He limped grimly ahead; Percy followed. As he passed the three seniors he pulled a face of mock repentance. The boys resumed their way to the tennis-court.
"Pretty poor stick, isn't he?" commented Lane, disgustedly. "Almost kills his father, and then laughs at it. Throws away in a few seconds more than enough to put the three of us half-way through our freshman year in college. No, I've no use for Whittington."
"If he'd had to earn his own money," remarked Spurling, "he'd look on things differently. He's got a good streak in him."
"Maybe so; but it'll take mighty hard work to bring it out. Well, here's the court. How'll we play?"
In Whittington's room father and son silently removed the traces of the disaster. Then the father pointed to a chair.
"Sit there! I've something to say to you."
Percy took the indicated seat. Whittington, senior's, jaw stiffened.
"Well!" he snapped. "Seems to me excuses are in order. You've smashed a thousand-dollar machine, ruined a five-hundred-dollar one, and just missed killing yourself and me in the bargain. Pretty afternoon's work, isn't it?"
Percy looked injured, almost defiant.
"You must know I'm mighty sorry to have dragged you into this scrape. I was half frightened to death when I thought you were hurt. But what odds does it make about the cars?"