Bart glanced at the freight car. It afforded no evidence of present occupancy. He reflected for moment.
"Wait for just two minutes," he directed.
Running over to the drug store on the next street, he spoke a few words to the man in charge, and darted out again as the druggist hurried to his telephone to call up the livery stable.
When he got back to the colonel, Bart found the latter sitting propped up against the cinder heap, his eyes open, and breathing heavily, but still in a helpless kind of a daze.
He worked over the colonel, and finally got the man on his feet. His position was so unsteady, however, that he had to support him with one hand while he dusted off his clothes with the other.
As he stood trying to keep his charge on his feet, a cab rushed across the tracks. Its driver, bluff Bill Carey, nodded familiarly to Bart, and looked the colonel over critically. He got the latter into the cab in an experienced way.
"Same old complaint!" he intimated to Bart with a wink. "Drinks pretty heavily."
Bart leaned over into the cab.
"Colonel Harrington," he said, "do you wish to be driven home?"
The colonel gave him a fishy stare, groaned and put out a wavering hand.