It was not what Hiram Strong said about Anna Bell Morgan, but the tone in which he said it, that raised the big interrogation point in my mind. Matters as they stood suggested the possibility that the youngster had plans in mind to "face the Governor" and that Quarrytown was a place quite good enough to settle down in if Anna Bell said the right word.

A chicken leg in one hand and a hot biscuit piled with jam in the other, he stood facing me, with an excited glitter in his eyes. Continuing, he said in a tense undertone:

"The night man is half gone on her, but he is a German—at least has a German name—and this place is intensely patriotic. As I told you, he boards there and when he is not sleeping he hangs——"

At this moment a north-bound freight rushed by, and with the noise of the locomotive and banging of the trucks over a poor railroad joint opposite the wide-open window, together with the slapping of brake beams, made further conversation impossible. He turned, watching it as though expecting something, and as the way car passed something did happen. I heard a metallic thud on the floor, at which Hiram dropped his food and began to hunt for the thing that caused the noise. Finally, by getting down on all fours, he brought out from between the old iron safe and the letter press a rail spike to which was fastened by a rubber band a piece of white paper which he carefully unfolded. It was a train order reporting train No. 192 passing at that time with two cars picked up at a siding below where there was no telegraph office. Strong sprang to his instrument and dispatched the message forthwith. I wondered if he realized the danger to himself from messages thrown in upon him that way. A railroad spike weighs about a pound, and while he was telegraphing I speculated on what would happen if one struck him, or if by any chance it struck one of the fifty-pound cases of dynamite that had come by express.

"The conductor drops his reports that way to save time," he said, calmly resuming his seat.

Hiram's days were full of things to do, therefore we never had ten minutes' connected conversation. I would have been glad to learn the situation inside the fellow's active mind. I don't think he knew. He was doing honest, useful work, and received its immediate reward in full satisfaction—his first real satisfaction—that intoxicating lure that fans a spark of ambition into a flame.

Later in the day, at a hint from Hiram, the conductor of a refrigerator train invited me to ride to New Orleans with him.

"He makes better time than the passenger," said Hiram, who in less than a week knew all the road employees by their first names. Somehow he took it for granted that I had satisfactory employment and never asked me what it was. As a matter of fact I was employed in connection with the American Defense League, a patriotic organization, which was destined to throw me in contact with Hiram Strong very often and sometimes unexpectedly. Ours was not the kind of friendship to end through mere separation.

We exchanged letters frequently. He asked me to send him a typewriter, which, though not required in the service, was "the only way to do things right," he wrote me. I noted that his letters avoided any reference to the night man or Anna Bell Morgan. I wondered if it was an oversight or intentional evasion.

The Yazoo Railroad had reported, as required by law, that they had shipped ten cases of dynamite, but only nine were delivered. As soon as I had time I was asked to look it up, as fifty pounds of dynamite in bad hands would make a great deal of excitement in or about the shipping of New Orleans.

I was astonished to find, upon examination of the papers, that the explosive had been shipped to the quarries at Quarrytown, together with an affidavit by the train conductor that he had delivered ten cases on the platform there. This put it squarely up to the agent, Hiram Strong, Jr.

On arriving at Quarrytown I found Hiram as busy as ever, but overjoyed to see me. He was considerably surprised when I inquired about the lost dynamite, but he was not worried and evidently had not been. He was looking splendid; hard work and regular hours had accomplished wonders, and he seemed completely unmindful of discomforts. As to the explosive, he took me out on the platform to where it had been unloaded.

"It came here," said he, "in the evening, along with half a car of mixed merchandise about the time I was going off duty. I had to work overtime to put it all in the freight house. The next morning the quarry man came for it and signed for the nine cases which I had delivered to him. That's all I could find and I believe that is all that was unloaded, although the way bill called for ten," he admitted.

"The stuff was locked up, wasn't it?" I enquired.

"Oh, yes, I locked the warehouse myself, and carry the only keys," he replied, as we returned to his office.

The place looked to me darker and more dingy than before, but the day was gloomy. The rickety kitchen chair had finally collapsed and was substituted by a box covered with a burlap bag, with some padding on the end for a cushion.

"How about this door?" I asked, pointing to the one leading into the freight house.

"That has no lock, but I never leave here until the night man comes on. It couldn't get away through here."

"How about this night man; who is he?"

"He's been here for two years. The company must know he is all right. His name is Gus—Gus Schlegel. I think he is too stupid to be crooked; he knows enough to report trains at night."

At that moment a dark boy came to the ticket window and reported three cars of granite on the quarry siding, and Hiram sat down on the burlapped box in front of his instruments and notified the dispatcher that three cars were ready. He then took up a pad of blank bills of lading and began to fill them out rapidly, though in the attitude of listening.

"One of your chairs went on strike?" I observed, eyeing the artistic arrangement of the burlap.

"Yes; Gus's avoirdupois finally carried it down. He found an old molasses box that was so sticky he had to cover it with burlap. I believe I like it better than the chair; it requires less room," he added, looking up, while changing his carbon paper.

The thought occurred to me that it might be the missing case of dynamite, but I decided that was quite impossible. If Gus had really driven nails into a case filled with dynamite, he would be at that moment in Kingdom Come and an architect busy with plans for a new station.

"How is his love affair progressing with Anna Bell Morgan?" I asked, without great show of interest.

"Oh, I know she hates his name, and I think—I think she hates him, too; but these Southern girls are so polite and considerate of one's feelings, I can't tell for sure; besides, she is pretty deep," said he, as one having given the matter much consideration.

Hiram scratched a match on the burlap covering and lit a cigarette.

"He both sleeps and eats there, doesn't he?" I was beginning to consider Gus Schlegel in connection with the disappearance of the case of explosive.

"Yes, he eats and rooms there, but lately he doesn't sleep much. Why, he came in here the other afternoon and sat where you are and cried like a baby. He said he didn't think she cared anything for him, and that he loved her so much he couldn't live without her—even hinted at suicide."

Here Hiram Strong, Jr., looked up and laughed—a cynical laugh—as he glanced at me. His eyes showed that he was in earnest, and evidenced a combination of amusement and anger. He brushed the ashes from his cigarette on the box and continued: "I told him the river water was nice and warm and muddy, and that the alligators would finish the job cheaper than an undertaker."

"And do you know," he continued with a smile creeping about his mouth, "it went completely over his head, didn't even penetrate the tallow. I don't believe a German has any sense of humor—they only laugh at something ribald or salacious—they make a terrible mess of simulating virtue. Then he asked me to advise him."

"Did you?"

"Yes—I told him he had been there nearly two years and that was long enough for her to learn to appreciate him—that the only way was for him to ask her and thus settle the question for good and all."

"Did he take your advice?" I asked.

"He wanted to know if he shouldn't speak to her father first, but I told him the preliminary skirmish should be with her. He decided on the spot to do that and if she refused him he was going to leave."

"I suppose he got his answer?"

"He went over immediately—what happened there I never learned, exactly, but I do know he came back in about an hour squealing like a razorback pig kicked in the ribs by a mule, and wired in his resignation. He was an awfully poor loser," Hiram added, as he sealed the big yellow envelope for the auditor. "Why, the poor dub was so sorry for himself, he snuffled and groaned, and his breath back-fired like a four-cylinder motor hitting only on two."

"Who are his associates here, and does he have any one come to see him?" I asked, detecting something like resentment in his tone.

"No one has been here to see him since I came. No; he is just a big boob, with this love-stuff working overtime."

"Has anything whatever—however insignificant—happened that would connect him with the disappearance of the dynamite?"

"No, not the least thing—the claim agent and I went over that several times. There is a certain low cunning in him, a disposition to be tricky in small things, but there's nothing to him—just grease. Of course, he has the wires here all night, and I may underestimate him. By the use of a code he might pull off something."

"Did the company accept his resignation?"

"Yes; they had to."

"And you don't attach any importance to his going now, further than this love affair?"

Before he could reply the train he flagged for orders pulled past the station. He obligingly took the tissue order pad out on the platform for the conductor to sign. While he was gone I raised the burlap skirt covering from the box. It stuck and I had to pull it loose to get it up. It was undoubtedly a molasses case, a can that had fermented or been punctured and had run out at the corners, but to be sure I took my pencil point, gouged some of the stuff off the side, sniffed and then tasted it. It was mixed with grit and dirt, but it tasted sweet and I was satisfied.

"Ben, take a walk over to the quarry switch with me. I've got to get the numbers of three cars standing there. I will introduce you to the head quarry man and he will tell you all he knows about it—and that's nothing at all. Still you might get a pointer there," he added.

To this I assented without comment, but wondered why he was so careful to put everything in the safe and lock it; also the office door, when the big center sash of the bay-window facing the main track was entirely raised.

"You have light-fingered gentry here?" I queried.

"Oh, if anything were left lying around loose it might disappear. I don't take any chances because I leave that window open so that the conductors can throw their reports inside. There's one coming now," he said, looking up the line as we picked our way over the main track and two switches, toward the quarry under the bluff, about two hundred yards distant.

"Hiram, have you any theory at all about the disappearance of this case of dynamite?" I insisted.

"I don't believe it ever came here—I know the waybill called for ten cases, and the conductor of the local checks up everything as it comes out of the car on the platform, and they're careful and good fellows, but that day he had a lot of freight; he must have checked in another case to make up his ten—you know there's a lot of goods packed in cases about that size. I'm not worried; that case of dynamite never came here, and will show up somewhere else," he said definitely, and with complete candor, as we approached the three flat cars loaded with granite on the short quarry switch.

While he was taking the numbers I stopped and looked back at the disreputable-looking station house and D. R. Morgan's store and residence beyond, the pepper trees along the highway, and the dwindling sized houses behind them. Two or three mule teams with cotton bales could be seen creeping toward the station.

"Do you want to come over to the office and see the boss here? I must go in and give him a copy of these bills," he explained, looking over at a board shanty they called an office some distance away.

"No—I think not. Where do they store their explosives, Hiram?" I asked, not noticing the usual isolated brick or stone receptacle.

"They tunneled into the granite bluff about four hundred feet down the track. This road leads to it," he replied, pointing to a cart-track which led in that direction.

"You go and deliver your bills—I will stay and make a little diagram or map of the place." He glanced up the track at a heavily loaded locomotive laboring down toward the station, but when the engineer gave no signs of stopping he went over to the quarry office, while I took out my pencil and pad to make my map and notes.

As I drew with my pencil the full length of the pad to represent the railroad running midway between the river and the bluff, a most extraordinary thing occurred. I could not believe my senses. The point of my pencil sputtered like a parlor match, but before it reached the end of the pad it exploded like a firecracker and blackened the paper. In an instant I recalled having used my pencil to gouge some of the sticky stuff off the box Hiram, Jr., was using as a seat. I then knew positively it was the lost case of dynamite.