“Come after something?” inquired the agent “I don’t recall that there is anything here for you.”

“No, I want to express these hives,” answered the farmer.

He indicated six boxes lying in his wagon, covered with gauze.

“Bother!” said Pope, a little crossly.  “That’s no midnight job.  Why don’t you come in the daytime, Mr. Simms?  You just caught me here by chance, at this outlandish hour.”

“Particular shipment,” explained Simms, “and I’ve got to catch the trains just right.  You see, these are special imported Italian bees, Breeders.  I reckon every one of those beauties is worth half-a-dollar.  They’re very delicate in this climate, and call for great care.  I want you to instruct the messenger to follow the directions carded on the boxes.”

“I can do that,” said Pope.  “What he will do, is another thing.”

“You see,” continued the farmer, “if they handle them carefully at Pleasantville, and see that they catch the early express to the city from there, someone will be waiting to take them in charge at the terminus.  I’d be awful glad to tip the messenger handsomely to have someone at Pleasantville, where they transfer the hives, open the ventilators for a spell and tip down into the pans some of the honey syrup.”

“I will do that for you, sir,” spoke up Bart—­“I am in charge of the express office at Pleasantville.  I am going on this train, and I will be glad to see that your goods are attended to just right, and transferred on time.”

“Say, will you?” exclaimed the farmer in a pleased tone.  “Now, that’s just the ticket!  The wrong draught on those bees, or too much bad air, or too little feed, and they die off in dozens.  You see, at fifty cents apiece, that means quite a loss on an unlucky shipment.”

“It does, indeed, Mr. Simms,” responded Bart “I am very much interested in the little workers, and you can rest easy as to their being rightly cared for.  I believe I will ride to Pleasantville in the express car, so your bees will be right under my eye till they are put on the city express.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said the farmer heartily.

As the train whistled in the distance, he came up to Bart and slipped a bank note in his hand.

Bart demurred, but it was no use.  He found himself two dollars richer for his accommodating proposition.

As the train drew up, Peter Pope rapped at the door of the express car.  A sleepy-eyed messenger opened it.  The hives were shoved in.  Bart made a brief explanation to the messenger, showing his pass.  He waved a pleasant adieu to Pope and the farmer as the express car door was closed and locked.

When Bart got home he was more than tired out.  But he had done well and in the end got full praise for his work.

A day passed, and Bart failed to find Baker.  He hunted everywhere and kept up the search until he knew not where to look further.