THE RED ROADSTER.
As Matt hurried out of the capitol building he found Clip at the curb, waiting for him. Clip's motor-cycle was leaning against a hitching post, and there was an ominous look on Clip's swarthy face—a look that somehow reminded one of his grim Indian ancestors, for Clip was proud of the fact that one of his grandparents had been a full-blood native of the soil.
"What's on?" he asked, as Matt rolled the Comet off the walk and into the street.
"I've got to do a hard 'century' in five hours," answered Matt, "and you're to go with me as long as you can keep up."
A gleam of satisfaction darted through Clip's eyes.
"I was looking for your machine," said he. "Where'd you leave it, Matt?"
"Left it at the steps, in charge of the janitor. Didn't intend to give any one a chance to tamper with it. How's your gasoline-tank, Clip?"
"Full."
"Plenty of oil?"
Clip nodded.