Bart held his breath, nearly suffocated by the mixed liquor and tobacco taint in the close, disorderly looking apartment.

His eye pa.s.sed over the stained table, the broken gla.s.ses and litter of cigar stubs. Then he came nearer to the table. One corner was covered with chalk marks.

They apparently represented the score of the games the trio had played.

There were three columns.

At the head of one was scrawled the name "Wacker," at the second "Buck,"

at the third "Hank."

Bart wondered if he had better try to interview Lem Wacker. He decided in the negative.

In the first place, Wacker would not be likely to talk with him--if he did, he would be on his guard and prevaricate; and, lastly, as long as he was asleep he was out of mischief, and helpless to interfere with Bart.

The young express agent left the Sharp Corner without saying anything further to Silas Green.

He had his theory, and his plan. His theory was that Lem Wacker, with a perfect knowledge of the express office situation, had "fixed" the night watchman's lunch, and employed two accomplices to do the rest of the work.

When Wacker woke up, he would simply say he had sold his rig to two strangers, and, so far as the actual burglary was concerned, would be able to prove a conclusive _alibi_.

The men who had committed the deed had driven off with the wagon and trunk, and by this time were undoubtedly at a safe distance in hiding.

Bart went home, got his breakfast, told his mother a trunk had got lost and he might have to go down the road to look it up, returned to the express office, found Darry Haven and McCarthy on duty, gave them some routine directions, and left the place.

Darry Haven followed him outside with a rather serious face.

"Bart," he said anxiously, "Mrs. Colonel Harrington drove down here a few minutes ago."

"About the trunk, I suppose."

"Yes, and she was wild over it. Said you had got rid of the trunk to spite her, because she had had some trouble with your mother."

"Nonsense! Anything else?"

"If the trunk don't show up to-day, she says she will have you arrested."

Bart shrugged his shoulders, but he was consciously uneasy.

"What did you tell her, Darry?" he inquired.

"I put on all the official dignity I could a.s.sume, but was very polite all the time, informed her that mislaid, delayed and irregular express matter were common occurrences, that the company was responsible for its contracts, counted you one of its most reliable agents, and a.s.sured her that very possibly within twenty-four hours she would find her trunk delivered safe and sound at its destination."

"Good for you!" laughed Bart. "Keep an eye on things. I'll show up, or wire, by night."

"Any clew, Bart?"

"I think so."

Bart went straight to the home of Professor Abner Cunningham.

That venerable gentleman--antiquarian, scientist and profound scholar--had a queer little place at the edge of the town where he raised wonderful bees, and grew freak squashes inside gla.s.s molds in every grotesque shape imaginable.

He was a friend to all the boys in town, and Bart joined him without ceremony as he found him out on the lawn in his skull cap and dressing gown, studying a hornets' nest with a magnifying gla.s.s.

"Ah, young Bartley--or Bartholomew, is it?" smiled the innocent-faced old scientist jovially. "I have a new volume on nomenclature that gives quite an interesting chapter on the Bartholomew subject. It takes you back to the eleventh century, in France--"

"Professor, excuse me," interrupted Bart gracefully, "but something very vital to the twentieth century is calling for urgent attention, and I wanted to ask you a question or two."

"Surely. Glad to tell you anything," a.s.sured the professor, happiest always when he was talking, and willing to talk for hours with anyone who would listen to him. "Come into the library."

"I really haven't the time, Professor," said Bart. "Please let me ask if you had charge of getting up that directory of the county that a city firm published?"

"Two years ago? yes," nodded the professor a.s.sentingly. "It was quite a pleasant and profitable task. I believe I saw about every resident in the county in preparing that directory."

"I am going to ask you a foolish question, perhaps, Professor,"

continued Bart, "for an accurate person like you of course took down only correct names, and not nicknames. Here is the gist of it, then. I am looking for two men, and I know only that they live outside of Pleasantville, and call themselves Buck and Hank."

"Well! well! well!" muttered Professor Cunningham in a musing tone.

"Hank, proper name Henry; Buck, proper name Buckingham--hold on, I've got it! Come in!" insisted the professor animatedly. "Oh, you haven't time? Buckingham? Sure thing! Wait here, just a minute."

The professor rushed into the house, and in about two minutes came rushing out again.

He had an open book in his hand, and stumbled over flower beds and walks recklessly as he consulted it on the run, spilling out some loose papers it contained, and leaving a white trail behind him.

"You see here the value of keeping notes of everything," he panted, on reaching Bart--"nothing is lost in this world, however small. Here we are: 'County at large.' Now then, in my private notes: 'Allessandro'

uncommon name--'look up--probably Greek.' 'Alaric, Altemus, Artemas, Benno, Borl, Bud--derived from Budlongor, Budmeister--Buck'--I've got it: 'Buckingham, last name Tolliver, residence: Millville, occupation none.' Hold on. We've got the clew--now for the town record."

The Professor again flitted away to the house, and darted back again with a new volume in his hand.

"Here you are!" he cried, selecting a printed page. "'Millville, population two hundred and sixty, not on railroad. R.S.T. Tappan, Tevens, Tolliver'--Ah, 'Buckingham Tolliver, Henry Tolliver,' must be brothers, I fancy. That's all I've got on record. Information any use to you?"

"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!"

CHAPTER XVIII

A DUMB FRIEND

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.

When old Professor Cunningham gave him the names Buck and Hank Tolliver, Bart was positive that the same covered the ident.i.ty of the two men who had been at the Sharp Corner with Lem Wacker.

Bart had started at once for Millville. His first intention was to get a conveyance at the livery stable, his first impulse to solicit the co-operation of the town police.

While discussing these points mentally, however, a farmer driving west came down the road. He had a good team, said he was pa.s.sing through Millville, seemed glad to give Bart a lift, and so it was that the young express agent found himself on the solitary lookout there, two hours before noon.