But it was not Hooker who shut off the motor and tumbled off the machine as it slackened speed. It was Herbert Rackliff, soaked, mud-bespattered, limp and in a temper.
"Why in the dickens don't you get out of a fellow's way?" snapped Herbert, supporting the machine and glaring round at Phil. He bore little resemblance to the usual dapper, immaculate, self-possessed young fellow from the city whose tailored clothes and swagger manners had aroused the envy and admiration of a number of country lads thereabouts.
"Oh, is it you?" said Springer. "I thought it was Hooker. What are you doing out in this rain with his machine?"
"Just getting back from Clearport," answered Herbert, with a sour laugh. "If I owned this old mess of junk I'd pay somebody to take it away. She stopped twice on me and skidded me into the ditch once. Came mighty near leaving her there and hoofing it."
In truth, Rackliff was a sight, and Springer restrained a laugh with some difficulty as he observed:
"It must have taken you a deuce of a while to get back on that thing, for the game was over by three o'clock."
"Half past three," corrected Herbert, turning to trundle the motorcycle toward the carriage house, the door of which, seen through the twilight, was standing open.
"I caught the three-twelve train from Clearport," said Phil, unconsciously starting to follow Rackliff.
"Huh!" grunted the other. "Know you did, but you didn't wait to see the finish. If you had——"
By this time Springer was at the speaker's side and had seized his mud-spattered, rain-soaked sleeve.