There was one thing, though, that bothered the boys, and that was their inability to handle baggage. Very often Tom made a second trip to the station and piled a trunk or three or four sample cases into the tonneau of the car and took them up-town. But The Ark was not designed for carrying baggage and her varnish and leather suffered in consequence. They at length decided that the twenty-five cents they received for hauling a trunk did not pay for the damage wrought to the car, and after that when a traveler handed over his baggage check it was transferred to the agent with the request that he send the trunk or case up by Connors. Willard became more firmly convinced than ever that they needed a small motor truck or delivery wagon, although he couldn’t see just how they were going to get it. On Thursday Mr. William Connors showed his hand in two ways. The Ark had taken up its stand in front of a small fruit store almost opposite the hotel entrance. The fruit dealer, a good-natured Greek, had proffered no objection so far and The Ark had been picking up a good many passengers from the hotel. But on Thursday, just after Tom, who was alone in the car, had chugged The Ark to its accustomed position, a tall member of Audelsville’s small but efficient police force sauntered up. “You can’t keep your car standing here, sir,” he announced. “There’s been objections made and I’ve got orders to keep you away.” “Objections?” asked Tom in surprise. “Who’s been objecting?” He looked toward the fruit dealer, who was piling cantaloupes on the stand in front of the shop. “Has he kicked?” The policeman shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve got my orders. That’s all I know about it. You’d better go and talk with the Chief, I guess.” Tom frowned. “What’s his name?” he asked innocently. “Connors?” “No, it’s Mansfield, of course. Come on, now, move off.” “Where can I find him?” “At the station.” “Oh. Well, I don’t see what harm I’m doing here, Officer.” “It’s against the laws, I suppose. You see the Chief.” “All right.” Tom got out and cranked the engine and then went slowly and thoughtfully down the street. He didn’t doubt for a minute that Bill Connors was at the bottom of it and he wished that Willard was there to consult with. In the end, by the time he had reached the Town Hall, he decided to postpone calling on the Chief of Police until Willard was along to do the talking. So he went on down to the station with an empty car and found fresh evidence of Connors’ activity. From the whip-socket of Pat Herron’s hack hung a tin sign bearing the inscription, “FARE 25 CENTS.” Connors had at last met competition!