Downstairs the chassis of the car stood dismantled, with parts distributed all over the floor. To Tom and Willard it looked a most forlorn and discouraging scene. It was terribly hard to convince themselves that Jimmy would ever succeed in getting all those gears and rods and bolts and wheels and things back in their proper places again! Just now the work was lagging because the factory had not sent the parts ordered. “When we get this coat on we can’t do any more for a while, can we?” asked Willard hopefully, dipping his brush again with a sigh and returning to his labor. “N-no, I guess not. Mustn’t forget the hood, though. We’ve got the second coat to put on that yet.” Tom glanced over his shoulder to where the object mentioned stood on end like a letter W. Willard painted in silence after a discouraged glance at the hood. The noon whistle at the paper mill suddenly burst into a hoarse bellow and Willard sighed again and scowled at the paint pot. Finally: “Tom, I’ll keep on until the body’s done, but I’m not going to do any more painting after that,” he stated decidedly. “This is Saturday and we ought to have a half-holiday.” “All right,” said Tom. “You stop whenever you want to. I’ll do the hood after dinner. It won’t take long.” “No, you’ve got to stop, too. If I go off and leave you up here in the heat and the flies I’ll feel like I ought to come back and help you. So you’ve got to take a holiday, too. I’ll stop around for you at two and we’ll go and see the game.” “What game?” asked Tom disinterestedly. Willard observed him pityingly. “The game of baseball, Tom. Between Audelsville High School and Providence Preparatory Academy. Played on the Meadow Street Field at three o’clock. Baseball, Tom, is a game played with bat and ball. And the Audelsville High School is――er――an institution of learning in the town of Audelsville, Rhode Island. Ever hear of it?” “You’re an idiot,” laughed Tom. “I’d forgotten we played Providence Prep to-day.” “Of course you had. You’ve forgotten everything except this――this tiresome old automobile!” And Willard slapped at the body viciously with his brush. “Do you know, Tom, you don’t talk anything but motors nowadays? Sometimes I think that if you say just one more word about differentials or――or gears or any of those things I’ll put my head back and howl!” “Bad as that, is it?” asked Tom with a smile. “Worse! That’s why you’ve got to knock off this afternoon and get your mind off the thing. Why, the first thing you know you’ll have brain fever or automobilitis!” “More likely painter’s colic,” suggested Tom. “Something, anyhow. So you’ve got to come to the game. And if you say one single word about automobiles all the afternoon I’ll――I’ll beat you!” “All right, I’ll come then,” Tom laughed. “Not that I’m afraid of a little runt like you, though.” “You aren’t, eh?” asked Willard, scowling threateningly. “Not a bit.” Tom painted calmly. “How much have you got to do?”