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."