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Updated: May 1, 2025
"You can't go in that room." "Why can't I?" "Because that's the orders; and you can't smoke in this room." Bart Stirling spoke in a definite, manly fashion. Lemuel Wacker dropped his hand from the door knob on which it rested, and put his pipe in his pocket, but his shoulders hunched up and his unpleasant face began to scowl. "Ho!" he snorted derisively, "official of the company, eh?
A heavy hand dropped suddenly on his collar, McCarthy, the watchman, gave him a shove towards the door. "No talk of that kind allowed here," he remarked grimly. "Get out, or I'll fire you out!" As Wacker disappeared through the doorway, Bart leaned from the platform. "Here is your package, Mr. Baker," he said. "What is the trouble are you ill?" Baker struggled to his feet.
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.
"Sender: Novelty Jewelry Company, no address," read Bart, "shipped to James Barclay, Millville not found. This is a promising-looking package. Gentlemen, what am I bid?" Lem Wacker seemed to have some spare cash, for he paid two dollars for the box, swaggered off with it, and opening it disclosed a very small and neat pocket alarm clock.
"This consignment was shipped as nine hundred and fifty pounds," he said. "It weighed that at the start." "That's what the shipping agent says, yes." "And you claim eight hundred pounds?" "Exactly." "It was weighed up here when received nine hundred and fifty pounds." "Come off!" jeered Wacker. "Wasn't I an express agent once and don't I know the ropes?
They heard that down at Arlington someone was offering them to the storekeepers at one dollar for two bushels, investigated, detected Dale Wacker peddling the peppers from factory bags, and found that his uncle, Lem, was mixed up in the affair. Anyway, Dale's father had to settle the bill, and they fired Lem." "Mr.
"Bart Stirling," he maundered, "you've made an enemy for life. Look out for me! You're a marked man after this." "What am I marked with," inquired Bart quickly "burnt cork?" "Hey! What?" blurted out Lem, and Bart saw that the shot had struck the target. Wacker looked sickly, and muttered something to himself. Then he took himself off.
Bart was busy at his desk in the express office, but turned quickly as he recognized the tones. Trouble in the shape of Lem Wacker loomed up at the doorway. "What is it?" asked Bart. It was a week after the Fourth, and in all that time Bart had not seen anything of the man whom he secretly believed was responsible for the fire at the old express office.
The Wacker brothers belonged to a crowd Bart did not train with usually, but as Dale espied him and seized his arm energetically, Bart did not draw away, respecting the occasion and its courtesies. "You're the very fellow!" declared Dale. "You bet he is!" cried two others, crowding up and slapping Bart on the back. "He won't crawfish. Give him the punk, Dale."
What receiving agent ever takes the trouble to re-weigh!" "My father did I always do," announced Bart flatly. "Even if you did," persisted Wacker, "what little one-horse agent dares to dispute the big company's weight at the other end of the line?" "Oh," observed Bart smoothly, "you think there is a sort of collusion, do you?" "Yes, I do I am an expert!"
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