however, he passed around to its rear, and glancing out of a window there Bart saw that he had come to a halt, and was drawing a diagram of the tracks on a blank page in his memorandum book.

Just as Mr. Leslie had returned this to his pocket and was about to start from the spot, a man hailed him. It was Lem Wacker. He was dressed in his best, but the effort was spoiled by an uncertainty of gait, and his face was suspiciously flushed.

"Did you address me?" inquired the superintendent in a chilling tone.

Lem was not daunted by the imposing presence or the dignified demeanor of the speaker.

"Sure," he answered, unabashed. "You're Leslie, ain't you?"

"I am Mr. Leslie, yes," corrected the superintendent, his stern brow contracted in a frown.

"They told me I'd find you here. My name's Wacker. Knew your cousin down at Rochelle; we worked on the same desk in the freight house. Had many a drink with Ted Leslie."

"What do you want?" challenged the superintendent, turning on his heel.

"Why, it's this way," explained the dauntless Lem: "I'm an old railroader and a handy man of experience, I am, and I wanted to make a proposition to you. You see—"

Bart lost the remainder of Mr. Lem Wacker's proposition, for Mr. Leslie had started forward impatiently, with Lem persistently following in his wake. He was still keeping up the pursuit and importuning the affronted official as both were lost to view behind a track of freights.

Bart of course surmised that Lem Wacker was on the trail of the "better job" he had announced he was after to the old switchman, Evans.

"I don't think he has made a very promising impression," decided Bart, as he got back to his writing.

"Say, you!"

Bart looked up a trifle startled at the sharp hail, ten minutes later. He had been engrossed in his work and had not noticed an intruder.

Lem Wacker stood just in the doorway. He looked flushed, excited and vicious.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Wacker?" inquired Bart calmly, though scenting trouble in the air.

"You can undo!" flared out Wacker, "and you'll get quick action on it, or I'll clean you out, bag and baggage."

"There isn't much baggage here to clean out," suggested Bart humorously, "and as for the rest of it I'll try to take care of it myself."

"Oh! you will, will you?" sneered Lem, lurching to and fro. "You're a sneak. Bart Stirling—a low, contemptible sneak, that's what you are!"

"I would like to have you explain," remarked Bart.

"You've queered me!" roared Wacker, "and I'm going to have satisfaction—yes, sir. Sat-is-fac-tion!"

He pounded out the syllables under Bart's very nose with resounding thumps, bringing down his fist on the impromptu office desk so forcibly that the concussion disturbed the papers on it, and several sheets fell fluttering to the floor.

Bart's patience was tried. His eyes flashed, but he stooped and picked up the pages and replaced them on the dry goods box.

"Don't you do that again," he warned in a strained tone.

"Why!" yelled Wacker, rolling up his cuffs.

"I'll trim you next! 'Don't-do-it-again!' eh? Boo! bah!"

Lem raised his foot and kicked over the desk, papers and all.

"That's express company property," observed Bart quietly, but his blood was up, the limit reached. "Get out!"

One arm shot forward, and the clenched muscular fist rested directly under the chin of the astounded Lem Wacker.

"And stay out."

Lem Wacker felt a smart whack, went whirling back over the threshold, and the next instant measured his length, sprawling on the ground outside of the express shed.