He shook hands all around, and with many expressions of friendship from the club members and amid hearty invitations to call again, Bert and his companions took their departure.
“I suppose you’ll begin practicing at the track pretty soon now, won’t you, Bert?” asked Tom, as they turned their steps toward the hotel.
“You suppose right, old timer,” said Bert, slapping him affectionately on the shoulder, “to-morrow, or maybe the day after, I’ll get down to business. I want to know that track as well as I know the back yard at home before the day of the race.”
“You can’t know too much about it, that’s certain,” said Dick, soberly. “You haven’t had much practice in that sort of racing, Bert, and I’m almost afraid to have you try it.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Bert, “why, I’ll be safer there than I would be dodging autos on Broadway, back in little old New York. Don’t worry about me. I’ll put the jody sign on all of them, provided, of course, that my machine doesn’t take it into its head,—or into its gasoline tank—to blow up, or something else along the same line.”
“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Dick, piously, “but I guess we’d better change the subject. It isn’t a very cheerful one at best.”
“You’re right, it isn’t,” agreed Bert, “but those club fellows gave me some good tips regarding the track. They seem to know what they’re talking about.”
“They’re a great crowd,” said Tom, enthusiastically, “and they know how to do things up right, too. They certainly gave us a fine dinner.”
“No doubt about it,” concurred Bert, “but it’s made me feel mighty sleepy. I haven’t slept in so long that I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how.”