“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!”