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 the answer
came: "Ride the _Comet_ to Denver, to Chicago, to New York--wherever
you want to go!" The idea electrified the boy.
"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_!"