But in spite of it all Tom actually secured a passenger, a well-dressed, middle-aged man who carried no luggage, and who seemed in a big hurry.
“All right, all right,” he said testily. “Where’s your car? I’m in a rush. Get me to the paper mills as quick as you can.”
“Right across the road, sir,” directed Tom, searching the platform with his eyes to see if Willard had been as fortunate. But Willard returned alone and the three hurried across to the car. Tom slipped the sign off, opened the tonneau door for the passenger and sprang to his seat. Willard cranked up and in a moment they were off.
Their passenger, sitting impatiently upright, frowned at his watch. “Hurry it up now,” he said. “I’m late already. How far is it to the mills?”
“Not far, sir,” replied Tom. “I’ll have you there in two minutes.”
“See that you do.” The passenger snapped his watch shut and leaned back. The trip was a bumpy one and dusty, since their way led them up River Street for a block and then to the right into the extension of Meadow Street and thence into Railroad Avenue, a thoroughfare little better than an alley and traversed principally by trucks.
“What sort of roads do you call these?” asked the passenger disgustedly as he tossed around on the back seat.
“Pretty bad, sir,” replied Willard. “The best way is up through the town, but you said you were in a hurry and so——”
“Yes, yes! All right!”
Bumping and jouncing, her springs protesting loudly, The Ark skirted the end of the railroad yards, turned at a sharp angle where the way resembled a dump more than a road, and finally pulled up within a hundred feet of the mills. It was impossible to get any nearer, but the boys showed the passenger the gate through the high board fence and, with a grunt of disgust, he leaped out, fumbling in his pocket.