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"Is it?" cried Bart, in profound admiration of the old bookworm's system. "Professor, you are the wisest man and one of the best men I ever met!" At three o'clock that afternoon Bart Stirling sat down to rest at the side of a dusty country road, pretty well tired out, and about ready to return to Pleasantville.
Bart started to return with his empty cart the way he had come, but about ten feet from the platform paused for a moment to take in the exceptionally flowery sentiment that was being enunciated by the speaker of the day. Colonel Harrington, it seemed, was the self-appointed hero of the occasion. The great man of the village was in his element the eyes and ears of all Pleasantville fixed upon him.
The blue sky, smiling down on the busy scene, was no more serene than the prospect which the future seemed to offer for the successful young express agent. With his last reckless crime Lem Wacker had ceased to be a disturbing element at Pleasantville. After two months' confinement he had limped out of the hospital, out of town, and out of Bart Stirling's life.
His patent-leather shoes were almost hidden, and from his broad base he seemed to converge into a gray derby of the kind we called "the smoky city," the latest thing from Pittsburgh. Looking at him, so wonderfully garbed, I became conscious of my own rusticity, so old-fashioned did the styles of Pleasantville appear beside the resplendent garments of my new friend.
It stood in the center of a network of tracks close to the freight depot and switch tower, and a platform ran its length front and rear. Framed by the window an active railroad panorama spread out, and beyond that view the quaint town of Pleasantville. Bart had spent all his young life here. He knew every nook and corner of the place, and nearly every man, woman and child in the village.
"Your servant, gentlemen!" he said, lifting his hat. "Git!" said one of the men briefly, and the judge moved nimbly away toward the woods. He had gained its shelter when the jail began to glow redly. Now to find Solomon and the boy, and then to put the miles between himself and Pleasantville with all diligence.
A tear coursed down the man's forlorn face and he shook his head dejectedly. "You can't sleep forever in empty freight cars, picking up scraps to live on, you know," said Bart. "I'll live there till I find what I came to Pleasantville to find!" cried the man in a sudden passion.
"I said Pleasantville," cried Henry angrily. "I apologize," returned Isaac. "I thought you said Meadowville, and never havin' been there, I didn't see how I could imagine the station." "It seems to me, Isaac Bolum," retorted Henry with dignified asperity, "that with your imagination you could conjure up a whole railroad system, includin' the freight-yard. But Mr. Thomas has the floor."
But in recent years all the latest submarine boats have been built on this plan. Who, then, was this mechanical genius who was responsible for these far-going changes in submarine construction? Simon Lake was born at Pleasantville, New Jersey, September 4, 1866. He was educated at Clinton Liberal Institute, Fort Plain, New York, and Franklin Institute, Philadelphia.
When they fell into fours, and the band struck up as they approached a town, Bert Fuller, the boy from Pleasantville on the Platte, who had blubbered on the voyage over, was guide right, and whenever Claude passed him his face seemed to say, "You won't get anything on me in a hurry, Lieutenant!" They made camp early in the afternoon, on a hill covered with half-burned pines.
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