Doctor Griscom from the hospital had dropped in for a few moments, and brought some news that lifted something of a cloud from the heart of the young express agent.

“I do not want to hold out any false hopes,” he told Bart, “but there is a bare possibility that your father may not become totally blind.”

“That is blessed news!” cried Bart fervently.

“It is all a question of time, and after that of skill,” continued the surgeon.  “Your father must have absolute rest and cheerful, comfortable surroundings; above all, peace of mind.  I shall watch his case, and when I see the first indication of the services of some skilled specialist being of benefit to him I will tell you.  It will cost you some money, but I will do all I can to make the expert reasonable in his charges.”

“Don’t think of that,” said Bart impetuously.  “With such a hope in view I am willing to work my finger ends off!”

Bart was, therefore, in high spirits as he left the express office, padlocking the door securely.

He was anxious to get home and then to the hospital, to impart to his mother and father in turn the assurance that they had a bread-winner able to work and glad to do so for their benefit.

Amid the buoyancy of the relief from the continuous strain and troubles of the day, Bart was bent on a quick dash for home when he remembered something that changed his plan.

“The roustabout, the poor fellow that I’ve got the ten dollars for, the good fellow, if I don’t mistake, who saved the books and the contents of the safe!” exclaimed Bart.  “Actually, I had forgotten all about him for the moment.”

Bart stood still thinking, looking around speculatively, his fingers mechanically touching the bank note in his pocket which Mr. Leslie had given him in trust.

He did not reflect long.  He went at once to the freight car whence he had seen the ragged arm extended two hours previous, and looked in.

Back at one end were some broken grapevine crates, and it was dim and shadowy there, so he called out.

“Any one here?”

“Yes,” came from the corner, and there was a rustling of straw.

“I guess I know who,” said Bart.  “Come out of that, my good friend, and show yourself,” he continued heartily.

“What for?” propounded a gloomy, wavering voice.

“What for? that’s good!” cried Bart.  “Oh, I know who you are, if I don’t know your name.”

“Baker will do.”

“All right, Mr. Baker, friend Baker, you’re true blue and the best friend I ever had, and I want to shake hands with you, and slap you on the back, and—­help you.”

A timid, muffled figure shifted into full outline, but not into clear view, against the side of the car.

Bart took a step nearer.  He promptly caught at one hand of the slouching figure.  Then he regarded it in perplexity.

The roustabout held with his other hand a canvas bag on his head so that it concealed nearly his entire face.