Honk! Honk! The Ark was off with a noisy fusillade from the exhaust and a shuddering grinding of gears and Tom turned anxiously to Willard.
“What luck?” he asked.
For answer Willard drew forth the letter that Mr. Cummings had dictated and held it for Tom to read.
“Fine!” In his enthusiasm Tom pumped the horn loudly and triumphantly. “Won’t Pat Herron be mad! Say, I’m glad you went, and not I; I’d have made a fizzle of it, I guess.”
“So would I if Mr. Latham hadn’t happened along at just the right moment,” replied Willard. And then, for the rest of the distance uptown, he narrated the story of the trip. Tom became so interested that he narrowly escaped bumping into the fender of a car as it swung around the corner of Walnut Street, eliciting a remarkable flow of eloquence from the motorman.
“Gee, Will, things are coming our way, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Even trolley cars,” Willard agreed, with a laugh, as The Ark drew up in front of the hotel with an imperative squawking of the horn that brought the porter hurrying outside.
“Well, that beats the hack,” said the passenger as he paid his quarter, “even if I did have heart disease once or twice. Say, do you always run as close to the trolley cars as that?”
“Not always,” laughed Tom. “That was something special, a sort of extra thrill, sir.”
“Hm; well, I got it,” replied the man grimly as he turned to follow his bag.