ant thought struck in upon Springer; in
almost every particular, save a deliberate underhand effort to injure
Grant, he was not a whit better than Bern Hayden, who now had not a
single boy friend left in Oakdale.

That thought staggered Phil a bit. Why, in a vague way he had
contemplated seeking some surreptitious method of accomplishing the
overthrow of Grant!

"Oh, I guess I'm rotten!" he growled. "But it's dirty luck that's made
me so!"

CHAPTER XX.

FELLOWS WHO MADE MISTAKES.

Roy Hooker lived one block further down the street. The popping
explosions of an approaching motorcycle greeted Phil's ears as he
walked on, and up the street came a chap astride such a machine, the
lamp of which had not yet been lighted. The motorcycle swerved into
Hooker's yard and nearly ran Springer down.

"Hey!" cried Phil, dodging. "What are you trying to do, Hooker?"

But it was not Hooker who shut off the motor and tumbled off the
machine as it slackened speed. It was Herbert Rackliff, soaked,
mud-bespattered, limp and in a temper.

"Why in the dickens don't you get out of a fellow's way?" snapped
Herbert, supporting the machine and glaring round at Phil. He bore
little resemblance to the usual dapper, immaculate, self-possessed
young fellow from the city whose tailored clothes and swagger manners
had aroused the envy and admiration of a number of country lads
thereabouts.

"Oh, is it you?" said Springer. "I thought it was Hooker. What are
you doing out in this rain with his machine?"

"Just getting back from Clearport," answered Herbert, with a sour
laugh. "If I owned this old mess of junk I'd pay somebody to take it
away. She stopped twice on me and skidded me into the ditch once.
Came mighty near leaving her there and hoofing it."

In truth, Rackliff was a sight, and Springer restrained a laugh with
some difficulty as he observed:

"It must have taken you a deuce of a while to get back on that thing,
for the game was over by three o'clock."

"Half past three," corrected Herbert, turning to trundle the motorcycle
toward the carriage house, the door of which, seen through the
twilight, was standing open.

"I caught the three-twelve train from Clearport," said Phil,
unconsciously starting to follow Rackliff.

"Huh!" grunted the other. "Know you did, but you didn't wait to see
the finish. If you had----"

By this time Springer was at the speaker's side and had seized his
mud-spattered, rain-soak