Trundling out the machine, Rackliff heard the ball thudding again against the back of the stable.
Friday afternoon Herbert did not appear at school. Hooker looked for him in vain and wondered why he had remained away. Alone he watched the boys practice a while when school was over, Grant doing his full share of pitching to the batters. Despite prejudice and envy, Roy could see that Springer's pupil was gaining confidence and beginning to carry himself with the air of a real pitcher.
"But he hasn't had any experience," muttered the jealous and unfortunate lad. "Wait till he gets into a game and they begin to bump him. That temper of his will make him lose his head." Which was evidence enough that Roy little understood Rodney Grant, who invariably became all the more resolute and determined by opposition, and stood in no danger of giving way to his fiery temper, except when met by buffets of physical force in the form of personal violence.
Reaching home, Hooker went out behind the stable and plugged away at the white shingle until supper time, fancying he was gaining some skill in accuracy, although it seemed almost impossible to score a hit or come near it when he used a curve.
Supper over, he looked for Rackliff to appear. "He'll be around pretty soon, so I'll just take a short ride and come back."
In the carriage house he stopped, his undershot jaw drooping; for the motorcycle was missing from the stand on which it was always kept, when not in use. "What the dickens——" he cried, and stopped short.
After looking all around to make sure the machine was not there, he rushed into the house and questioned his mother.
"It must be there, Roy," she said. "I'm sure nobody has touched it. I would have heard them."
"But it isn't there," he shouted. "Somebody has stolen it." Then he caught his breath, struck by a sudden thought. "Has Herbert Rackliff been around here to-day?" he asked.
"I haven't seen him, but I hope you don't think your friend would take your motorcycle without——"