CHAPTER XV
AN EARLY "CALL"
The young express agent was conscious that he shouted outright in hisnightmare, for the trunk he was dreaming about as it struck him seemedto explode into a thousand pieces.
The echoes of the explosion appeared to still ring in his ears, as hesat up and pulled himself together. Then he discovered that it was areal sound that had awakened him.
"Only five," he murmured, with a quick glance at the alarm clock on thebureau--"and someone at the front door!"
Rat, tat, tat! it was a sharp, distinct summons.
"Why," continued Bart briskly, jumping out of bed and hurrying on someclothes, "it's Jeff!"
Jeff was "the caller" for the roundhouse. He was a feature in the B. &M. system, and for ten years had pursued his present occupation.
"Something's up," ruminated Bart a little excitedly, as he ran down thestairs and opened the front door. "What is it, Jeff?"
"Wanted," announced the laconic caller.
"By whom?"
"McCarthy, down at the freight house."
"What's wrong?"
"He didn't tell---just asked me to get you there quick as your feetcould carry you."
"Thank you, Jeff, I'll lose no time."
Bart hurried into his clothes. Clear of the house, he ran all the way tothe railroad yards.
As he rounded into them from Depot Street, he came in sight of theexpress office.
McCarthy, the night watchman, was seated on the platform looking down ina rueful way.
He got up as Bart approached, and the latter noticed that he lookedhaggard, and swayed as though his head was dizzy.
"What is it?" cried out Bart irrepressibly.
"I'm sorry, Stirling," said the watchman, "but--look there!"
Bart could not restrain a sharp cry of concern. The express office doorstood open, and the padlock and staples, torn from place, lay on theplatform. He rushed into the building. Then his dismay was complete.
"The trunk!" he cried--"it's gone!"
"Yes, it is!" groaned McCarthy, pressing at his heels.
Bart cast a reproachful look at the watchman. The lantern, too, haddisappeared. He sank to the bench, overcome. Finally he inquiredfaintly:
"How did it happen?"
"I only know what happened to me," responded the watchman. "I wasdrugged."
"When--where--by whom?"
"It's guesswork, that, but the fact stands--I was dosed. You asked me towatch, and I did watch. Up to midnight that lantern on top of the trunkwasn't out of my sight fifteen minutes at a time."
"And then?" questioned Bart.
"I always go over to the crossing switch shanty about twelve o'clock toeat my lunch. The old switchman lends me his night key. I put my lunchin on the bench when I come on duty, and he always leaves the stove fullof splinters to warm up the coffee quick. When I let myself in atmidnight, the lantern here was right as a beacon--I particularly noticedit."
"How long was it before you came out again?"
"Four hours afterwards--just a little while ago."
"Then you--fell asleep?" said Bart.
"Yes, I did, and no blame to me. I'm no skulker, as you well know. Inever did such a thing before in all my ten years of duty here. I wasdoped."
"How do you know that?" asked Bart.
"I warmed up the coffee and had my lunch," narrated the watchman. "ThenI settled down for a ten minutes' comfortable smoke, as I always do. Ifelt sort of sickish, right away. I had noticed that the coffee tastedqueer, but I fancied it might have been burned. Anyhow, half an hour agoI seemed to come out of a stupor, my head fairly splitting, and mystomach burning as though I'd taken poison. I thought of poison,somehow, and more so than ever as I reached over to see if there was anycoffee left, for my throat was dry as a piece of pine board. Therewasn't, but at the bottom of the pail were two or three little stickybrown dabs. I tasted the stuff. It was opium. I know, for I've used itin sickness. I stumbled out to get the air. The minute I glanced over atthe express office I guessed it all out. It's a burglary, right andproper, Stirling, and the fellows who did it knew I was on the watch,got into the switch shanty, fixed the coffee and put me to sleep."
Bart rapidly turned over in his mind all that the watchman haddisclosed.
"See here," he said promptly, "how many keys are there to the switchshanty?"
"Only one that I know anything of," responded McCarthy. "There can't bemany, or the old switchman wouldn't have to lend me his key."
"Lem Wacker subbed for him once, didn't he?" inquired Bart pointedly.
"Yes, for a day or two--say! you don't think--" began the watchman, witha start of suspicion.
"I'm not thinking anything positive," interrupted Bart--"I am onlyseeking information. When Wacker subbed for the old switchman, did hehave a special key?"
"N--no," answered the watchman hesitatingly, "for I remember Wackerloaned me the old switchman's key the first night. Hold on, though!"cried McCarthy with a spurt of memory, "it comes back to me clear now.The next night he told me to keep the key till the old switchman cameback on duty--so he must have had an extra one of his own. They areeasily got--it's a common, ordinary lock."
Bart's lips shut close. He went outside, looked keenly around, andjumped down from the platform.
The watchman trailed out after him, watching him in a worried,discouraged way. There was no doubting the word of a trusted employeelike McCarthy, and Bart realized that he felt very badly over thematter.
"What is it, Stirling--have you found anything?" asked the watchmaneagerly, as Bart, after inspecting the roadway, still more narrowlyregarded the edges of the platform boards, running his finger over themin a critical way.
"Yes, I have," announced Bart--"that trunk was taken away from here in awagon."
"How do you know?"
"Look at those fresh wheel tracks," directed Bart, pointing to the road."They sided a wagon up to the platform, right here. So close, that awheel or the body of the wagon scraped along the edges of the boards.The paint was fresh. And it was bright red," added Bart.
"You're a good one to guess that out," muttered the watchman. "Why,say--"
McCarthy gave a prodigious start and put his hand up to his head, as ifsome idea had occurred to him with tremendous force. "You mentioned LemWacker. It's funny, but last week Wacker bought a new wagon."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, it was the same one that his scapegrace nephew, Dale Wacker, wascaught peddling the stolen pickles in. I saw Lem painting it fresh outin his shop only two days ago. You know I live just beyond him."
"What color?"
"Red."
"Then Lem Wacker must know something about this burglary!" declaredBart.
Bart Stirling's Road to Success; Or, The Young Express Agent Page 15