“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.
“But Connors only charges a quarter,” he demurred.
“Then get him to do it,” responded Mr. Duff, with a yawn.
“There isn’t time. They’ve got to be at Dunlop & Toll’s right away. All right, I’ll pay thirty-five. But you’ve got to hurry.”
Very leisurely Mr. Duff gathered up his reins and clicked to the dejected-looking horse. Willard climbed to the seat and the shade of the gaudy umbrella, and they set forth. Mr. Duff was not much of a conversationalist, and Willard was busy thinking, and so they had almost turned into River Street before either spoke. Then it was Willard who broke the silence, and in very business-like tones.
“Look here,” he said. “Do you want to make some money every day?”
Mr. Duff viewed him uncertainly. Finally, “I might,” he answered cautiously.