"I have no time to figure it out," breathed Bart quickly. "The first
thing to do is to get the trunk down there."
Bart ran back to the wagon. He hurriedly pulled away the grass covering
and then the canvas.
The trunk was revealed. He had his first full glance at it since it had
been delivered to him at the express office at Pleasantville, the
afternoon previous.
"It's all right," he said with satisfaction, after a critical
inspection. "There is the paster I slapped over the front. The trunk
could not have been opened without tearing that."
He got a good purchase on a handle and landed the trunk in the road.
Then he dragged it up to the barrier, removed a board, and, perspiring
and breathing hard, held it at the sheer edge of the decline and let it
slide.
The hand car was a light-running affair, well-greased, in pretty good
order, and he could readily observe was in constant use.
Upon it lay the clothing and dinner pails he had noticed from overhead.
They evidently belonged to workmen--but where were they?
"I can hardly wait to find out," declared Bart.
He pushed off the clothing and dinner pails and lifted on the trunk.
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