No one was in sight about the place, yet lying in plain view on the hand car were three or four coats and jumpers and as many dinner pails.

“I have no time to figure it out,” breathed Bart quickly.  “The first thing to do is to get the trunk down there.”

Bart ran back to the wagon.  He hurriedly pulled away the grass covering and then the canvas.

The trunk was revealed.  He had his first full glance at it since it had been delivered to him at the express office at Pleasantville, the afternoon previous.

“It’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, after a critical inspection.  “There is the paster I slapped over the front.  The trunk could not have been opened without tearing that.”

He got a good purchase on a handle and landed the trunk in the road.  Then he dragged it up to the barrier, removed a board, and, perspiring and breathing hard, held it at the sheer edge of the decline and let it slide.

The hand car was a light-running affair, well-greased, in pretty good order, and he could readily observe was in constant use.

Upon it lay the clothing and dinner pails he had noticed from overhead.  They evidently belonged to workmen—­but where were they?

“I can hardly wait to find out,” declared Bart.

He pushed off the clothing and dinner pails and lifted on the trunk.

Then Bart made a depressing discovery—­the hind gearing was locked with a chain running from wheel to wheel.

This was unfortunate.  Turning a heap of slate, he came suddenly and with delight upon an open tool box.

It was a regular construction case, and full of shovels, crowbars, pickaxes, sledges and drills.  Bart selected a crowbar and his efforts to twist and snap the chain resulted in final success.  With a thrill of satisfaction he sprang upon the car.  The handles moved easily and responsively to the touch.

A grumbling roar caused him to survey the sky, which had been dull and lowering since noon.

“Storm coming,” he murmured—­“now for action!”

Bart started up the car.  It ran as smooth as a bicycle.  He was anxious to get away from the face of the hill, not knowing how near the enemy might be.

They were nearer than he fancied, for a sudden shout rang out, then a chorus of them.

A piece of rock, hurled down from the crest of the hill, struck his wrist, nearly numbing it.  Glancing up, Bart saw the two Tollivers and Lem Wacker getting ready to descend.

There was a sharp incline and a short curve not ten feet ahead.  Bart let the hand car drive at its own impetus.

“Stop!” yelled Buck Tolliver.

He held some object in his hand.  Bart crouched by the side of the pumping standard, and the hand car spun out on the tracks crossing the valley, just as the thunder-storm broke forth in all its fury.

Bart’s back was to the wind, and the wind helped his progress.  As the tracks led into the timber, Bart took a last glance backwards, but rain and mist shut out all sight of the hill and his enemies.