Bart Stirling's Road to Success by Allen Chapman

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"Oh," smiled Bart, "I guess you had better trust him to find his friend
and come back with the money."

"I'll hold the trunk, anyway," observed Pope. "What have you got in it?
Some old worthless togs, I suppose."

"Mistake--about a thousand dollars in value," coolly retorted the
Professor.

"Yes, you have! I thought so. Some old burlap."

"Careful, my friend!" spoke the deadhead sharply. "There's nothing there
that you will care to see."

"Isn't there? I'll investigate, just the same," declared Pope, throwing
back the trunk cover and delving in the heap of burlap. "Murder! Help!"

Peter Pope uttered a fearful yell. He backed from the trunk suddenly, A
sinuous, hissing form had risen up before his face.

This was an enormous cobra, and, under the circumstances, very frightful
to see. The Cardysville express agent made a headlong bolt for the door.
He slid clear outside across the platform, and landed in the mud of the
road.

"Prt! prt! Caesar, so--so!" spoke Professor Rigoletto in a peculiar,
purring tone, approaching the serpent.

He coaxed and forced the big snake back into its warm coverings, and
shut down the trunk cover and clasped it. Bart, highly edified at the
unique incident, followed him outside.

"I'm the Cingalese snake-charmer," explained Professor Rigoletto.
"Sorry, my friend," he observed to the wry-faced Pope, who was busy
scraping the mud from his clothing, "but I told you so."

"Ugh!" shuddered the agent. "You get that trunk out of here
double-quick, or I'll have you arrested."

"Sure, I will," answered the Professor with alacrity, "and I promise you
that I will bring or send you the express charges by the time the show
is over."

Professor Rigoletto dragged the trunk to the platform. It was not a
heavy burden, now. Bart good-humoredly assisted him in getting it
balanced properly on his shoulder. The professor courteously thanked him
and asked him to come and see the show free, and marched off quite
contented with the result of his daring deadhead experiment.

The Cardysville express agent was greatly worked up over the incident of
the hour. It was some time before he could get his mind sufficiently
calmed down to discuss business affairs coherently.

Bart, however, handled the man in a pleasant, politic manner, and soon
had results working.

He let Peter Pope imagine that he was the originator of every idea that
he, Bart himself, suggested. He very deftly introduced the system in
vogue at the Pleasantville express office.

In fact, at the end of two hours Bart had accomplished all he had been
sent to do. He had got Pope's records into sensible shape, had opened a
small set of books for him, and knew that the inspector must be pleased
with the results.

Bart had missed the early afternoon train. There was no other running to
Pleasantville direct until eleven o'clock that night.

He had planned to put in the time strolling about town, when Professor
Rigoletto appeared. He was accompanied by a friend.

The latter ascertained the express charges on the trunk, paid them, and
handed both Bart and Pope a free ticket to the evening's entertainment.

Bart took a stroll by himself, got his supper at a neat little
restaurant, and met Pope as agreed at the door of the main show tent at
seven o'clock.

They were given good seats, and they had the pleasure of seeing
Professor Rigoletto and his big snake under more agreeable conditions
than those of their first introduction to them.

The show was a very good one, and at half-past ten they left the tent.
The Cardysville express agent accompanied Bart to the depot, where the
east bound train was due to arrive in thirty minutes.

As they walked up and down the platform, a horse and wagon drove up to
the little express shed. Pope went over to it. Bart accompanied him.

The driver of the wagon was a brisk, smart-looking farmery individual.
Pope knew him, and nodded to him in a friendly fashion.

"Come after something?" inquired the agent "I don't recall that there is
anything here for you."

"No, I want to express these hives," answered the farmer.

He indicated six boxes lying in his wagon, covered with gauze.

"Bother!" said Pope, a little crossly. "That's no midnight job. Why
don't you come in the daytime, Mr. Simms? You just caught me here by
chance, at this outlandish hour."

"Particular shipment," explained Simms, "and I've got to catch the
trains just right. You see, these are special imported Italian bees,
Breeders. I reckon every one of those beauties is worth half-a-dollar.
They're very delicate in this climate, and call for great care. I want
you to instruct the messenger to follow the directions carded on the
boxes."

"I can do that," said Pope. "What he will do, is another thing."

"You see," continued the farmer, "if they handle them carefully at
Pleasantville, and see that they catch the early express to the city
from there, someone will be waiting to take them in charge at the
terminus. I'd be awful glad to tip the messenger handsomely to have
someone at Pleasantville, where they transfer the hives, open the
ventilators for a spell and tip down into the pans some of the honey
syrup."

"I will do that for you, sir," spoke up Bart--"I am in charge of the
express office at Pleasantville. I am going on this train, and I will be
glad to see that your goods are attended to just right, and transferred
on time."

"Say, will you?" exclaimed the farmer in a pleased tone. "Now, that's
just the ticket! The wrong draught on those bees, or too much bad air,
or too little feed, and they die off in dozens. You see, at fifty cents
apiece, that means quite a loss on an unlucky shipment."

"It does, indeed, Mr. Simms," responded Bart "I am very much interested
in the little workers, and you can rest easy as to their being rightly
cared for. I believe I will ride to Pleasantville in the express car, so
your bees will be right under my eye till they are put on the city
express."

"Thank you, thank you," said the farmer heartily.

As the train whistled in the distance, he came up to Bart and slipped a
bank note in his hand.

Bart demurred, but it was no use. He found himself two dollars richer
for his accommodating proposition.

As the train drew up, Peter Pope rapped at the door of the express car.
A sleepy-eyed messenger opened it. The hives were shoved in. Bart made a
brief explanation to the messenger, showing his pass. He waved a
pleasant adieu to Pope and the farmer as the express car door was closed
and locked.

When Bart got home he was more than tired out. But he had done well and
in the end got full praise for his work.

A day passed, and Bart failed to find Baker. He hunted everywhere and
kept up the search until he knew not where to look further.

Bart went home. He had scarcely reached his bedroom when there was a
vigorous summons at the front door.

"I hope it is Baker," murmured Bart, as he slipped on the coat he had
just taken off.

"A telegram, Bart," said his mother, at the bottom of the stairs.

She had receipted for it. Bart tore it open wonderingly, glancing first
at the signature, and marveling at its unusual length. It was signed by
Robert Leslie, superintendent of the express company, at the city end of
the line.

This is what it said:

"Special II. 256 by afternoon express, for Martin & Company,
Pleasantville, contains fifteen thousand dollars in cash, sender Dunn &
Son, Importers. They ask me to make a special delivery, and will defray
any extra cost for having it accepted personally by A.B. Martin, and
receipted for by him in the presence of witnesses. Delivery to be legal,
must be made before twelve, midnight, and this certified to. This is a
very important matter for one of the company's largest customers. Be
sure to make delivery on time."

Bart read the telegram over twice, taking in its important details, with
a serious face.

"Fifteen thousand dollars!" he repeated. "It has saved me some worry
that I did not discover the amount before. As to the delivery, that is
easy. I've got over two hours yet. I see what it is. Martin & Company
probably want to throw up a contract because prices have gone up, the
contract must be made binding by payment of fifteen thousand dollars by
midnight, or Dunn & Son lose. All right."

His mother noticed that some important business was on her son's mind,
and only told Bart to take care of himself.

Bart hurried towards the express office. At a street crossing he paused,
to let pass a close carriage that was driven along at a furious rate of
speed in the direction from which he had just come.

"Hello!" he forcibly ejaculated, as it flashed by him, the corner street
lamp irradiating its interior brightly--"there's queer company for you!"

The remark was warranted. The occupants of the vehicle were Colonel
Jeptha Harrington and Lem Wacker.

CHAPTER XXVII

LATE VISITORS

The little express office was dark and lonely-looking when Bart again
reached it.

Bart unlocked the office door, shot the inside bolt carefully after him,
lighted the lantern, placed it on the desk, and opened the safe.

As he selected the big brown envelope marked "Martin & Company," and
bearing the express company's shining green seals, his fingers tingled.
The immensity of the sum intrusted to his charge perturbed him a trifle.

Bart relocked the safe, stowed the envelope in an inner pocket, and
opened the drawer of a little stand leaning against the safe.

He took out a revolver. Mr. Leslie himself had advised him to always
have one handy in the express office. Bart had never touched the weapon
before. It had been loaned him by Mr. Haven, and Darry had brought it
to the office. Bart slipped it now into a side pocket.

He noticed in detail the entry on the messenger's slip. The prepaid
charges on the Martin & Company consignment were seven dollars and
seventy-five cents, or five cents for every hundred dollars or fraction
of it over the first fifty dollars, which was charged for at regular
tariff rates, twenty-five cents.

"It is fifteen thousand dollars, right enough!" mused Bart. "Now, to
make sure of the form of receipt."

He filled out a special receipt that acknowledged besides the usual
delivery, a verification of the amount of the inclosure, its acceptance
as correct, and left a blank for the names of two witnesses.

Bart was now ready to sally forth on his peculiar errand, and had fully
decided in his mind the persons he would get to act as his witnesses.

"What is that!" he questioned, suddenly and sharply.

He could hear a springy vehicle bound over the near tracks, and then its
wheels cut the loose cindered road leading up to the express office.

It halted. He could catch the quick, labored breathing of two horses, a
carriage door creaked! some low voices made a brief hum of
conversation, and the vehicle seemed to depart.

Bart stood stock-still, wondering and guessing. Footsteps sounded on the
platform. There came a thundering thump as of a heavy cane on the office
door.

"Who is there?" demanded Bart.

"Colonel Harrington. I've got to see you."

"Come in," Bart said, unbolting the door.

Colonel Harrington was red of face and fussy of manner. He threw the
door shut with his foot, and sank to a bench, breathing heavily.

"Was there something you wanted to say to me, Colonel Harrington?"
inquired Bart.

"Yes there was!" snapped out the rich man of Pleasantville. "Anxious to
see you! Just drove up to your house. They told me you were here. I once
offered you a hundred dollars."

Bart nodded, with a faint smile.

"It wasn't enough," stumbled on the colonel. "I am now going to make it
a thousand."

"Why, what for, Colonel Harrington?" demanded Bart in surprise.

"Because you can earn it."

"How?"

"Shall I be blunt and plain?"

"It is always the best way."

"Very well, then," resumed the colonel desperately. "A certain
unclaimed express package was sold here to-day, marked A.A. Adams.
You've got it."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, you know it and I want it. Hand it over, and here"--the colonel
made a dive for his pocketbook--"here's your thousand dollars."

Bart made a signal of remonstrance with his hand, his face grave and
decided.

"Stop right there, Colonel Harrington," he said forcibly. "Are you aware
that you are offering a bribe to a bonded representative of the express
company?"

"Rot take your express company!" growled the colonel angrily. "I am one
of its stock-holders. I could buy the whole concern out, if I wanted
to!"

"Until you do, I obey official instructions," announced Bart. "Please do
not degrade yourself and embarrass me, Colonel Harrington, by saying
anything further on this score. I will not sell my honor, nor swerve a
hair's breadth from a line of duty plain and clear. The package you
refer to was legally purchased by the highest bidder, I hold it
temporarily in trust for him. It is as safe and sacred with me as if it
was the property of the First National Bank of Pleasantville."

Colonel Harrington squirmed, got red and pale by turns, gripped his cane
fiercely, and then, relaxed with a groan.

"It's my property!" he declared. "I can prove it's my property."

"Then I suggest that you persuade the person who bought it of that
fact," said Bart.

"Say!" shot out the colonel eagerly, his eye brightening, "if I bring an
order from that same person, will you give up the package?"

Bart hesitated.

"You know where he is, then?" he inquired suspiciously.

"I--I might find him," stammered the military man.

"I do not think I would," said Bart. "Bring him here personally, and I
will hand it over to him--in your presence, if he says so."

The colonel groaned again. It was plainly to be seen that he was in an
intense inward frenzy.

"Stirling, you've got to give me that package!" he cried, springing to
his feet and lifting his cane threateningly.

"Have I?" said Bart, facing him watchingly.

"Be careful, Colonel Harrington! you are pretty near committing a
criminal offense."

"You're in the plot--you know all about it! Give up that package,
or--or--"

"Colonel Harrington," said Bart calmly, but every word ringing out as
clear as the tone of a bell, "I am no ruffian, and I hate violence, but
if you lift that cane to me again--I'll shoot."

Bart showed the gleaming top of the weapon in his pocket, backing to the
door.

Just then the door behind him was forcibly thrust open, its edge hitting
him violently. Then someone pounced upon him.

The attack was sudden and effective. A piece of rope was looped deftly
about Bart's arms, holding him helpless, secured behind, and as he was
pushed roughly against the desk. Lem Wacker's evil face leered down upon
him.

"Don't you holler!" ordered Lem.

As he spoke, he leaned over the railing. The waste box held a mass of
cotton that had packed some of the parcels disposed of at the sale that
afternoon. Lem grabbed up a handful, and forcibly stuffed it into Bart's
mouth.

"Wacker! Wacker!" gasped Colonel Harrington in affright, "don't--don't
hurt him. This is dreadful--"

"Shut up!" ordered Lem Wacker recklessly, "you want something and don't
know how to get it. I do--and will."

He snatched at Bart's tightly-buttoned coat and tore it loose, groped
inside and drew out a package.

"I've got it," he announced. "No!--he ripped off the end of the
parcel--here's a haul."

Bart writhed, choked on the loose strangling filaments of cotton, but
could not utter a word.

"Give me that package!" cried the colonel. "Stop! where are you going?"

Lem Wacker had bolted. The colonel stared in marveling astonishment as
his cohort sprang through the open doorway. Bart had managed to wad the
cotton in his mouth into a compact wet mass, enabling him to speak.

"Colonel Harrington!" he cried, "that man has not got the package you
were after. He has instead stolen a money envelope for Martin & Company
containing fifteen thousand dollars in currency, and is making off with
it. Cut this rope instantly that I may pursue him, or I give you my word
that, as a partner in his crime, rich as you are, and influential as you
are, you shall go to the State penitentiary."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THIRTY SECONDS OF TWELVE

It was an exciting moment. Bart was intently worked up, but he kept his
head level. Everything hung on the action of the next two minutes.

Whatever price the rich Colonel Harrington was paying Lem Wacker for his
cooeperation, it was not enough to blind that individual to a realization
of the fact that accident had placed in Wacker's grasp the great haul of
his life, and he was making off with this fortune, leaving the colonel
in the lurch.

The latter stood shaking like an aspen, his face the color of chalk.
Apparently he took in and believed every word that Bart had spoken.

"I'm in a fix--a terrible fix!" he groaned. "This is
dreadful--dreadful!"

"Mend it, then!" cried Bart. "Quick! if you have one spark of sense or
manhood in you. There's a knife--cut this rope."

With quivering fingers Colonel Harrington took up from the desk the
office knife used for cutting string. It was keen-bladed as a razor.
Unsteady and bungling as was his stroke, he severed the rope partly, and
Bart burst his bonds free.

"Stay here," called out the young express agent sharply. "I hold you
responsible for this office till I return!"

He dashed outside like a rocket, scanned the whole roadway expanse, and
darted for the freight yards with the speed of the wind.

The electric arc lights were sparsely scattered, but there was
sufficient illumination for him to make out a fugitive figure just
crossing the broad roadway towards the freight tracks.

It was Lem Wacker. A train of empty box freights blocked his way. He
stooped, made a diving scurry under one of them, and was lost to view.

Bart ran as he had never run before. The train cleared the tracks as he
reached the spot where Wacker had disappeared.

At that moment above the jangling, clumping activity of the yards there
arose on the night air one frightful, piercing shriek.

Bart halted with a nameless shock, for the utterance was distinctly
human and curdling. He glanced after the receding train, fancying that
Wacker might have got caught under the cars and was being dragged along
with them.

That roadbed was clear, however. Two hundred feet to the right was a
second train. Its forward section was moving off, having just thrown
some cars against others stationary on a siding.

Bart ran towards these. Wacker could not have so suddenly disappeared in
any other direction. He crossed between bumpers, and glanced eagerly all
around. There was no hiding-place nearer than the repair shops, and they
were five hundred feet distant.

Wacker could not possibly have reached their precincts in the limited
space of time afforded since Bart had last lost sight of him.

"He is hiding in some of those cars," decided Bart, "or he has swung
onto the bumpers of the section pulling out--hark!"

Bart pricked up his ears. A strange sound floated on the air--a low,
even, musical tinkle.

Its source could not be far distant. Bart ran along the side of the
stationary freights.

"It is Wacker, sure," he breathed, "for that is the same sound made by
the little alarm clock he bought at the sale this afternoon."

The last vibrating tintinnabulations of the clock died away as Bart
discovered his enemy.

Lem Wacker's burly figure and white face were discernible against the
direct flare of an arc light. He seemed a part of the bumpers of two
cars. Bart flared a match once, and uttered the single word:

"Caught."

Lem Wacker was clinging to the upright brake rod, and swaying there. His
face was bloodless and he was writhing with pain. One foot was clamped
tight, a crushed, jellied mass between two bumpers.

It seemed that his foot must have slipped just as the forward freights
were switched down. This had caused that frenzied yell. Perhaps the
thought of the money had impelled him not to repeat it, but the little
alarm clock which he carried in his pocket had betrayed him.

Bart took in the situation at a glance. He was shocked and unnerved, but
he stepped close to the writhing culprit.

"Lem Wacker," he said, "where is that money envelope?"

"In my pocket," groaned Wacker. "I've got it this time--crippled for
life!"

The young express agent did not have to search for the stolen money
package. It protruded from Wacker's side pocket. As he glanced it over,
he saw that it was practically intact. Wacker had torn open only one
corner, sufficient to observe its contents. Bart placed the envelope in
his own pocket.

"I'm fainting!" declared Wacker.

Bart crossed under the bumpers to the other side of the freights. He
swept the scene with a searching glance, finally detected the shifting
glow of a night watchman's lantern, and ran over to its source.

He knew the watchman, and asked the man to accompany him, explaining as
they went along that Lem Wacker had got caught between two freights, was
held a prisoner in the bumpers with his foot crushed, and pointed the
sufferer out as they neared the freights.

Wacker by this time had sunk flat on the bumpers, his limbs twisted up
under him, but he managed to hold on to the brake rod. He only moaned
and writhed when the horrified watchman spoke to him.

"I'll have to get help," said the latter. "They will have to switch off
the front freights to get him loose."

The watchman took out his whistle and blew a kind of a call on the
telegraphic system. Two minutes later Bart saw McCarthy hurriedly
rounding a corner of the freight depot, and advanced towards him.

The young express agent briefly and confidentially imparted to his old
friend the fact that Lem Wacker had tried to steal some money from the
express office, and had got his deserts at last.

"Get him clear of the bumpers," said Bart, "carry him to the express
office, call for a surgeon, and don't let him be taken away from there
till I show up."

"What's moving, Stirling?" inquired McCarthy.

"Something very important. Wacker seems to be punished enough already,
and I do not know that I want him placed under arrest, but he knows
something he must tell me before he gets out of my reach."

"Then you had better wait."

"I can't do that," said Bart. "I have a special to deliver, on personal
orders from Mr. Leslie, the express superintendent."

Bart consulted his watch. It was five minutes of eleven.

"Only a little over an hour," he reflected. "I want to hustle!"

He saw to it that the recovered package was safely stowed in an inner
pocket, and started by the shortest cut he knew from the yards.

Bart did not even pause at the express office, where he had left Colonel
Harrington. He ran all the way half across the silent, sleeping town,
and never halted until he reached the Haven homestead.

He did not go to the front door, but, well acquainted with the
disposition of the household, paused under a rear window, picked up a
handful of gravel, threw it against the upper panes, and gave three low
but distinct whistling trills.

He could hear a prompt rustling. In less than forty seconds Darry Haven
stuck his head out of the window.

"Hello!" he hailed, rubbing his eyes.

"Come down, quick," directed Bart. "Bring Bob, too."

"What's the lark, Bart?"

"No lark at all," answered Bart--"strictly business. Don't take a
minute. No need disturbing the folks. You can be back inside of an
hour."

Bob, hatless and without a collar, came sliding down the lightning rod
two minutes later. Darry landed on the ground almost simultaneously,
simply letting himself drop from the window sill.

"Two dollars apiece for half an hour's work," said Bart, and then told
his companions the details of the special mission in which he required
their services.

"Ginger! but you're nerve and action," commented the admiring Bob.

"And good to your friends," put in Darry.

They passed the pickle factory. It stood on the edge of the town, and
the residence of the senior partner of Martin & Company, whose name had
been mentioned in the telegram, was nearly half a mile further away.

"Eleven thirty-five," announced Bart, a trifle anxiously. "It does not
give us much time. I hope there's no slip anywhere."

At just fifteen minutes of midnight the strange trio passed up the
graveled walk leading to the Martin mansion. The front door had a
ponderous old-fashioned knocker, and Bart plied it without ceremony.

He began to grow nervous as three minutes passed by, and not the least
attention was paid to his summons.

Suddenly an upper window was thrust up, and a man's head came into view.

"Who's there?" demanded a gruff, impatient voice.

"Is this Mr. Martin, Mr. A.B. Martin?" inquired Bart.

"Yes, it is--what do you want?"

"I have an express package for you," explained Bart.

"Oh, you have?" snapped Mr. Martin. "What the mischief do you mean
waking a man up at midnight on a thing like that! Deliver it at the
factory in the morning."

The speaker, muttering direfully under his breath, was about to slam
down the window.

"Wait one moment, Mr. Martin," called up Bart sharply. "This is a
special delivery, and a very important matter. I tender you this package
in the presence of these witnesses, and it is a legal delivery. If you
decline to come down and take it, and I leave it on your doorstep at the
call of the first tramp who happens to come along, I have done my duty,
and the loss is yours--a matter of fifteen thousand dollars."

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