Tom started the car, went down to the freight house, turned around and then took up a position across the dusty road, the rival drivers looking on triumphantly. Meanwhile several private teams had appeared and it was almost time for the train. The driver of the hack, whose name, as they subsequently learned, was Pat Herron, still resented their presence and kept up a conversation with the surrey driver loud enough for the boys to hear. “Who’d be after ridin’ in a thing like that, I’m askin’! Why, believe me, Johnny, it’ll fall to pieces if you give it a kick.” “I would but I’ve got a sore foot,” answered Johnny with a grin. “I s’pose now that was the first one was ever built, Pat?” “’Twas an experiment, Johnny. They made that just to see how they shouldn’t do it, me boy. Look at the fine lines of it, will ye? ’Tis a racy lookin’ contraption!” “Oh, dry up!” muttered Tom. “There comes the train, Will. Come on.” They hung the sign from a bracket as they got out, Connors’ men guffawing at the sight of it, and walked over to the platform. It was soon evident that Pat and Johnny were not satisfied with their victory, for whenever the boys tried to secure a passenger for The Ark one or another of the livery men was at hand to discourage the hesitating customer. “Sure, sir, you’ll be killed if you ride in his autymobul! ’Tain’t a real car, sir. An’ look at what’s goin’ to drive ye, sir! Sure ’tis certin death, sir!” But in spite of it all Tom actually secured a passenger, a well-dressed, middle-aged man who carried no luggage, and who seemed in a big hurry. “All right, all right,” he said testily. “Where’s your car? I’m in a rush. Get me to the paper mills as quick as you can.” “Right across the road, sir,” directed Tom, searching the platform with his eyes to see if Willard had been as fortunate. But Willard returned alone and the three hurried across to the car. Tom slipped the sign off, opened the tonneau door for the passenger and sprang to his seat. Willard cranked up and in a moment they were off. Their passenger, sitting impatiently upright, frowned at his watch. “Hurry it up now,” he said. “I’m late already. How far is it to the mills?” “Not far, sir,” replied Tom. “I’ll have you there in two minutes.” “See that you do.” The passenger snapped his watch shut and leaned back. The trip was a bumpy one and dusty, since their way led them up River Street for a block and then to the right into the extension of Meadow Street and thence into Railroad Avenue, a thoroughfare little better than an alley and traversed principally by trucks. “What sort of roads do you call these?” asked the passenger disgustedly as he tossed around on the back seat. “Pretty bad, sir,” replied Willard. “The best way is up through the town, but you said you were in a hurry and so――――” “Yes, yes! All right!”