“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.