“That’s all very well,” grumbled Gordon, “but he will be as mad as a March hare. I don’t see why he got me to do it for him, anyway.”
“Because you’ve made a hit with him,” laughed Dick. “I believe if you asked for it you could get a yearly pass over the trolley line. And speaking of trolleys reminds me that I’ve got to hustle over to the Point and get busy with young Mr. Townsend. What time is it?”
It was almost ten, and Dick seized his crutches and swung himself hurriedly into the house to reappear a minute later ready for the journey. Gordon and Fudge walked to the corner with him.
“How about another game with those fellows, Dick?” asked Gordon. “Are you going to see Billings to-day?”
“If you want me to. There’s time enough, though, I guess. We’ve got a game with Lesterville the day after to-morrow, as you perhaps recall.”
“I know, but I was thinking we might get the Pointers to come over and play us a week from Saturday. You might see what Billings thinks about it.”
“All right. If I can find him I’ll ask. By the way, he’ll have to find someone to take Morris’ place, won’t he? Guess, though, it won’t be hard to do. Here comes my car. See you later, fellows.”
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.”
“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?”
“Maybe. I suppose, anyway, I’d ought to see Mr. Brent and tell him what that fellow said. There’s no use putting it off. Will you come with me?”