AN EARLY "CALL"
The young express agent was conscious that he shouted outright in his
nightmare, for the trunk he was dreaming about as it struck him seemed
to explode into a thousand pieces.
The echoes of the explosion appeared to still ring in his ears, as he
sat up and pulled himself together. Then he discovered that it was a
real sound that had awakened him.
"Only five," he murmured, with a quick glance at the alarm clock on the
bureau--"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 some
clothes, "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 the
stairs 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 feet
could carry you."
"Thank you, Jeff, I'll lose no time."
Bart hurried into his clothes. Clear of the house, he ran all the way to
the railroad yards.
As he rounded into them from Depot Street, he came in sight of the
express office.
McCarthy, the night watchman, was seated on the platform looking down in
a rueful way.
He got up as Bart approached, and the latter noticed that he looked
haggard, 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 door
stood open, and the padlock and staples, torn from place, lay on the
platform. 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, had
disappeared. He sank to the bench, overcome. Finally he inquired
faintly:
"How did it happen?"
"I only know what happened to me," responded the watchman. "I was
drugged."
"When--where--by whom?"
"It's guesswork, that, but the fact stands--I was dosed. You asked me to
watch, and I did watch. Up to midnight that lantern on top of the trunk
wasn'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 to
eat my lunch. The old switchman lends me his night key. I put my lunch
in on the bench when I come on duty, and he always leaves the stove full
of splinters to warm up the coffee quick. When I let myself in at
midnight, the lantern here was right as a beacon--I particularly noticed
it."
"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. I
never did such a thing before in all my ten years of duty here. I was
doped."
"How do you know that?" asked Bart.
"I warmed up the coffee and had my lunch," narrated the watchman. "Then
I settled down for a ten minutes' comfortable smoke, as I always do. I
felt sort of sickish, right away. I had noticed that the coffee tasted
queer, but I fancied it might have been burned. Anyhow, half an hour ago
I seemed to come out of a stupor, my head fairly splitting, and my
stomach 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 any
coffee left, for my throat was dry as a piece of pine board. There
wasn't, but at the bottom of the pail were two or three little sticky
brown dabs. I tasted the stuff. It was opium. I know, for I've used it
in sickness. I stumbled out to get the air. The minute I glanced over at
the express office I guessed it all out. It's a burglary, right and
proper, 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 had
disclosed.
"See here," he said promptly, "how many keys are there to the switch
shanty?"
"Only one that I know anything of," responded McCarthy. "There can't be
many, 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, with
a start of suspicion.
"I'm not thinking anything positive," interrupted Bart--"I am only
seeking information. When Wacker subbed for the old switchman, did he
have a special key?"
"N--no," answered the watchman hesitatingly, "for I remember Wacker
loaned 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 came
back on duty--so he must have had an extra one of his own. They are
easily got--it's a common, ordinary lock."
Bart's lips shut close. He went outside, looked keenly around, and
jumped 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 employee
like McCarthy, and Bart realized that he felt very badly over the
matter.
"What is it, Stirling--have you found anything?" asked the watchman
eagerly, as Bart, after inspecting the roadway, still more narrowly
regarded the edges of the platform boards, running his finger over them
in a critical way.
"Yes, I have," announced Bart--"that trunk was taken away from here in a
wagon."
"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 a
wheel 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 if
some idea had occurred to him with tremendous force. "You mentioned Lem
Wacker. 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, was
caught peddling the stolen pickles in. I saw Lem painting it fresh out
in 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!" declared
Bart.