“What is the matter, Mr. Evans?”

“Next time I give that lazy, good-for-nothing Lem Wacker work he’ll know it, I’m thinking!  Look there—­and there!”

The irate old railroader kicked over the wooden cuspidor in disgust.  It was loaded to the top with tobacco and cigarette ends.  Then he cast out half a dozen empty bottles through the open window, and went on with his grumbling.

“What he’s been up to is more than I can guess,” he vociferated.  “Look at my table there, all burned with matches and covered with burnt cork.  What’s he been doing with burnt cork?  Running a minstrel show?”

Bart gave a start.  He thought instantly of the black streaked face he had tried to survey at the express shed window the night previous.

“My flag’s gone, too,” muttered old Evans, turning over things in a vain search for it.  “I’ll have a word or two for Lem Wacker when it comes to settling day, I’m thinking.  He comes up to the house late last night and tells me he don’t care to work for me any longer.”

“Did he?” murmured Bart thoughtfully.  “Why not, I wonder?”

“Oh, he flared up big and lofty, and said he had a better job in view.”

Bart went on his way surmising a good deal and suspecting more.

He made it a point to pass by the ruins of the old express shed, and he found there what he expected to find—­the missing flag from the switch shanty; only the rod was bare, the little piece of red bunting having been burned away.

Bart dismissed this matter from his mind and all other disturbing extraneous affairs, massing all his faculties for the time being on getting properly equipped for business.

He selected a clean, plain board, and with the marking outfit painted across it in six-inch letters that could be plainly read at a distance the words: 

Express office.

This Bart nailed to the door jamb in such a way that it was visible from three directions.

Next he started to carry outside and pile neatly at the blind end of the building all the boards, boxes and other debris littering up the room, swept it, and selected two packing cases and nailed them up into a convenient impromptu desk, manufactured a bench seat out of some loose boards, set his pen, ink and paper in order, and felt quite ready for business.

He had gained a pretty clear idea the day previous from his father as to the Fourth of July express service routine.

The fireworks deliveries had been the main thing, but as these had been destroyed that part of the programme was off the sheet.

At eight o’clock the morning express would bring in its usual quota, but this would be held over until the following day except what was marked special or perishable.  There would be no out express matter owing to the fact that it was a holiday.

“I can manage nicely, I think,” Bart told himself, as, an hour later, he ran the truck down to the site of the burned express shed and stood by the tracks waiting.