Colonel Harrington, scared-looking and sullen, was still there. He seemed to have met his match in the young express agent, and dared not defy him.
Bart found McCarthy, the night watchman, on guard outside, who told him that they had got Lem Wacker clear of the bumpers, had carried him into the express office, made up a rude litter, and had sent for a surgeon.
The latter had just concluded his labors as Bart entered. Lem Wacker lay with his foot bandaged up, conscious, and in no intense pain, for the surgeon had given him some deadening medicine.
"He belongs at the hospital," the surgeon advised Bart. "That foot will have to come off."
"As bad as that!" murmured Bart.
"Yes. I will telephone for the ambulance when I leave here."
"Very well," acquiesced Bart. "Can I speak with the patient?"
"If he will speak with you. He's an ugly, ungrateful mortal!"
Bart went over to the side of the prostrate man.
"Mr. Wacker," he said, "I do not wish to trouble you in your present condition, but something has got to be understood before you leave this place. You go to the hospital as a prisoner or as a patient, just as you elect."