WAITING FOR TROUBLE
Lem Wacker rolled over, then sat up, rubbed his head in a half-dazed
manner, and muttered in a silly, sheepish way.
"Lem Wacker," said Bart, "I have got just a few words to say to you, and
that ends matters between us. I am sorry I had to strike you, but I will
have no man interfering with the express company's affairs. I want you
to go away, and if you ever come in here again except on business
strictly there will be trouble."
Lem did not put up much of a belligerent front, though he tried still to
look ugly and dangerous.
He got his balance at last, and extended his finger at our hero.
"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's worries were pleasantly broken in upon by the arrival of his
sister Bertha. She brought him a generous lunch, the first food Bart had
tasted that day, and his appetite welcomed it in a wholesome way.
He put in the time planning what he would do if he was lucky enough to
be retained in his father's position, and what he might do in case
someone else was appointed.
At half-past two Bart loaded the two ice cream freezers on the cart and
started for the picnic grounds.
Juvenile Pleasantville had somewhat subsided for a time in the fervor of
its patriotism. There was a lull in the popping and banging, nearly
everybody in town being due at the time-honored celebration in the
picnic grove.
When Bart reached the grove, someone was making an address, and he
piloted his way circumspectly up to the side of the platform where the
speaking was going on.
He deposited the freezers inside the bunting-decorated inclosure, where
half a dozen young ladies were posted to dispense the refreshments after
the literary programme was finished.
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.
In rolling tones and with magnificent gestures he was paying a lofty
tribute to the immortal Stars and Stripes waving just over his head,
when, his eyes lowering, they focused straight in a fixed stare on Bart.
The colonel gave the young express agent an awful look, and in an
instant Bart knew that the military man had been informed of the
identity of the audacious cannoneer of the evening previous.
Like some orators, the colonel, once disturbed by an extraneous
contemplation, lost his voice, cue and self-possession all in a second.
It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from the innocent and
embarrassed author of his distraction.
He spluttered, the rounded sentence on his lips died down to measly
insignificance, he stammered, stumbled, and sat down with a red face,
his eyes darting rage at poor Bart.
Some of the boys in the crowd "caught on" to the situation, and giggled
and made significant remarks, but the chairman on the platform covered
the colonel's confusion by announcing the national anthem, and Bart
effected his escape.
"He'll never forgive me, now," decided Bart. "The damage to the statue
was bad enough, but breaking him up as my appearance did just now is the
limit. I hope Mr. Leslie doesn't hear of my unfortunate escapade, and I
hope the colonel doesn't undertake to hurt my chances. He's an
irrational firebrand when he takes a dislike to anybody, and Mrs.
Harrington is worse."
Bart had a foundation for this double criticism. The colonel was a
pompous, self-important individual, intensely selfish and domineering,
and his wife a thoughtless devotee of fashion and society.
Mrs. Stirling did some very fine fancy work, and a few months previous
to the opening of this tale the magnate's wife had asked as a favor
that she embroider some handkerchiefs as a wedding present for a
relative.
She never visited the Stirling house but she left some sting or sneer of
affected superiority behind her, and when the work was done took it
home, and the next day sent a note complaining that the handkerchiefs
were spoiled, inclosing about one-fifth the usual compensation for such
labor. But she did not return the handkerchiefs.
Mrs. Stirling later learned that their recipient had expressed herself
perfectly delighted with the delicate, beautiful gift, but, being a true
lady, Bart's mother said nothing about the matter to those who would
have been glad to spread a little gossip unfavorable to the dowdy
society queen of Pleasantville.
The village hardware store was open for the sale of powder, and Bart
stopped there on his way back to the express office and purchased a
padlock, two keys fitting it, and some stout staples and a hasp. He
carried these articles into the office when he reached it.
The thoughts of his father's plight, a haunting dread that Colonel
Harrington might make him some trouble, and the uncertainty of continued
work in the express service, all combined to depress his mind with
anxiety and suspense, and he tried to dismiss the themes by whistling a
quiet, soothing tune as he started to get the hammer to put the padlock
in place.
The minute he opened the door, however, the whistle was instantly
checked, and a quick glance at the impromptu desk told Bart that the
place had welcomed a visitor since he had left it.
On a sheet of blank paper was scrawled the words: "Express safe was
locked last night--contents all right."
And beside it was a heap of account books--the entire records of the
office, which Bart had supposed were destroyed in the fire at the old
express shed the evening previous.