Pleasantville.

The yards were fairly deserted except for a sleepy night watchman here
and there. It was not yet seven o'clock, but when Bart reached the
in-freight house he found it open and one or two clerks hurrying through
their work so as to get off for the day at ten.

There was a good deal of questioning, for they knew of the fire, and
knew Bart as well, and liked him, and when he made his wants known
willing hands ministered to his needs.

Bart carried back with him a hammer and some nails, a broom, a marking
pot and brush, pens, ink and a couple of tabs of paper.

As he neared the switch shanty where Lem Wacker had been on duty the day
previous, he noticed that it had been opened up since he had passed it
last. Some one was grumbling noisily inside. Bart was curious for more
reasons than one.

He placed his load on the bench outside and stuck his head in through
the open doorway.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Evans," he hailed, as he recognized the regular
flagman on duty for whom Wacker had been substituting for three days
past. "Glad to see you back. Are you all well?"

"Eh? oh, young Stirling. Say, you've had a fire. I hear your father was
burned."

"He is quite seriously hurt," answered Bart gravely.