Bart Stirlings Road to Success | Page 6

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.

CHAPTER IV
BLIND FOR LIFE
Bart's first thought was of his father. He instantly leaped from the platform.
As he did so there was a violent explosion in the storage room, the sashes were blown from place outright, and Bart dodged to escape a shower of glass.
He was fairly appalled at the suddenness with which the flames enveloped the interior, for they shot up in every direction, and the partition dividing the shed appeared blown from place.
Rockets were fizzing, giant crackers exploding by the pack, and colored chemicals sending out a varied glow.
Bart dashed for the front--a muffled cry caused him to hurry his speed. His father had uttered the cry.
Dazed by the light, his eyes filled with smarting particles of burned powder, Bart suddenly came in violent contact with a human form just as he turned the corner of the shed.
Both nearly upset in the collision. At first Bart fancied it might be one of the burglars, but peering closer he recognized the friendly roustabout.
"Told you so!" gasped the latter in a desperate fluster. "Fire--I'll help you."
"Yes, quick! run," breathed Bart, rushing ahead, "My father's in that burning building!"
Bart was thrilled. The main room of the express shed was one bright blur of brilliancy and colored smoke.
It rolled and whirled, obliterating all outlines within the room.
"Father! father!" shouted Bart, dashing recklessly in at the open doorway.
He could not make out a single object in that chaos, but he knew the location of every familiar article in the place, and made for the chair in which his father usually sat.
"Father!" he screamed, as his hands touched the arms of the chair and found it empty.
The sulphurous flames nearly choked him, the heat from the crackling wooden partition singed his hair, but he could only grope about blindly.
"Here he is," sounded a suffocating voice.
"Where, oh! where?" panted Bart.
He threw out his arms wildly, groping to locate the speaker, whom he knew to be the roustabout. "Where is he--where is he?"
He had come in contact with the roustabout now, who with all his timidity was proving himself a hero in the present instance.
"Lying on the floor--stumbled over him--I'm on fire, too!"
Bart's feet touched a prostrate form. It was moved along as Bart stooped and got hold of the shoulders.
The roustabout was helping him. They dragged together, stumbling to the doorway on the very verge of fatal danger, and reeled across the platform.
The roustabout jumped to the ground. Once there he gently but in a masterly way drew the inanimate form of Mr. Stirling from the platform, and