“Why, maybe I could. I’d have to work evenings, of course. If I found she was worth fixing, and it didn’t cost too much, and I got the job, why, I wouldn’t charge you anything for looking her over to-night.”
“Thank you,” said Tom. “Then we’ll come down in the morning and hear the—the verdict.”
Going back, the boys cut across lots, behind the railroad yards, and over Town Brook, and were soon back at Tom’s house on Cross Street. All the way they speculated and planned, and, once perched on the front steps, they began to reckon the cost of their undertaking again. Tom got a piece of paper from the house, and Willard supplied a pencil.
“Now then,” said the latter, “put down fifty dollars for the first payment. Then, say, it costs fifty dollars more to put the car in shape. Got that down? That’s a hundred, isn’t it? Well, then, if we paint her ourselves, it oughtn’t to cost more than ten dollars at the outside; not so much, maybe.”
“Can we do it ourselves?” asked Tom. “Wouldn’t we have to take the old paint and varnish off first, Will?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It would be a hard job, if we did, wouldn’t it? We could find out about that, I guess; ask a painter. Anyhow, it wouldn’t take much money. Did you put down ten dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Then”—Willard paused—“look here, Tom, where are we going to keep her?”
“I’ve thought of that,” answered Tom. “There’s lots of room in our stable, if I can get dad to let me put the old buggy in storage somewhere. We don’t use it now, you know, since Peter died summer before last. Dad’s been talking of getting another horse, but I don’t believe he will. I guess Saunders would store the buggy for us pretty cheap.”
“We’ll make it a part of the bargain,” declared Willard. “That’s settled, then, and we won’t have to pay for a place to keep the car. Now, what’s next?”