Gordon and Fudge mounted their wheels again when the trolley had rolled off and pedaled leisurely along Sawyer Street.
“Too bad,” observed Fudge, “that Dick hasn’t got that automobile, Gordie. It would save him a lot of hard work, wouldn’t it? Say, someone may run off with it if it stays out there on the road much longer. Bet you half of it’s gone already!”
There was no reply from Gordon, who was riding slowly along with his gaze fixed intently on his handle-bar.
“You ought to have hidden it behind a tree or something before you came away, Gordie.”
“Eh? Hidden what?”
“The automobile, of course. Say, what did you think I was talking about, anyway?”
“I guess I didn’t hear you,” replied Gordon apologetically. “I—I was thinking.”
“Some day you’ll be doing that and get run down by a trolley car,” commented Fudge crushingly. “What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing much,” answered Gordon. “Want to play some tennis?”
“My racket’s busted. I can borrow Lanny’s, though. But I guess it’s too hot for tennis, isn’t it?”