"And a fine place for racing a limited train," added Matt, his mind running on the possibilities of steam versus gasoline.
"Say," said Chub, "I'd like to see the Comet splurging along by Jack Moody's big Baldwin, with Moody late and making up time! Whoo-ee! That would be a race! When Moody's behind his schedule you'd think a wildman was at the throttle."
Although the boys did not dream of it at the time, yet this talk of theirs was prophetic.
Presently the motor-cycles glided over a low hill, covered a couple of miles of level road, crossed the track, and entered the town of Prescott.
Chub, who had been in Prescott several times, knew the location of the Briggs House, and led the way directly there. They registered, secured a room on the ground floor, and, in order to make sure there would be no tampering with their machines, trundled them into the room where they would be constantly under their eyes or else behind a locked door.
The motor-cycles were looked over and taken care of, and then the boys, tired out with their trip, tumbled into bed and fell asleep.
They were up in time for breakfast, and were eagerly expecting something to happen. It was Thursday, the day specified in the note which had been so mysteriously delivered at Mrs. Spooner's.
Following breakfast, they sat around the hotel office, impatient and with every faculty on the alert.
Noon came, and they had dinner, then the afternoon waned, and they had supper. No one came near them to broach anything connected with the particular business that had brought them to Prescott. By eleven o'clock Matt gave up hope of hearing anything that day, and he and Chub went to bed.
Chub was very much discouraged.