Bart went to a near railroad scrap heap and selected a long iron rod crowbar crooked at the end. He returned to the ruins and began poking the debris aside. He was thus engaged when some trackmen, lounging the day away over on a freight platform, sauntered up to the spot.
"Why don't you work holidays, Stirling?" asked one of them satirically.
"Somebody has got to work to get this mess in shipshape order," retorted Bart. "The writing said what was true!" he spoke to himself, as his pokings cleared a broad iron surface. "The safe door is shut."
The safe lay flat on its back where it had fallen when the floor had burned away. It was an old-fashioned affair with a simple combination attachment, and so far as Bart could make out had suffered no damage beyond having its coat of lacquer and gilt lettering burned off.
He leaned over and felt of its surface, which retained scarcely any heat now.
"We heard the old iron box was caught open by the fire and everything in it burned up," spoke one of the trackmen.
"I supposed so myself," said Bart, "but it seems otherwise. I wonder how heavy it is?"
"Wait till I get some tackle," said one of the workmen.
He went away and returned with two crowbars and a pulley and block tackle.
It was no work at all for those stout, experienced fellows to get the safe clear of the ruins, and, with the aid of a big truck they brought from the freight house, convey it to the new express quarters.