“Not a bit. She’ll be glad to have you. Isn’t this enough to turn you gray?” And Willard paused at the carriage house door and viewed the confusion dejectedly. “Two weeks ago we had a perfectly good car, Tom, and now look at it! You needn’t tell me that Jimmy or anyone else knows how to put all those things together again!” “Of course he does. Why, I could pretty nearly do it myself! Of course I’d have to study it out a bit――――” “My, but you’re getting a swelled head, Tom! You’ll be telling me pretty soon that you invented automobiles!” Ten minutes later the boys were walking along Washington Street to Willard’s house. One of Connors’ hacks rolled by on the way to the hotel and Willard, looking after it, shook his head pityingly. “There won’t be much for them to do, Tom, when we get The Ark moving, eh?” Willard had dubbed the automobile The Ark in a facetious moment, and, although Tom had protested, the name had stuck. Tom smiled. “What I’m afraid of,” he replied, “is that Connors will go and put on an automobile himself. He could, you know.” “Maybe he could, but he won’t. Livery men hate the things like poison. I wonder if he will try to make trouble for us, Tom.” “Connors? I don’t see how he could,” Tom objected. “We have a perfect right to run an automobile if we want to.” “Y-yes, but Connors isn’t the sort of man to sit down and twiddle his thumbs if he sees anyone getting business away from him. Dad was saying the other day that Connors wouldn’t like it much, and was telling how he had driven two or three other livery men out of business here.” “Well, I don’t see how he could drive us out of business, Will,” replied Tom as they entered the Morris gate. “Gee, something smells mighty good! And I’m as hungry as a bear!” “Indian pudding,” replied Willard laconically, as they passed into the house. “It’s Saturday.” At half-past two the boys started out for the high school athletic field, which lay between Meadow Street and the railroad, west of town. Their way led them along Main Street for a half mile and then across a sun-smitten field abloom with daisies and buttercups, and so to Meadow Street and the entrance to the ball grounds. They had long since ceased to be alone, and by the time they were getting out their quarters to pay for admissions they were with a group of a half-dozen merry youths in holiday mood. Jerry Lippit was of the number. Jerry was in baseball togs, being a substitute infielder, carried a bat and had a fielder’s glove dangling from his belt. He got into a game about twice in a season, but he believed in being prepared!