"What did you tell her, Darry?" he inquired.
"I put on all the official dignity I could assume, 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 assured 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 glass 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 glass.
"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."