Mr. Latham shook hands in front of the building and Willard, reassuring himself by a look at the station clock, made his way to a small lunch room and dined regally on a bowl of hulled corn afloat in milk and frosted with sugar, two doughnuts, a piece of blueberry pie and a cup of coffee. After that he strolled around the city for a half-hour and finally boarded the express that took him uneventfully back to Audelsville and deposited him on the platform at six minutes after two. “Auto to any part of the city! Twenty-five cents to any part of the city! Ride up, sir? Auto to―――― Hello, Will! I didn’t think you’d make this train. Did you――Meechin’s Hotel? Yes, sir. I’ll take your bag. Right across the road, sir.” And Tom, casting speculative glances up and down the platform in quest of other customers, led the way to the car, followed by Willard and the owner of the bag, the latter viewing irresolutely Connors’ hack, into which Pat Herron was conducting three other arrivals. But Tom gave him no time to change his mind. “Here you are, sir! Have you there in three minutes!” he declared, depositing the gentleman’s bag in front and jumping into his seat. “Turn her over, Will! All right!” _Honk! Honk!_ The Ark was off with a noisy fusillade from the exhaust and a shuddering grinding of gears and Tom turned anxiously to Willard. “What luck?” he asked. For answer Willard drew forth the letter that Mr. Cummings had dictated and held it for Tom to read. “Fine!” In his enthusiasm Tom pumped the horn loudly and triumphantly. “Won’t Pat Herron be mad! Say, I’m glad you went, and not I; I’d have made a fizzle of it, I guess.” “So would I if Mr. Latham hadn’t happened along at just the right moment,” replied Willard. And then, for the rest of the distance uptown, he narrated the story of the trip. Tom became so interested that he narrowly escaped bumping into the fender of a car as it swung around the corner of Walnut Street, eliciting a remarkable flow of eloquence from the motorman. “Gee, Will, things are coming our way, aren’t they?” he asked. “Even trolley cars,” Willard agreed, with a laugh, as The Ark drew up in front of the hotel with an imperative squawking of the horn that brought the porter hurrying outside. “Well, that beats the hack,” said the passenger as he paid his quarter, “even if I did have heart disease once or twice. Say, do you always run as close to the trolley cars as that?” “Not always,” laughed Tom. “That was something special, a sort of extra thrill, sir.” “Hm; well, I got it,” replied the man grimly as he turned to follow his bag. “I see you’re doing business, boys.” Mr. Meechin had strolled out from the lobby and, with thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, was interestedly observing the car. “Getting more every day, sir,” responded Willard. “Thinking of putting on another car.” Tim Meechin grinned. “Really now! You’ll be rich before you know it. Was there any others on the train?”