“Bob don’t practice as much as he ought; he’s a good wheelman, but he’s fonder of camping out in the woods, and I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a good deal more fun in it. I believe he expects some friends to go into camp with him.”
“Them’s the chaps,” remarked the driver, jerking the butt of his whip toward the rear seat.
The bicyclist bowed pleasantly to the young men, who were staring curiously at him and listening to the conversation. They nodded rather coldly in turn, for they had already begun to suspect the identity of this graceful, muscular lad, of whom they had heard much from Bob Budd.
Their country friend had spoken of a certain Dick Halliard who was employed in the store of Mr. Hunter, the leading merchant in Piketon, and who was so well liked by the merchant that he had presented him with an excellent bicycle, on which he occasionally took a spin when he could gain the time.
Bob, who detested young Halliard, had said enough to prove that he had taken the lead in all his studies at school and surpassed every boy in the section in running, swimming, ’cycling, and indeed, in all kinds of athletic sports. This was one reason for Bob’s dislike, but the chief cause was the integrity and manliness of young Halliard, who not only held no fear of the bully, but did not hesitate to condemn him to his face when he did wrong.
“I hope you will have a good time in camp,” said Dick (for it was he), addressing the two city youths.
“That’s what we’re out for,” replied Wagstaff, “and it won’t be our fault if we don’t; will you join us?” asked the speaker, producing his flask.
“I’m obliged to you, but must decline.”
“Maybe you think it isn’t good enough for you,” was the mean remark of Wagstaff.
“I prefer water.”