“It was easy, fellows,” said Jimmy. “Say, there are more automobiles in one block in New York than you ever dreamed of! And you can buy ’em at all prices, too. I went right uptown yesterday when I got in and found a friend of mine who’s demonstrator for a big company on Broadway and he told me just where to go. I looked over five or six cars yesterday and then went back this morning and had ’em demonstrated. And by ten o’clock I’d bought one!”
“What’s it like?” asked Willard eagerly.
“A peach! They call it a light delivery truck. It’s got a body big enough to hold twenty trunks, I guess, and it’ll haul a ton. It’s got a two-cylinder engine, twenty-six horsepower; planetary transmission; brakes on the rear hubs. It’s a Phelps. Made in Springfield, Massachusetts, which is good in case we have to send for new parts; won’t take long to get ’em; see? It has solid tires instead of pneumatic, which is saving. There’s no top, but we can have a good big rubber tarpaulin to pull over the load. There’s a small buggy top over the seat, though, and an apron that folds away underneath it. It’s painted green and yellow and is some swell little old truck, believe me, fellows!”
“And—and was it a second-hand one, Jimmy?” asked Tom.
“Sure; run less than six hundred miles and in A1 condition. I pretty near had it to pieces, fellows, and there isn’t a worn part about it. It’s just been painted up fresh and it looks as good as new. And I don’t know but what I’d just as soon have it as a new one, for it’s got its kinks worn off.”
“How much?” demanded Willard anxiously.
Jimmy winked triumphantly, exasperatingly. “How much do you think, Will?”
“Eight hundred, Jimmy?”
“Seven hundred,” suggested Tom.