“Thanks. I’ll ask him to, then. Much obliged.” As they started out Mr. Saunders called Tom back. “Look here,” he whispered, “I agreed to give you ten dollars, son, but that was for selling her for a hundred and fifty. This fellow’s only going to pay a hundred and twenty-five, and not all cash, either. So I can’t give you more’n five dollars; understand?” “I don’t want any commission at all, thank you, Mr. Saunders,” replied Tom. “Oh!” Mr. Saunders looked relieved. “Well, that’s all right, then. Can this fellow pay the money? Who is he?” “He can pay, all right, Mr. Saunders. His name is Willard Morris. His father――――” “I know. All right.” “But why didn’t you take the five?” asked Willard, when Tom repeated the conversation outside. “Every dollar helps, you know.” “Yes, but it didn’t seem quite fair, when I was sort of half buying it myself.” “No, that’s so. Now you’d better talk to your father first, and then I’ll say my piece.” CHAPTER III MR. BENTON SAYS YES Mr. Benton was at his desk, in the little, partitioned-off office, and the boys quite filled the tiny space. Perhaps Tom’s father had been thinking about the plan since the evening before, and had changed his views, for it required hardly any persuasion to gain his agreement. “Yes, Tom, I’ll advance you fifty dollars, if you decide to buy it,” he said, when Tom had explained. “But you mustn’t come to me for any more afterward, because I simply can’t let you have it. We’ll make a business proposition of it, and you’ll pay me back the fifty from time to time. Is that satisfactory?” “Yes, sir; thank you.” “Very well. When do you want the money?” “To-morrow afternoon, sir, if we want it at all.” “I’ll have it ready for you. I’m glad you’re going to share the risk with him, Willard. Two heads are better than one. Besides, if the plan fails, you’ll each stand to lose less. That all you wanted, Tom?” “Yes, sir. I’m awfully much obliged, father. And――and, if we buy that car, we’re going to make a go of it, aren’t we, Will?” “We certainly are! We’ve got to!” They climbed over a pile of empty mail bags and made their way out of the post-office with jubilant faces. “Isn’t that great?” demanded Tom. “Fine and dandy! Now, let’s hustle down and find this fellow Brennan. We’ve got to persuade him to look that car over to-night.” It was a good stiff walk to the railroad, and then they had to go along the track for some distance to where Gerrish & Hanford’s machine shop stood――a rickety, brown, wooden building, filled with the din and clatter of machinery. Jimmy Brennan proved to be a small, red-haired chap, some four years older than Willard. He had a smooch of black grease on his tilted nose, which lent his countenance quite a weird expression. Jimmy――for it wasn’t long before they were calling him that――heard their errand and asked no questions until Willard had finished. Then: