“That’ll do,” laughed Willard. “You keep the rest and show me about it on the engine. Anyhow, here we are at the shop. Suppose he’s here yet?”
That question was soon answered, once they were inside, for Jimmy Brennan, looking somewhat tired and cross, saw them as they entered and, laying aside the job he was on, went to meet them.
“Well, I went over her for you,” he announced when he had drawn them to the comparative quiet of the stock room. “I was up till most two o’clock.”
“Really?” asked Tom sympathetically. “And—and what did you find out?”
Jimmy scowled disgustedly. “I found out that that car is fitter for the scrap heap than anything else, fellows. Why, there’s hardly a part of her that don’t need fixin’!”
The boys’ faces fell. “Then—then you don’t think it would pay to repair her?” asked Willard.
Jimmy examined a callus on one hand in silence for a moment. Then: “Well, I don’t know. How much was you willin’ to pay out on her? That’s the question, I guess. I don’t say she can’t be fixed up, ’cause I guess she can. You wouldn’t ever have a nice, quiet-runnin’ car, maybe, but there’s a good engine there and I guess it’ll pull most any load you’d be likely to put on it. She wouldn’t exactly be speedy, either.”
“It isn’t speed we want, I think,” said Tom relievedly. “If you could fix her up so she’d run pretty well for——” He looked at Willard.
“For fifty or sixty dollars,” said Willard.