For his training Matt dug out of his trunk the leather cap, coat and leggings for which he had had no use since leaving the motor-factory in Albany. This cumbersome clothing hampered him somewhat, but he knew that if he could do well in that he would be able to work much better when stripped for the contest with O'Day.
"Perry has taken to practise just as though he was to be the big high boy in that bicycle-race," remarked Chub. "He was only second choice, and what's he working so hard for when he knows you're going to hold down the Phœnix end against O'Day?"
"Probably he wants to be fit for the race of his life in case anything happens to me," said Matt.
"Well, you take care that nothing happens to you, Matt," cautioned Chub.
During all this time Matt saw very little of Clipperton. Whenever they met, which they were bound to do occasionally, Clipperton threw back his shoulders and scowled blackly. Ratty Spangler, Tubbits Drake and a few more of Perry's friends not only kept their hostile attitude toward Matt, but influenced some of the other students to come over to their side. But Matt was not lacking for friends. Splinters formed himself into a committee of one and passed around a true version of the affair by the canal. Splinters, of course, knew nothing about the matter of the rock, but he knew enough to turn the best boys in the school against Perry.
The Prescott Athletic Club, with several hundred Prescott rooters, was to come to Phœnix by special train on Saturday forenoon. On the afternoon of Friday, the day preceding the "big meet"—as all loyal Phœnix and Prescott people called the athletic event—Matt got back from the track to find a letter waiting for him on the table in his room.
Mrs. Spooner explained that she had found the missive pushed under the front door, and hadn't the least idea who had left it. Matt stared when he opened the letter and began to read. It was from Tom Clipperton, and was very much to the point.
"Matt King: You think you're a better man than I am. I'll give you another guess. We can settle our differences in one way. Man to man. Come alone to the place where you threw me into the canal. Make it 9 o'clock to-night. Either I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had, or you'll give one to
"Tom Clipperton.
"P.S.—There's a moon."
"It's a challenge," muttered Matt grimly. "I don't want to fight the fellow—it will only make a bad matter worse. I'll have to, though, unless I can talk with him and tell him a few things he'll believe. Clip is not half bad at heart, and if he'd only get rid of some of his foolish notions, and stay away from Perry, he'd make a mighty good chum."
Crumpling up the note, Matt threw it into a waste-basket.