It consisted of a three foot iron rod, sharpened at the end. At the
blunt end the strip of red flag was wound, near the sharp end the
conventional track torpedo was held in place by its tin strap.
"Lemme go"; again growled the man.
"Never!" declared Bart.
The man's left arm was free, and he swung the iron rod aloft. Bart saw
it descending, aimed straight for his head. If he held on to the man he
could scarcely evade it.
He let go his grip, ducked, made a pass to grasp the burglar's ankle,
but missed it.
An explosion, a sharp flare, a keen shock filled the air, and before
Bart could grip the man afresh he had sprung from the platform and
vanished.
At the same instant the flag rod clattered to the boards, and a second
later, rubbing his face free from sudden pricking grains of powder, Bart
saw what had happened.
The blow intended for him had landed upon one of the iron bars of the
window with a force that exploded the track torpedo.
It had flared out one broad spiteful breath, sending a shower of sparks
among the big mass of fireworks in the storage room, and amid a thousand
hissing, snapping explosions the express shed was in flames.
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