He did not wait to hear any more. Rushing out of the house, he had reached the sidewalk when, to his unspeakable relief, round the corner from Willow Street came Rackliff, somewhat dust-covered and perspiring, trundling the motorcycle. Hooker glared at him.
"What do you mean by taking my machine without asking?" he rasped. "Where have you been with it?"
"My dear old pal," said Herbert soothingly, "do give me time to get my breath, and then I'll seek to conciliate you with a full explanation. I've had to push this confounded thing for at least five miles, and I'm pretty near pegged out. It stopped on me on my way home."
"Five miles?" snapped Roy, taking the machine from the limp and weary city boy. "Where in blazes have you been with it?"
But not until he had seated himself to rest in the carriage house, and lighted a cigarette, did Rackliff offer any further explanation. Finally, with a little cough and a tired sigh, he smiled on the still frowning and outraged owner of the machine.
"You didn't see me around school this afternoon, did you?" he asked.
"No. I wondered where you were."
"I was out laying my pipes."
"Doing what?"
"Making sure that you and I could form a little pool and seek a few wagers on the game to-morrow, with the dead certainty of winning. I've been over to Barville to see Newt Copley."