THE RABBITT'S FOOT. Major Woolford wanted Matt in that bicycle-race. He hadn't any idea why the boy hung back at the try-out, or why he was thinking of leaving town, but in showing him the prize that went to the victor he had played a trump card. Matt's bosom swelled as he eyed the beautiful machine, and his mind circled about ways and means for staying in Phoenix until the Phoenix-Prescott athletic meet. What Matt had received for his bicycle, together with what little money he already possessed, was barely sufficient to land him in Denver. If he stayed on in Phoenix, and used up some of this money for living-expenses, he might have a motor-cycle when he was ready to leave the place, but how was he to get to Denver? Even as he put the question to himself, quick as a flash "I'll be in that race, major," he cried, turning to the president of the athletic club, "and I'll win the prize!" "Sure you will!" exclaimed the delighted major. "I reckoned you'd stay as soon as you saw what the prize was to be. A lad who likes motors as well as you do wouldn't let a machine like that get away from him." "Who races for Prescott?" asked Matt. "A local celebrity called Newton O'Day. Perry beat O'Day in the bicycle-race last year, and although I hear O'Day has developed a phenomenal burst of speed since then, I shouldn't wonder if Perry could repeat the trick." "Then you don't really need me, major?" said Matt. "You bet we do! Perry is so crooked he can't walk around the block without running into himself. I might trust him as a last resort, but it would certainly have to be that. The two clubs come together two weeks from to-day, and you're down for our side in the bicycle event, King, with Perry for second choice in case anything should happen to keep you away. But you don't want to let anything happen; see?" The major talked with great earnestness and laid a confiding hand on Matt's shoulder. "After what happened at the park this afternoon it might be just as well for you to step high, wide and handsome, and keep eyes in the back of your head. We're counting on you, don't forget that." The major turned to his driver. "Take King's machine back into the garage, Mike," he added. "We're going to turn it over to him in a couple of weeks." "You bet you are, major," averred Matt, "if racing will win it." He walked to his boarding-place with a bounding heart, and seemed to be stepping on air. Ever since motor-cycles had been on the market he had dreamed of owning one. Now there was a chance that his dream would come true, and that he was to own a seven-horse-power marvel, fleet as the wind. Small wonder the boy was elated. The machinery of the Comet was controlled by the grip on the handle-bars, and by various flexible twists of the wrist. Matt's game arm had suffered somewhat through manipulating the grip control, but by the time the Comet was his he knew his arm would be as well as ever. Matt lodged on First Avenue, in the home of a woman who had lost her husband in a mining explosion, and had been compelled to take boarders for a living. He had a pleasant front room on the second floor, and when he bounded up-stairs and burst into his private quarters he was a little bit surprised to find Chub there. There was an ominous look on Chub's freckled face. "Somebody died and left you a million?" inquired Chub. "You look as chipper as an Injun squaw with a string of new beads." "Well," laughed Matt, "I do feel just a little hilarious." "It must have tickled you a whole lot to pull out of that smash by the skin of your teeth," muttered Chub. "Shucks, Matt, I never saw a fellow that takes things like you do." "It's twice as easy to laugh at your troubles, Chub, as to throw a fit and pull a long face. All a fellow needs is to get the knack. But I've had something else to help me buck up," and Matt, as he flung himself into a chair, proceeded to tell his chum about the motor-cycle, and about his decision to stay in Phoenix for the athletic-club contests. Chub's face brightened. Ever since he had learned that Matt was going to leave town he had been more or less gloomy, and the knowledge that he was to remain for the big meet was mighty cheering. "Bully!" exclaimed Chub. "You'll win that motor-cycle hands down—provided you're not interfered with." "I'll not be interfered with, Chub," returned Matt confidently. "For heaven's sake, don't go and make a wet blanket out of yourself. What's on your mind, anyhow? You're as blue as a whetstone." Chub's face had gloomed up again. With hands jammed into his trousers pockets and with legs outstretched he slouched back in his chair and grunted savagely. "They can't fool me, nit," he growled. "A pistol went off when you were passing the lower end of the grand stand, and that's what busted the tire. There's only one chap in school who could shoot like that, and he's the only one, aside from Dace Perry, who'd try to do you any dirt. You know who I mean—Tom Clipperton." "That's mighty slim evidence for a charge against Clipperton, Chub," said Matt gravely. "Don't be rash." "Rash!" muttered Chub. "You don't want to shut your eyes to what Clip can do, Matt. He's never been more than half-tamed, and has a standing grouch at everybody on account of his blood. I nagged him some this morning, and he was ripe for anything when I whaled away with that rock. And then to have him get the notion that you threw it. Oh, gee!" Chub's discontent was morbid. "Say," he went on, "when Susie and I and Perk were coming from the track we met Clip going home with Perry, Spangler, Tubbits Drake and that bunch. I waltzed over and told Clip that he was off his mark a little about that rock, and that I, little Reddy Mac, was the author of that slam." "You didn't?" exclaimed Matt. "Don't you never think I didn't. But what good did it do? They gave me the frozen laugh, the whole gang of 'em, and Perry said it was a raw blazer of a play, and that I couldn't succeed in putting myself between you and trouble. Now, Matt; Perry, Spangler, Drake and the others know I let fly with that stone, and they're letting Clip think the other way so as to make him take you off Perry's hands." Matt was thoughtful for a minute. "Well, what of it?" he asked presently. "What of it?" repeated Chub. "Oh, gee-whiskers! Can't you see what it means to have a real Injun in war-paint, like Clip, camped on your trail? Take it from me, Matt, it means trouble for you between now and the day of the race." "All right," said Matt cheerfully, "I've had trouble before." "Not the sort Clip, with Perry and that cross-country team back of him, will hand out to you. Seems like I'm always making a mess of things," Chub snorted. "That's the way Johnny Hardluck spars up to me. I get in a few whole-arm jabs and then, just as everything looks rosy, there's an error, and fate gets past my guard. This day's a sample. I begin with powder and sulfuric acid, hit Clip below the belt with a reference to his Injun blood, and then land on him with a corker of a rock intended for Perry. It wouldn't be so bad, Matt, if you didn't come in for the consequences." "Never mind me," laughed Matt. "I'm big for my size and old for my age, and I've always been able to take precious good care of number one. I'm sorry for Clip. His mixed blood worries him, and Perry knows how to keep him all worked up. But nobody knows just what happened at the try-out, so don't do any wild guessing, Chub, and, above all, keep your guesses to yourself." "I know what happened at the try-out," asserted Chub, "and there's no guess about it, either. Clip is superstitious. Remember that rabbit's foot, mounted on a silver band, he always carries as a luck-bringer?" Everybody in the school knew about Clip's rabbit's foot. He had carried it the year before when he had beaten Vance Latham, the Prescott champion, in the mile race. "What about that?" asked Matt, wondering what the luck-bringer had to do with the affair at the track. "You know how the grand stand is built, out at the park," pursued Chub. "Any one can get under it and look out onto the track between the board seats. If any one wanted to, he could climb the timbers, rest the barrel of a revolver on a board and make a good shot at any one on the track. That notion struck me before I left the park this afternoon, and I stole away to do a little investigating. I'm beginning to think Sherlock Holmes is a back number compared to me. Look here what little Reddy Hawkshaw found under the stand and close to the lower end!" Chub jerked his right hand out of his pocket and flung an object at Matt. The latter caught it deftly. It was a silver-mounted rabbit's foot, attached to a piece of fine steel chain. Matt drew in a quick breath and turned his startled eyes on Chub. "Now what have you got to say?" inquired Chub. "I'm the original, blown-in-the-bottle trouble-maker, but you can bet I haven't gone wrong on this!" |