“Why!” said Bart, reaching suddenly up and momentarily pulling the impromptu hood aside.  “What’s the matter now?  Where is your beard and long head of hair?”

“Burned.”

“False?”

“Yes.”

“Then you were disguised?”

“I tried to be,” was responded faintly.

Bart stood for a moment or two queerly regarding the roustabout.

“Mr. Baker,” he said finally, “I am bound to respect any wish you may suggest, but I declare I can’t understand you.”

“Don’t try to,” advised the roustabout in a dreary way.  “I’m not worth it.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“And it wouldn’t do any good.”

“It might.  It must!” declared Bart staunchly, “See here, I want to ask you a few questions and then I want to give you some advice, or rather tender my very friendly services.  Do you know what you have done for me to-day?”

“No.  If I have done anything to help you I am glad of it.  You have been a friend to me—­the only friend I’ve found.”

“I’ll be a better one—­that is, if you will let me,” pledged Bart warmly.  “You warned me about the burglars last night; you helped me save my father’s life.”

“Anybody would do what I have done.”

“No one did but yourself, just the same.  Don’t be cynical—­you’re something of a hero, if you only knew it.  It was you who went into the burning express shed and saved the account books and closed the safe door.”

“Who says so?” muttered Baker.

“I say so, and you know it—­don’t you?”

Baker made no response.

“Do you know what all this means for me and my family?” went on Bart.  “You have done for me something I can never pay you for, something I can never forget.  You are true blue, Mr. Baker!  That’s the kind of a worthless good-for-nothing person you are, and I want to call you my friend!  Hello, now what is the matter?”

The matter was that the roustabout was crying softly like a baby.  Bart was infinitely touched.

“I don’t know your secrets,” continued Bart earnestly, “and I certainly shall not pry into them without your permission, but I want to repay your kindness in some way.  I can’t rest till I do.  All I can do is to guess out that you are in some trouble, maybe hiding.  Well, let me share your troubles, let me hide you in a more comfortable way than lounging around cold freight cars with half enough to eat.  You’ve done something grand in the last twenty-four hours—­don’t lose sight of that in mourning over your sins, if you have any, or in running away from some shadow that scares you.  I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a hero, either.  There’s someone else.”

“Is there?” murmured the roustabout weakly.

“There is.  It is Mr. Leslie, the express superintendent.  I told him about you.  He left this ten dollars for you, and the way he did it ought to make you proud.”

Bart forced the bank note into Baker’s hand.  The man was shaking like a leaf from emotion.  He stood like one spellbound, unable to take in all at once the good that was said of him and done him.