COUNTING THE COST
Bart had quickly moved to one side of the cannon after lighting the
fuse, and was about twenty feet away when the explosion came.
The alarming echoes, the shock, flare and smoke combined to give him a
terrific sensation.
The crowd that had retreated down the hill in delightful trepidation now
came trooping back filled with a bolder excitement.
They had indeed "waked the natives," for gazing downhill against the
lights of the street and stores at its base they could see people
rushing outdoors in palpable agitation.
Some were staring up the hill in wonder and terror, others were starting
for its summit, among them two village officials, as demonstrated by the
silver stars they wore.
"They heard it--it woke 'em up, right enough!" shrieked little Sawyer
in a frenzy of happiness.
"Look yonder!" piped a second breathless voice. "Say, I thought I heard
something strike."
Dale Wacker came upon the scene--not limping, but chuckling and winking
to the cronies at his back.
"Pretty good aim, eh, fellows?" he gloated. "Stirling, you're a capital
gunner."
All eyes were now turned in a new direction--in that whither the muzzle
of the cannon was pointed.
The grounds of the Harrington mansion were the scene of a vivid
commotion. The porch lights had been abruptly turned on, and they
flooded the lawn in front with radiance.
Bart gasped, thrilled, and experienced a strange qualm of dismay. He
discerned in a flash that something heretofore always prominently
present on the Harrington landscape was not now in evidence.
The wealthy colonel was given to "grandstand plays," and one of them had
been the placing of a bronze pedestal and statue at the side of the
driveway.
It bore the inscription "1812," and according to the colonel, portrayed
a military man life-size, epaulettes, sword, uniform and all--his
maternal grandfather as he had appeared in the battle scene where he had
lost a limb.
Now, in effigy, the valiant warrior was prostrate. The colonel's
servants were rushing to the spot where the statue had tumbled over on
the velvety sward.
"See here!"--cried Bart stormingly, turning on Dale Wacker.
"Loaded," significantly observed the latter with a diabolical grin.
A rush of keen realization made Bart shiver. He recognized what the
foolhardy escapade might have cost had that whirling cannon ball met a
human, instead of an inanimate, target.
As it was, he easily calculated the indignation and resentment of the
haughty village magnate who was given to outbursts of wrath which
carried all before him.
"You've spoiled my Fourth," began Bart in a tumult. "I'll spoil your--"
"Cut for it, fellows! they're coming for us!"
"They" were the village officers. Bart had made a jump towards Dale
Wacker, but the latter had faded into the vortex of pell-mell fugitives
rushing away downhill to hiding.
Bart put after them, trying to single out the author of the scurvy joke
that he knew had serious trouble at the end of it.
"Hold on!" gasped a breathless voice.
"Don't stop me!" shouted Bart, trying to tear loose from a frantic grip.
"Oh, it's you--what do you want?"
He halted to survey the person who detained him--the man who haunted the
freight tracks--to whom he had given money earlier in the evening.
"Come, quick!" the man panted. "Express shed--where your father
is--trouble. Don't wait--not a minute."
"See here," challenged Bart, instantly startled into a new tremor of
anxiety, "what do you mean?"
But the forlorn roustabout could not be coherent. He continued to gasp
and splutter out excited adjectives, fragmentary sentences.
"Plot--get you into trouble--father--I heard 'em."
Then as his glance fell upon the people coming up the hill, the officers
in their lead, his eyes bulged with terror, he grasped Bart's arm, let
out an unearthly yell of fear, and by sheer force carried Bart
pell-mell down the other side of the hill with him.
"See here," panted Bart, as, still running, they were headed in the
direction of the railroad, "my business is here. Don't you hurry me off
in this fashion unless there's something to it."
"Told you--express shed--robbers!"
"Robbers? You mean some one is stealing something there?"
"Yes!" gulped Bart's companion.
"Who is it?"
"Don't know."
"Why didn't you stop them?"
"I don't dare do anything," the man wailed. "I'm a poor, miserable
object, but I'm your friend. I heard two fellows whispering on the
tracks near the express shed. Said they were going to steal some
fireworks. I ran to the shed to warn your father. He was asleep in his
chair. They might see me--didn't dare do anything."
Bart now believed there might be some basis to the man's statements. He
plunged forward alone, not conscious that he was outdistancing his late
companion.
Reaching the tracks, Bart ran down a line of freights. The express shed
was in view at last. It was lighted up as usual, the door stood open,
and nothing suggested anything out of the ordinary.
"The fellow's cracked," reflected Bart. "Everything looks straight
here--no, it doesn't!" He checked himself abruptly. "Here! what are you
at?"
Sharp and clear Bart sang out. Approaching the express shed from the
side, his glance shifted to the rear.
The little structure had one window there, lightly barred with metal
strips. Two men stood on the platform beneath it. One of them had just
pried a strip loose with some long implement he held in his hand. The
other had just pushed up the sash by reaching through the convenient
aperture thus made.
Bart bounded to the platform with a nimble spring. As his feet clamped
down warningly on the boardway, the man who had pushed up the window
turned sharply.
"It's young Stirling!" Bart heard him mutter. "Drop it, and run."
The speaker sprang to the ground and disappeared around the corner of
the shed with the words.
His companion, who had been stooping on one knee in his prying
operations, essayed to join him, slipped, tilted over, and before he
could recover himself Bart was upon him.
"What are you about here?" demanded the latter.
The prisoner was of man-like build and proportions. He did not speak,
and tried to keep his features hidden from the rays of the near switch
light.
"Lemme go!" he mouthed, with purposely subdued intonation.
"Not till I know who you are--not till I find out what you're up to,"
declared Bart. "Turn around here. I'll stick closer than a brother till
I see that face of yours!"
He swung his captive towards the light, but a broad-peaked cap and the
partial disguise of a crudely blackened face defeated his purpose.
Bart was about to shout to his father in front, or to his roustabout
friend, whom he expected must be somewhere near by this time, when his
captive gave a jerk, tore one arm free, and whirled the other aloft.
His hand clenched the implement he had used to pry away the bars, and
Bart now saw what it was.
The object the mysterious robber was utilizing for burglarious
purposes, was the signal flag used at the switch shanty where Lem Wacker
had been doing substitute duty that day.
It consisted of a three foot iron rod, sharpened at the end. At the
blunt end the strip of red flag was wound, near the sharp end the
conventional track torpedo was held in place by its tin strap.
"Lemme go"; again growled the man.
"Never!" declared Bart.
The man's left arm was free, and he swung the iron rod aloft. Bart saw
it descending, aimed straight for his head. If he held on to the man he
could scarcely evade it.
He let go his grip, ducked, made a pass to grasp the burglar's ankle,
but missed it.
An explosion, a sharp flare, a keen shock filled the air, and before
Bart could grip the man afresh he had sprung from the platform and
vanished.
At the same instant the flag rod clattered to the boards, and a second
later, rubbing his face free from sudden pricking grains of powder, Bart
saw what had happened.
The blow intended for him had landed upon one of the iron bars of the
window with a force that exploded the track torpedo.
It had flared out one broad spiteful breath, sending a shower of sparks
among the big mass of fireworks in the storage room, and amid a thousand
hissing, snapping explosions the express shed was in flames.