"The colonel's wife is a Tartar, all right," bluntly declared the night watchman. "Hello! here's somebody from Harrington's, now."
The same buckboard that had driven up the afternoon previous, came dashing to the platform as McCarthy spoke.
It was in charge of the same driver, who promptly hailed Bart with the words:
"That trunk gone yet?"
"No, not yet," answered Bart.
"Then I'm in time. Mrs. Harrington wanted to put something else in—this box. Forgot it, yesterday," and the speaker fished up an oblong package from the bottom of the wagon.
"It will have to go separate," explained Bart.
"Can't do that—it's a silk dress, and not wrapped for any hard usage. Why, what's happened!" pressed the colonel's man, shrewdly scanning the disturbed countenances of Bart and the watchman. "Door lock smashed, too, and—say! I don't see the trunk!"
He had stepped to the platform and looked inside the express shed.
Bart thought it best to explain, and did so. It made him feel more crestfallen than ever to trace in the way his auditor took it, that he anticipated some pretty lively action when Mrs. Harrington was apprised of her loss.