hes, did
not deter him from continuing to practice upon it whenever it was not
being used by its owner and he could find the opportunity. To the
satisfaction of both lads, the machine behaved very well indeed, and
Roy decided that, without knowing how he did it, he had fortunately
succeeded in curing its "balkiness."

It was Roy, taking an early morning spin on the machine, who saw Phil
Springer wearing the big catching mitt and coaching Rodney Grant to
pitch in Springer's dooryard.

"You poor lobster!" muttered Hooker contemptuously, as he chugged past.
"If Grant really should pan out to be the better man, you'd feel like
kicking yourself. I'd like to tell you what I think of you."

That night after supper, as usual, Rackliff strolled over to Hooker's
home, but he strolled with steps somewhat quickened by the prospect of
taking a turn on his friend's motorcycle.

At first Roy was not to be found, and his mother said she did not know
where he had gone. The motorcycle was standing in the carriage house,
causing Rackliff to wonder a little.

"Queer," muttered Herbert, rubbing his chin with his cigarette-stained
fingers. "When the old lady said he wasn't around I thought sure he
must be off with this machine."

To his ears came the sound of a dull thump, repeated at quite regular
intervals. At first he thought it must be the horse stamping in the
near-by stable, but the regular repetition of that thumping sound
convinced him that such could not be the case and led him to
investigate. Within the stable he was surprised to hear the sound
coming like a blow upon the back of the building, round which he
finally sauntered.

There was Hooker, coat and cap off, sleeves rolled up, face flushed a
little, throwing a baseball at the rear wall of the building,
recovering it when it rebounded, taking his place at a fixed distance,
and throwing again.

Unperceived, so intent was Hooker, Herbert stood and watched for
several minutes. Finally he spoke up interrogatingly:

"What are you trying to do, anyhow, old man? What in the name of
mystery do you mean by sneaking out here and trying to wallop your arm
off all by your lonesome?"

At the sound of the city boy's voice Roy had given a start and turned,
ball in hand. He frowned a bit, then followed it with a rather
shame-faced grin, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with
the back of his hand.

"Just amusing myself a little," he answered.

"Queer sort