The railroad――the steam railroad, I mean now――enters Audelsville along the bank of the river, and back from the track, occupying the northern side of town, lie the mills and the railroad yards and the car shops, and block after block of monotonous small houses occupied by the operatives. It isn’t until you cross Washington Street that the town becomes attractive. There are some pleasant, comfortable, old-fashioned dwellings on Washington Street. Then comes Main Street, with its retail stores and principal business blocks, and after that, still traveling south, you reach the newer part of the town that is called The Hill. There are some fine residences there; Mr. Dunlop’s, for instance, which occupies a whole half block opposite the public library and the high school; and Mr. Martin’s, which is all of brown sandstone, with a wonderful red-tile roof, and has a great semi-circular conservatory at one end. (Mr. Martin is superintendent at the Paper Mills and owns a lot of stock in the business, they say.) The Hill, its real name is Myer’s Hill, rises to a considerable height above the rest of town, and from the top, say from the front steps of the high school building, or Mr. Dunlop’s veranda, one can see for many miles up and down the shallow valley. Fountain lake is quite plain to the northward, and on clear days one may see Providence. The Hill, however, is the location of wealth and aristocracy, and we have little interest in it at present. Neither Tom Benton nor Willard Morris lived on The Hill. Tom’s folks occupied a small white-painted, green-shuttered house on Cross Street, one street back of Washington, while Willard lived with his father, mother and younger sister on Lincoln Street, almost at the corner of Main, and some five blocks distant from Tom’s. Consequently when, the following morning, they met to hurry down to the machine shop before school commenced, Willard walked through to Washington Street and waited there in the shade of a big horse-chestnut tree until Tom came around the corner of Walnut Street and waved gaily from a block away. They were both in high spirits this morning, and neither was willing to entertain a doubt as to the success of their project. Tom had sat up half the night reading a book on automobiles and was full to the brim with strange lore which he unloaded upon his friend as they hurried toward the railroad. “You see,” he said, drawing shapes in the air with his hands, “here’s your cylinder, Will; like that; understand?” Willard nodded doubtfully. “And underneath here is the crank case. Your cylinder is open into the crank case and closed at the top. Now, then, here’s a piston working up and down, like this; see? The gas is admitted to the top of the cylinder, above the piston, through what is called an inlet valve. Then it is exploded while under――er――compression――――”