“I’ve got two sample cases, son, to go to Dunlop and Toll’s. Here are the checks. Rustle ’em right up, will you?” The speaker, a nattily attired traveling salesman who had just arrived on the 11:34 train, handed the two bits of pasteboard to Tom and, with a sharp look at his watch, settled himself in The Ark. “Be sure and have them up there at the side door inside fifteen minutes, son. I want to skip back on the six o’clock.” “All right, sir,” replied Tom cheerfully. But he was secretly dubious as he walked around the station to give the checks to the agent. Connors had a way of taking his time in the matter of delivering baggage, and Tom much doubted that the sample cases would reach the department store within the hour. The agent was sorting over baggage, with the help of his assistant, a youth of eighteen, when Tom found him. “Mr. Tinker, will you get these up to Dunlop and Toll’s just as soon as you can, please?” asked Tom. “The gentleman says he wants to get the 6:05 back this evening.” Gus Tinker stretched a hand out for the checks, then hesitated and shook his head in a worried way. “Sorry, Benton, but Connors says he can’t handle baggage for you. Told me to tell you so.” “He can’t?” exclaimed Tom. “Why――I don’t see――――” “He’s sort of mad about you fellows buttin’ in on him,” explained the agent. “Guess you’ll have to handle your own trunks.” Tom hesitated a moment, at a loss. Then he hurried around the corner of the station and signaled to Willard. In a few words he told the latter of the new development. Willard frowned thoughtfully, while the single occupant of The Ark impatiently honked the horn. Then, his face clearing: “It’s all right,” Willard declared. “Give me the checks. Hustle uptown and dump me out at Walnut and Main. There’s a fellow there that does teaming, and I’ll get him and have the things up in twenty minutes.” “What’s wrong?” asked the drummer, as the boys came up. “Don’t spin any yarn about those cases not being here!” “They’re here, all right, sir,” replied Tom; “and we’ll have them up inside of twenty minutes.” “See that you do, son; I’m in a rush to-day.” The passenger settled back in his seat and the automobile started off up River Street in a hurry, passing Pat Herron and his hack in a cloud of dust. Luckily when Willard left the car at Walnut Street the man he sought was dozing on the seat of his tumble-down wagon under a faded red and white umbrella which bore the legend, in letters laid on with black paint by an unpracticed hand: “J. Duff, Local Express. Jobbing Done.” While The Ark chugged on along Main Street to the department store Willard explained to the half-awakened Mr. Duff what was required. The expressman was not enthusiastic. The station was a long way off, neither he nor his horse had had dinner, and two trunks were hardly worth making the trip for. Finally, though, he agreed to bring the cases up for thirty-five cents apiece, and all Willard’s persuasion failed to lower the price.