! no!" he panted, "you keep the package--for a time. Till--till I
explain. I've got it! I've got it at last!" he quavered in an exultant
tone. "Air--I'm choking! I--I'll be back soon--"

He rushed to the door overcome, like a man on the verge of a fit.

Bart started to follow him. Just then, however, one of the recent
bidders came up to ask some question about a purchase which required
that Bart consult the record book.

When he had disposed of the matter, Bart hurried to the outside. Baker
was nowhere in sight.

CHAPTER XXV

A NIGHT MESSAGE

The crowd had melted away, Bob Haven was totally engrossed with the
magnificent prize he had drawn, and Darry was busily engaged in closing
up the records of the sale.

Bart was thoroughly mystified at the strange conduct of Baker, and very
much disappointed at not finding him, now that he sought the mysterious
man.

McCarthy had gone home, and Lem Wacker was not in evidence. Some boys
were guarding a pile of stuff that had been purchased and thrown aside.
Bart set at work cleaning up the package coverings that littered the
place inside and outside.

Things were back to normal when the afternoon express came in. It was
nearly two hours late, and closing time.

There was the usual grist of store packages, which Darry attended to,
and several special envelopes. These Bart placed in the safe along with
the proceeds of the day derived from the sale, barely glancing over the
duplicate receipt he had signed for the messenger.

He noticed that two of the specials were for the local bank, and the
third for the big pickle factory of Martin & Company, at the edge of the
town.

"Both closed up by this time," ruminated Bart. "We can't deliver
to-night. Anything very urgent among that stuff, Darry?"

"Nothing," replied his young assistant.

"You can go home, then," directed Bart. "Pretty tired, eh? A big day's
work, this."

"Say, Bart," spoke up Darry, as he dallied at the door, "who was the
fellow that bought that last package?"

"A friend of mine, Darry," answered Bart seriously. "And I am worried
about him. He is the man I told you about who helped me save my father
the night of the fire."

"He acted very queerly. And Lem Wacker, too," added Darry thoughtfully.
"Is something new up, Bart? The way Wacker carried on, he seemed to have
some idea in his head."

"He had the idea he could bulldoze me," said Bart bluntly, "and found
he couldn't. What bothers me is, why were both of them so anxious to get
this package?"

Bart took it out of his pocket as he spoke, nodded good night to Darry,
and sat down on a bench, turning the parcel over and over in his hand.

"A.A. Adams," he read from the tag, "a queer name, and no one answering
to it here in Pleasantville. I wonder why Baker was so excited when he
heard that name? I wonder why Lem Wacker bid it up? Is he aware of the
mystery surrounding Baker? Has this package got something to do with it?
Wacker looked as though he had struck a prosperous streak, and bragged
recklessly about the lot of money he could get. I must find Baker. He
was in no condition, mentally or physically, to wander about at random."

The package in question, Bart decided, held papers. It had been given
him in trust, and he could not open it without Baker's permission. He
replaced it in his pocket and went forth.

Bart visited all of Baker's old familiar haunts in the freight yards,
but found no trace of him. Then he called at the Sharp Corner. Its
proprietor claimed that Lem Wacker had not been there since noon.

Bart spoke to two of the yards night watchmen. He described Baker, and
requested them to speak to him if they ran across him, and to tell him
that Bart Stirling was very anxious to see him up at his house.

Affairs at the little express office had settled down to routine when,
one morning, Darry Haven dropped into the place.

He found Bart engrossed in reading a letter very carefully. Its envelope
lay on the desk. Glancing at it casually, Darry saw that it was from
express headquarters.

"Anything wrong?" he inquired, as Bart folded up the letter and placed
it in his pocket.

"Not with me, anyway," replied Bart with a smile. "There is something
wrong at Cardysville, a hundred miles or so down the main line," he went
on.

"And how does that interest you, Bart?"

"Why, it seems I have got to go down there on some business for the
Company."

"To-day?"

"The sooner the better, that letter says. It is from the inspector. It
is quite flattering to me, for he starts out with complimenting the
excellent business system this office has always sustained."

"H'm!" chuckled Darry--"any mention of your valued extra help?"

"No, but that may come along, for you have got to represent me here
again to-day, and possibly to-morrow."

"Is that so?" said Darry. "Well, I guess I can arrange."

"You see," explained Bart, "the letter is a sort of confidential one.
Reading between the lines, I assume that a certain Peter Pope, now
express agent at Cardysville, and evidently recently appointed, is a
relative of one of the officials of the company. Anyway, he has been
running--or not running--things for a week. The inspector writes that
the man has very little to do, for it is a small station, but that very
little he appears to do very badly."

"How, Bart?"

"His reports and returns are all mixed up. He doesn't have the least
idea of how to run things intelligently. The inspector asks me to go and
see him, take some of our blanks, open a set of books for him, and try
and install a system that will bring things around clearer."

"Why, Bart," exclaimed Darry, "they have promoted you!"

"I don't see it, Darry."

"That's traveling auditor's work. Besides, a delicate and confidential
mission for an official. Wake up! you've struck a higher rung on the
ladder, and I'll wager they'll boost you fast."

"Nonsense, Darry, I happen to be handy and accommodating, and they don't
want to turn the fellow down on account of his 'pull.' Maybe they think
the offer and suggestions of a boy will have a result where a regular
official visit would offend Mr. Peter Pope's backer--see?"

All the same, Bart felt very much pleased over this unexpected
communication. He blessed his lucky stars that he had such a bright and
dependable substitute at hand as Darry Haven.

The latter soon made his school and home arrangements, and Bart left
affairs in his hands about ten o'clock, catching the train west after
getting a pass for the Cardysville round trip.

It was two o'clock when the train arrived at Bart's destination. He
found Cardysville to be a place of about 2,000 inhabitants. Most of the
town, however, lay half-a-mile away from the B. & M. Railroad, another
line cutting in farther north.

Bart noticed crowds of people and a circus tent in the distance. The
express shed was a gloomy little den of a place on a spur track. Near
the depot was a small lunch counter. Bart got something to eat, and
strolled down the tracks.

As he drew near to the express shed, Bart noticed an old armchair out on
its platform.

A very stout man in his shirt sleeves sat in this, smoking a pipe.

He got up and waddled around restlessly. Bart noticed that he approached
the door of the express office on tiptoe. He acted scared, for, bending
his ear to listen, he retreated precipitately. Then he stood
stock-still, staring stupidly at the building.

He gave a nervous start as Bart came up behind him--quite a jump, in
fact. Bart, studying his flabby, uneasy face, wondered what was the
matter with the man.

"Hello!" jerked out the Cardysville express agent. "Sort of startled
me."

"Are you Mr. Pope?" inquired Bart.

"Yes, that's me," assented the other. "Stranger here? looking for me?"

"I am," answered Bart. "My name is Stirling. I work at the express
office at Pleasantville."

"Oh, yes, I've heard of you," said Peter Pope. "The express inspector
wrote me about you. He said you was a young kid, sort of green in the
business, who might drop in on me to get some points on the business."

"Quite so," nodded Bart with a side smile, "catching on," as the phrase
goes, and at once falling in with the way the inspector was working
matters. "We can't learn too much about the express business, you know,
and I thought that by comparing notes with you we might dig out
something of mutual benefit."

"You bet!" responded Pope, perking up quite grandly. "The Vice-President
of the express company is my cousin. I've got a big pull. Soon as I get
the ropes learned, I'm going for a manager's job in the city."

"That will be quite fine," said Bart. "I brought some books and blanks
with me, and, if you can spare the time, I would like to have you see
how our system strikes you."

"Sure. Come in--no, that is, I'll bring out a chair. I keep only one
record. I've got this business simplified down to a lead pencil and a
scratch book, see?"

Bart did "see," and knew that the express inspector had "seen," also. He
wondered why Pope did not take him into the office. He marveled still
more as, watching Pope, he noticed he hesitated at the door of the
express shed. Then Pope moved forward as if actually unwilling to enter
the place.

Half a minute after he had disappeared within the shed, Pope came
rushing out, pale and flustered. He tumbled over the chair he was
bringing to Bart, and a book he carried went flying from under his arm
into the dirt of the road beyond the platform.

"Why," exclaimed Bart, in some surprise, "what is the matter, Mr. Pope?"

"Matter!" gasped Pope, his eyes rolling, as he backed away from the
doorway, "say, that place is haunted!"

"What place?"

"The express room. I've been worried for an hour. It's nigh tuckered me
out."

"What has?" inquired Bart

"Groans, hisses, rustlings. I thought a while back that someone was
hiding in among the express stuff, and trying to scare me. 'Taint so,
though. I went among it, and there's no place for anybody to hide."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Bart reassuringly, "you are only nervous, Mr. Pope.
It's some live freight, likely. Can I take a look?"

"Sure--wish you would. I've been posting up on express business, you
see, maybe that's the matter. Read about fellows hiding in boxes, and
jumping out and murdering the messenger. Read about enemies sending a
man exploding bombs, and blowing him to pieces."

"Nonsense, Mr. Pope!" said Bart, "you don't look as if you had an enemy
in the world."

"I haven't," declared Peter Pope, "but every business man has his
rivals, of course. I've heard that those city chaps have an eye on any
fellow that makes a record like I'm making here. They don't want to see
him get ahead. They must guess that I'm in line for a big promotion, and
that might worry them into playing some tragical trick on me."

Bart wanted to laugh outright. He kept a straight face, and solemnly
started to investigate the trouble. He stepped into the express room and
took a keen look around, Pope timorously following him.

"There!" panted Pope suddenly, "what did I tell you?"

"That's so," said Bart. "It is sort of mysterious. Someone groaned,
sure. What have you here, anyway?"

Bart went over to a heap of express matter, come in just that morning.
There were several small crates, a box or two, and a very large trunk.
Bart centered his attention on this latter. He stooped down as his quick
eye observed a row of holes at one end, just under the hauling strap.

"Quiet, for a minute," he whispered warningly to Pope, who, big-eyed and
trembling, resembled a man on the threshold of some most appalling
discovery.

Bart's strained hearing shortly caught a rustling sound. It was followed
by a kind of choking moan. Unmistakably, he decided, both came from the
trunk.

"Is it locked? No," he said, examining the front of the trunk. Then Bart
snapped back its two catches. He seized the cover and threw it back.

"Gracious!" gasped Peter Pope.

Bart himself was a trifle startled.

As the trunk cover lifted, a man stepped out.

CHAPTER XXVI

ON THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

"Air--and water!" panted the mysterious occupant of the trunk.

Bart looked him over in some wonder. He was a short, wiry man, and
arrayed in a close-fitting costume resembling that of the circus athlete
on duty.

The man was drenched with perspiration and so nearly exhausted with his
suffocating imprisonment, that his voice was rasping and hollow.

He was weak, too. As he stepped over the side of the trunk he staggered
feebly. Then, making out an open window and a pail of drinking water on
a bench near it, he made a swift dive in that direction.

First the man stuck his head out of the window and drew in great
draughts of pure, fresh air.

Then he seized the tin cup near the pail. He dipped up the water and
drank cupful after cupful until Bart eyed him in some alarm.

"Ah--h!" breathed the man in a long aspiration of relief and enjoyment,
"that's better. Say, ten minutes more and there would have been no
Professor Rigoletto."

As he spoke he went back to the trunk. He took out a long gossamer rain
coat that had been used as a pillow. This he proceeded to put on.

It came to his feet. He buttoned it up, drew a jaunty crush cap from one
of its pockets, and grinned pleasantly into the face of the petrified
Peter Pope.

"See here!" blurted out the Cardysville express agent, "this
isn't--isn't regular. It isn't schedule, you know."

"I hope not--sincerely," airily retorted the stranger. "Fifty miles on a
slow train, three hours waiting in a close trunk. Ah, no. But I've
arrived. Ha, ha, that's so!"

He glanced into the trunk. Its bottom seemed covered with some coarse
burlap. Professor Rigoletto threw shut the cover.

"Aha!" he said suddenly, bending his ear as a strain of distant circus
music floated on the air. "Show on, I'll be late. I'll call later--"

"No, you don't!" interrupted Pope, recovering from his fright, and
placing his bulky form in the doorway.

"Don't what, my friend?" mildly asked the Professor.

"Deadhead--beat the express company. You're one trunk--and excess
weight."

"I don't dispute it. What, then?"

"Pay," promptly and definitely announced the agent.

"Can't. Haven't a cent. That's why I had to get a friend to ship me this
way. But he said he'd wire ahead to my partner with the circus, who
would call for me here. I'll go and find him, and settle the bill."

"You don't leave here until those charges are paid. You want to be
rapid, too," declared Pope, "or I'll see if the railroad company don't
want to collect fare, as well."

"Want to keep me here, eh?" murmured the Professor thoughtfully. "Well,
I'm agreeable, only you'll have to feed and bed me. If I'm live stock, I
demand live-stock privileges, see?"

The express agent looked worried.

"What am I to do?" he asked, in a quandary, of Bart.

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