Lem Wacker rolled over, then sat up, rubbed his head in a half-dazed
manner, and muttered in a silly, sheepish way.

"Lem Wacker," said Bart, "I have got just a few words to say to you, and
that ends matters between us. I am sorry I had to strike you, but I will
have no man interfering with the express company's affairs. I want you
to go away, and if you ever come in here again except on business
strictly there will be trouble."

Lem did not put up much of a belligerent front, though he tried still to
look ugly and dangerous.

He got his balance at last, and extended his finger at our hero.

"Bart Stirling," he maundered, "you've made an enemy for life. Look out
for me! You're a marked man after this."

"What am I marked with," inquired Bart quickly--"burnt cork?"

"Hey! What?" blurted out Lem, and Bart saw that the shot had struck the
target. Wacker looked sickly, and muttered something to himself. Then he
took himself off.

Bart's worries were pleasantly broken in upon by the arrival of his
sister Bertha. She brought him a generous lunch, the first food Bart had
tasted that day, and his appetite welcomed it in a wholesome way.

He put in the time planning what he would do if he was lucky enough to
be retained in his father's position, and what he might do in case
someone else was appointed.

At half-past two Bart loaded the two ice cream freezers on the cart and
started for the picnic grounds.

Juvenile Pleasantville had somewhat subsided for a time in the fervor of
its patriotism. There was a lull in the popping and banging, nearly
everybody in town being due at the time-honored celebration in the
picnic grove.

When Bart reached the grove, someone was making an address, and he
piloted his way circumspectly up to the side of the platform where the
speaking was going on.

He deposited the freezers inside the bunting-decorated inclosure, where
half a dozen young ladies were posted to dispense the refreshments after
the literary programme was finished.

Bart started to return with his empty cart the way he had come, but
about ten feet from the platform paused for a moment to take in the
exceptionally flowery sentiment that was being enunciated by the speaker
of the day.

Colonel Harrington, it seemed, was the self-appointed hero of the
occasion. The great man of the village was in his element--the eyes and
ears of all Pleasantville fixed upon him.

In rolling tones and with magnificent gestures h