“I guess so. Come on in and have a doughnut.” Nothing loth, Willard accepted the invitation, and a moment later was perched at Tom’s side, and was setting his teeth into one of Mrs. Benton’s doughnuts. Willard was a good-looking youth of seventeen, large and broad-shouldered, with nice eyes, and a pleasant, likable face. He was Tom’s senior by a full year, and was in the class ahead of him at high school. But, in spite of that, the boys were very good friends. While Willard’s father was no better off than Tom’s, Willard himself had lately come into a small legacy from a grandmother who had died, and he was to start in college in the fall――a piece of good fortune that Tom certainly envied him. “I wish,” announced Tom presently, after they had talked school affairs for a few minutes, “I wish I had a hundred and fifty dollars, Will.” “What for?” “An automobile.” Willard stared at him in surprise. “Gee,” he said, “you’re getting swell! I’d like to see the automobile you’d get for a hundred and fifty dollars, though, Tom!” “You can see it in five minutes. It’s at Saunders’ Carriage Works. It’s an old one, and I guess it’s in bad shape, but it could be fixed up all right. It’s cheap at a hundred and fifty, I guess.” “I guess most any automobile would be cheap at that figure if it could be made to go. What do you want it for, Tom? Can you run one?” “I’ve never tried, but anyone can run an automobile after learning how. I’ve been sitting here wondering if father would get it for me if I asked him. I guess he couldn’t afford it, though.” “Say, are you daffy?” demanded Willard. “Of course he won’t buy you an automobile! Besides, you’ve got a bicycle, haven’t you? Isn’t that good enough for you? It takes money to run an auto after you’ve got it, Tom.” “Oh, I don’t want it for――for pleasure. I want to make money with it, Will. And I could if I had it, too.” “How would you do it?” “Well――――” Tom hesitated a moment. Then, “You aren’t thinking of buying it yourself, are you?” he asked. “Not a bit!” laughed Willard. “Then I’ll tell you. You know when folks stop here in Audelsville, drummers and folks like that, they have to go pretty near twelve blocks to get to the hotel or the stores.” “I know the station’s a long way from the town,” acknowledged Willard. “I thought last Fall, after the Gordon Academy game, I’d never get home. I had a lame ankle and a stiff knee, and it seemed about two miles from the station to the house.” “That’s what I mean. Drummers always have bags and trunks, and they can’t walk to the hotel. So they take one of those rickety old hacks down there, or they wait for a car.” “They don’t if they’re in a hurry,” said Willard grimly. “The cars only run every half-hour or so.”