of some loose sheets, and when he came back to the office filled out his entries in regular form.

Several persons visited the place up to nine o'clock—storekeepers and others who had lost their goods in the fire. Bart explained the situation, saying that they would probably hear from the express company in a day or two regarding their claims.

He found in work something to change his thoughts from a gloomy channel, and, while very anxious about his father, was thankful his parent had escaped with his life, while he indulged some hopeful and daring plans for his own ambitions in the near future.

"I'll stick to my post," he decided. "Some of the express people may happen down here any time."

He was making up a list from memory of those in the village whose packages had been destroyed by the fire, when two boys crossed the threshold of the open doorway, one carrying a thin flat package.

Bart greeted them pleasantly. The elder was Darry Haven, his companion a younger brother, Bob, both warm friends of the young express agent.

Darry inquired for Mr. Stirling solicitously, and said his mother was then on her way to see Mrs. Stirling, anxious to do anything she could to share the lady's troubles. Mr. Haven had been an editor, but his health had failed, and Mrs. Haven, having some artistic ability and experience, was the main present support of the family, doing considerable work for a publishing house in the city in the way of illustrations for fashion pages.

Darry had a "rush" package of illustrations under his arm now.

"I suppose we can't get anything through to-day, or until you get things in running order again?" he intimated.

"We were sending nothing through on account of the Fourth," explained Bart, "but you leave the package here and I will see that it goes on the eleven o'clock train."

Bart had just completed the fire-loss list when a heavy step caused him to turn around.

A portly, well-dressed man, important-appearing and evidently on business, stood in the doorway looking sharply about the place.

"Well!" he uttered, "What's this?"

"The express office," said Bart, arising.

"Oh, it is?" slowly commented the man, "You in charge?"

"Yes, sir," politely answered Bart.

"Set up shop; doing business, eh?"

"Fast as I can," announced Bart.

"Who told you to?" demanded the visitor bending a pair of stern eyes on Bart.

"Why do you ask that, may I inquire?" interrogated Bart, pleasantly, but standing his ground.

"Ha-hum!" retorted the stranger, "why do ask. Because I am the superintendent of the express company, young man, and somewhat interested in knowing, I fancy!"

CHAPTER VI

GETTING "SATISFACTION"

Bart did not lose his presence of mind, but he fully realized that he faced a critical moment in his career.

Very courteously he drew forward the rude impromptu bench he had knocked together two hours before.

"Will you have a seat, sir?" he asked.

The express superintendent did not lose his dignity, but there was a slightly humorous twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Thanks," he said, wearily seating himself on the rude structure. "Rather primitive furniture for a big express company, it seems to me."

"It was the best I could provide under the circumstances," explained Bart modestly.

"You made this bench, did you?"

Bart acknowledged the imputation with a nod.

"And that—desk, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the sign outside, and opened for business?"

"There was no one else on hand. I felt that I must represent my father, Mr. Stirling, who is the authorized agent here, until the seriousness of his condition was known. You see, there was business likely to come in, and I have been here to attend to it."

"Just so," vouchsafed his visitor. "No out shipments to-day, I believe?"

"No, it's a holiday, but there was some rush in stuff on the morning express."

"Where is it?"

"I have delivered most of it—the balance, two freezers of ice cream, I will attend to this afternoon. I am keeping a record and taking receipts, but giving none—I didn't feel warranted in that until I heard from the company."

"You have done very well, young man," said the stranger. "I am Robert Leslie, the superintendent, as I told you. Do you mean to say you rigged things up in this shape and got your deliveries out alone?"

"There was no one to help me," remarked Bart.

He felt pleased and encouraged, for the superintendent's cast-iron visage had softened considerably, and he manifested unmistakable interest as he reached out and took up and inspected the neatly formulated memoranda on the packing-box desk.

"What's this?" he inquired, running over the pages Bart had last been working on.

"That is a list of losers by the fire," explained Bart.

"This is from memory?"

"Yes, Mr. Leslie—but I have a good one, and I think the list is tolerably correct."

"I am very much pleased," admitted the superintendent—"those claims are our main anxiety in a case like this. I understand the contents of the safe were destroyed."

"I fear so," assented Bart gravely. "The explosion was so sudden, and my father was blinded, so there was no opportunity to close it. I tried to reach it after rescuing him, but the flames drove me back."

Mr. Leslie was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be thinking. His glance roamed speculatively about the place, taking in the layout critically, then finally Bart was conscious that his shrewd, burrowing eyes were scanning him closely.

"How old are you, Stirling?" asked the superintendent abruptly.

"Nearly nineteen."

"I suppose you know something about the routine here?"

"I have helped my father a little for the past month or two—yes, sir."

"And have improved your opportunities, judging from the common-sense way you have got things into temporary running order," commented Leslie.

The speaker took out his watch. Then, glancing through the doorway, he arose suddenly, with the words:

"Ah! there he is, now. I suppose you couldn't be here about four o'clock this afternoon?"

"Why, certainly," answered Bart promptly. "People are likely to be around making inquiries, and I have a delivery to make this afternoon, as I told you, sir."

"I intend to see your father," said Mr. Leslie, "and I want to get back to the city to-night. I may have some orders for you, so we'll call it four, sharp."

"I will be here, sir."

The superintendent stepped outside. Evidently he had made an appointment, for he was met by the freight agent of the B. & M., who knew Bart and nodded to him.

As the two men strolled slowly over to the ruins of the express shed, Bart heard Mr. Leslie remark:

"That's a smart boy in there."

"And a good one," supplemented the freight agent.

Bart experienced a thrill of pleasure at the homely compliment. He tried to get back to business, but he found himself considerably flustered.

All the morning his hopes and plans had drifted in one definite direction—to get some assurance of permanent employment for the future.

The only work he had ever done was here at the express office for his father. It was a daring prospect to imagine that he, a mere boy, would be allowed to succeed to a grown man's position and salary—and yet Bart had placed himself in line for it with every prompting of diligence and duty.

Mr. Leslie and the freight agent spent half an hour at the ruins. Bart could see by their gestures that they were animatedly discussing the situation, and they seemed to be closely looking over the ground with a view to locating a site for a new express shed.

Finally they shook hands in parting. The express superintendent consulted his watch, and turned his face in the direction of Bart.

As he neared the "new" express shed,