"I knew I'd catch a beastly cold coming home through the rain the other night on that old lemon of Hooker's," he said when he could get his breath. "I hate a cough; it always seems to tear my lungs out. Next thing I know I'll be throwing one of 'em up."
"You don't look well."
"I have felt better. Never mind, I'll get over it; but, oh! you bet your life you'll never catch me on a motorcycle again. They are rotten dirty things anyhow; simply cover you with dust when they don't paste you with mud. Have a smoke?"
"Don't care if I do," said Phil, accepting the proffered cigarette case and selecting one. "I don't make a practice of using the things, but I need something to cheer me up."
Rackliff also supplied a match, and then motioned toward a near-by stone, urging Phil to sit down and make himself comfortable.
"You haven't looked hilariously cheerful of late," said the city youth. "Sort of taken your downfall to heart, haven't you?"
"My dud-downfall?"
"Yes. Oh, you're down and out, all right, and you must realize it—you do, too. Your proficient pupil, Mr. Rodney Grant, has tumbled you off the pedestal and taken your place."
"I wish you wouldn't tut-talk about him!" cried Phil.
Herbert shrugged his narrow shoulders and smiled.