"Too bad. I have troubles of my own, though."

"What is the matter, Mr. Evans?"

"Next time I give that lazy, good-for-nothing Lem Wacker work he'll
know it, I'm thinking! Look there--and there!"

The irate old railroader kicked over the wooden cuspidor in disgust. It
was loaded to the top with tobacco and cigarette ends. Then he cast out
half a dozen empty bottles through the open window, and went on with his
grumbling.

"What he's been up to is more than I can guess," he vociferated. "Look
at my table there, all burned with matches and covered with burnt cork.
What's he been doing with burnt cork? Running a minstrel show?"

Bart gave a start. He thought instantly of the black streaked face he
had tried to survey at the express shed window the night previous.

"My flag's gone, too," muttered old Evans, turning over things in a vain
search for it. "I'll have a word or two for Lem Wacker when it comes to
settling day, I'm thinking. He comes up to the house late last night and
tells me he don't care to work for me any longer."

"Did he?" murmured Bart thoughtfully. "Why not, I wonder?"

"Oh, he flared up big and lofty, and said he had a better job in view."

Bart went on his way surmising a good deal and suspecting more.