“What—what are you going to do with it?” asked Gordon.
“Get Stacey to sell it for me, I guess. I haven’t talked to dad about it yet. He only got home from New York yesterday. I suppose he will be mad when I tell him I want to pay the rest of the money.”
“I ought to see him, too,” said Gordon uneasily, “and tell him what Mr. Stacey said. Is—is he at home to-day?”
“Yes, but you’d better wait a while. He always takes a nap Sunday afternoons. I guess I’ll let you tell him about Stacey before I tackle him.”
“How much would you sell the car for?” asked Gordon presently.
“Anything I could get, I guess. Of course, it’s never been used but a week; the speedometer shows only two hundred and eighty miles, I think; but I suppose it’s just as much second-hand as if it had been run a whole year. I should think Stacey might get three hundred for it, though.”
Gordon looked disappointed. “Oh!” he murmured. “Well, I suppose it is worth all of that. Only, I was thinking——”
“What?” asked Morris.
“It—it sounds sort of cheeky,” replied Gordon, after a moment’s hesitation, “and you might not think much of the idea, but what I—what we were considering is this, Morris.” He drew the chair closer to the bed, with a glance at the half-open door, and lowered his voice.
An hour or so later Gordon left Brentwood well satisfied. Mr. Brent had only smiled at Mr. Stacey’s ultimatum, thanked Gordon for the trouble he had taken, and approved of the rescue and temporary disposal of the automobile. “We’ll let it stay where it is for the present,” he said, “and I’ll have a talk with Morris about it some day. If Stacey doesn’t want to take it back, I guess we can get the junkman to haul it away.”