A freight engine soon came to the spot, backing down the express car.  Its engineer halted with a jerk and a vivid: 

“Hello!”

He had not heard of the fire, and he stared with interest at the ruins as Bart explained that, until some new arrangement was made, express shipments would be accepted and loaded by truck.

There were four big freezers of ice cream, one for delivery at the town confectioner’s, one at the drug store soda fountain, and two for the picnic grounds, where an afternoon celebration was on the programme.  Besides these, there were three packages containing flags and fireworks, marked “Delayed—­Rush.”

He closed the office door, tacked to it a card announcing he would return inside of half an hour, and loaded into the wagon the entire morning’s freight except the two freezers intended for the picnic grounds.

These could not be delivered until two o’clock that afternoon, and he stowed them in the new express shed, covering them carefully with their canvas wrappings.

Bart made a record run in his deliveries.  He had formed a rough receipt book out of some loose sheets, and when he came back to the office filled out his entries in regular form.

Several persons visited the place up to nine o’clock—­storekeepers and others who had lost their goods in the fire.  Bart explained the situation, saying that they would probably hear from the express company in a day or two regarding their claims.

He found in work something to change his thoughts from a gloomy channel, and, while very anxious about his father, was thankful his parent had escaped with his life, while he indulged some hopeful and daring plans for his own ambitions in the near future.

“I’ll stick to my post,” he decided.  “Some of the express people may happen down here any time.”

He was making up a list from memory of those in the village whose packages had been destroyed by the fire, when two boys crossed the threshold of the open doorway, one carrying a thin flat package.

Bart greeted them pleasantly.  The elder was Darry Haven, his companion a younger brother, Bob, both warm friends of the young express agent.

Darry inquired for Mr. Stirling solicitously, and said his mother was then on her way to see Mrs. Stirling, anxious to do anything she could to share the lady’s troubles.  Mr. Haven had been an editor, but his health had failed, and Mrs. Haven, having some artistic ability and experience, was the main present support of the family, doing considerable work for a publishing house in the city in the way of illustrations for fashion pages.

Darry had a “rush” package of illustrations under his arm now.

“I suppose we can’t get anything through to-day, or until you get things in running order again?” he intimated.

“We were sending nothing through on account of the Fourth,” explained Bart, “but you leave the package here and I will see that it goes on the eleven o’clock train.”