“Good morning, Mrs. Wacker,” said Bart, courteously lifting his cap.  “Could I see Mr. Wacker for a moment?”

“He isn’t at home.”

“Oh! went away early?  I suppose, though, he will be back soon.”

“No, he hasn’t been home all night,” responded the woman in a dreary, listless tone.  “You work at the railroad, don’t you?  Have they sent for Lem?  He said he was expecting a job there—­we need it bad enough!”

She glanced dejectedly about the wretched kitchen as she spoke, and Bart felt truly sorry for her.

“I have no word of any work,” announced Bart, “but I wish to see Mr. Wacker very much on private business.”  When did he leave home?

“Last night at ten o’clock.”

“With his horse and wagon?”

“Why, yes,” admitted the woman, with a sudden, wondering glance at Bart.  “How did you know that?”

“I noticed the wagon wasn’t in the shed.”

“Oh, he sold it—­and the horse.”

“When, Mrs. Wacker?”

“Last night some men came here, two of them, about nine o’clock.  They talked a long time in the sitting room, and then Lem went out and hitched up.  He came into the kitchen before he went away, and told me he had a chance to sell the rig, and was going to do it, and had to go down to the Sharp Corner to treat the men and close the bargain.”

“I see,” murmured Bart.  “Who were the men, Mrs. Wacker?”

“I don’t know.  One of them was here with Lem about two weeks ago, but I don’t know his name, or where he lives.  He don’t belong in Pleasantville.  Oh, dear!” she concluded, with a sigh of deep depression, “I wish Lem would get back on the road in a steady job, instead of scheming at this thing and that.  He’ll land us all in the poorhouse yet, for he spends all he gets down at the Corner.”

Bart backed down the steps, feeling secretly that Lem Wacker would have a hard time disproving a connection with the burglary.

“Take care of the dog!” warned Mrs. Wacker as she closed the door.

Bart, passing a battered dog-house, found it tenantless, however.

“I wonder if Lem Wacker has sold the dog, too?” he reflected.  “Poor Mrs. Wacker!  I feel awfully sorry for her.”

Bart walked rapidly back the way he had come.  It was just a quarter of seven when he reached a half-street extending along and facing the railroad tracks for a single square.

The Sharp Corner was a second-class groggery and boarding house, patronized almost entirely by the poorest and most shiftless class of trackmen.

Its proprietor was one Silas Green, once a switchman, later a prize fighter, always a hard drinker, and latterly so crippled with rheumatism and liquor that he was just able to get about.

Bart went into the place to find its proprietor just opening up for the day.  The dead, tainted air of the den made the young express agent almost faint.  As it vividly contrasted with the sweet, garden scented atmosphere of home, he wondered how men could make it their haunt, and was sorry that even business had made it necessary for him to enter the place.