Bart made the last entry in the register with a satisfied smile and strolled to the door stretching himself.

“Everything in apple-pie order so far as the books go,” he observed.  “I expect it will be big hustle and bustle for an hour or two in the morning, though.”

Lem Wacker came slouching along.  It was six o’clock, the quitting hour.  Lem was always on time on such occasions.  The whistle from the shops had ceased echoing, and, his dinner pail on his arm and filling his inevitable pipe, he paused for a moment.

“Going to shut up shop?” he inquired with affected carelessness.

“I am going home, if that’s what you mean,” replied Bart—­“as soon as my father comes.”

“Not feeling very well lately, eh?” continued Lem, his eyes roving in a covetous way over the cozy office and the comfortable railroad armchair Mr. Stirling used.  “No wonder, he takes it too hard.”

“Does he?” retorted Bart.

“You bet he does.  Wish I had his job.  I’d make people wait to suit my ideas.  How’s the company to know or care if you break your neck to accommodate people?  Too honest, too.”

“A man can’t be too honest,” asserted Bart.

“Can’t he?  Say, I’m an old railroader, I am, and I know the ropes.  Why, when I was running the express office at Corydon, we sampled everything that came in.  Crate of bananas—­we had many a lunch, apples, cigars, once in a while a live chicken, and always a couple of turkeys at holiday time.”

“And who paid for them?” inquired Bart bluntly.

“We didn’t, and no questions asked.”

“I am afraid your ideas will not make much impression on my father, if that is what you are getting at,” observed Bart, turning unceremoniously from Wacker.

“Humph! you fellows ought to run a backwoods post office,” disgustedly grunted the latter, as he made off.

Bart had only to wait ten minutes when his father appeared.  Except for a slight limp and some pallor in his face, Mr. Stirling seemed in his prime.  He had kindly eyes and was always pleasant and smiling, even when in pain.

“Well! well!” he cried briskly, with a gratified glance at his son after looking over the register, “all the real hard work is done, the work that always worries me, with my poor eyesight.  Come up to the paymaster, young man!  There’s an advance till salary day, and well you’ve earned it.”

Mr. Stirling took some money from his pocket.  There was a silver dollar and some loose change.  Bart looked pleased, then quite grave, and he put his hand resolutely behind him.

“I can’t take it, father,” he said.  “You have a hard enough time, and I ought to pay you for the experience I’m getting here instead of being paid.”

“Young man,” spoke Mr. Stirling with affected sternness, but a twinkling in his eye, “you take your half-pay, make tracks, enjoy yourself, and don’t worry about a trifle of a dollar or two.  If you happen to drop around this way about nine o’clock, I’ll be glad of your company home.”