A strange sound floated on the air--a low,
even, musical tinkle.
Its source could not be far distant. Bart ran along the side of the
stationary freights.
"It is Wacker, sure," he breathed, "for that is the same sound made by
the little alarm clock he bought at the sale this afternoon."
The last vibrating tintinnabulations of the clock died away as Bart
discovered his enemy.
Lem Wacker's burly figure and white face were discernible against the
direct flare of an arc light. He seemed a part of the bumpers of two
cars. Bart flared a match once, and uttered the single word:
"Caught."
Lem Wacker was clinging to the upright brake rod, and swaying there. His
face was bloodless and he was writhing with pain. One foot was clamped
tight, a crushed, jellied mass between two bumpers.
It seemed that his foot must have slipped just as the forward freights
were switched down. This had caused that frenzied yell. Perhaps the
thought of the money had impelled him not to repeat it, but the little
alarm clock which he carried in his pocket had betrayed him.
Bart took in the situation at a glance. He was shocked and unnerved, but
he stepped close to the writhing culprit.
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