Victor Appleton (house Name) (3 page)

Waiting not an instant the lad bent over his handle-bars and pedaled
with all his force. His bicycle seemed fairly to leap forward after
the galloping horse.

"Sit still! Don't jump out! Don't jump!" yelled the young inventor.
"I'll try to catch him!" for the woman was standing up in front of
the seat and leaning forward, as if about to leap from the wagon.

"She's lost her head," thought Tom. "No wonder! That's a skittish
horse."

Faster and faster he rode, bending all his energies to overtake the
animal. The wagon was swaying from side to side, and more than once
the woman just saved herself from being thrown out by grasping the
edge of the seat. She found that her standing position was a
dangerous one and crouched on the bottom of the swaying vehicle.

"That's better!" shouted Tom, but it is doubtful if she heard him,
for the rattling of the wagon and the hoofbeats of the horse drowned
all other sounds. "Sit still!" he shouted. "I'll stop the horse for
you!"

Trying to imagine himself in a desperate race, in order to excite
himself to greater speed, Tom continued on. He was now even with the
tail-board of the wagon, and slowly creeping up. The woman was all
huddled up in a lump.

"Grab the reins! Grab the reins!" shouted Tom. "Saw on the bit! That
will stop him!"

The occupant of the wagon turned to look at the lad. Tom saw that
she was a handsome young lady. "Grab the reins!" he cried again.
"Pull hard!"

"I—I can't!" she answered frightenedly. "They have dropped down!
Oh, do please stop the horse! I'm so—so frightened!"

"I'll stop him!" declared the youth firmly, and he set his teeth
hard. Then he saw the reason the fair driver could not grasp the
lines. They had slipped over the dashboard and were trailing on the
ground.

The horse was slacking speed a bit now, for the pace was telling on
his wind. Tom saw his opportunity, and with a sudden burst of energy
was at the animal's head. Steering his wheel with one hand, with the
other the lad made a grab for the reins near the bit. The horse
swerved frightenedly to one side, but Tom swung in the same
direction. He grasped the leather and then, with a kick, he freed
himself from the bicycle, giving it a shove to one side. He was now
clinging to the reins with both hands, and, being a muscular lad and
no lightweight, his bulk told.

"Sit—still!" panted our hero to the young woman, who had arisen to
the seat. "I'll have him stopped in half a minute now!"

It was in less time than that, for the horse, finding it impossible
to shake off the grip of Tom, began to slow from a gallop to a trot,
then to a canter, and finally to a slow walk. A moment later the
horse had stopped, breathing heavily from his run.

"There, there, now!" spoke Tom soothingly. "You're all right, old
fellow. I hope you're not hurt"—this to the young lady—and Tom
made a motion to raise his cap, only to find that it had blown off.

"Oh, no—no; I'm more frightened than hurt."

"It was all my fault," declared the young inventor. "I should not
have swung into the road so suddenly. My bicycle alarmed your
horse."

"Oh, I fancy Dobbin is easily disturbed," admitted the fair driver.
"I can't thank you enough for stopping him. You saved me from a bad
accident."

"It was the least I could do. Are you all right now?" and he handed
up the dangling reins. "I think Dobbin, as you call him, has had
enough of running," went on Tom, for the horse was now quiet.

"I hope so. Yes, I am all right. I trust your wheel is not damaged.
If it is, my father, Mr. Amos Nestor, of Mansburg, will gladly pay
for its repair."

This reminded the young inventor of his bicycle, and making sure
that the horse would not start up again, he went to where his wheel
and his cap lay. He found that the only damage to the bicycle was a
few bent spokes, and, straightening them and having again apologized
to the young woman, receiving in turn her pardon and thanks, and
learning that her name was Mary Nestor, Tom once more resumed his
trip. The wagon followed him at a distance, the horse evincing no
desire now to get out of a slow amble.

"Well, things are certainly happening to me to-day," mused Tom as he
pedaled on. "That might have been a serious runaway if there'd been
anything in the road."

Tom did not stop to think that he had been mainly instrumental in
preventing a bad accident, as he had been the innocent cause of
starting the runaway, but Tom was ever a modest lad. His arms were
wrenched from jerking on the bridle, but he did not mind that much,
and bent over the handle-bars to make up for lost time.

Our hero was within a short distance of his house and was coasting
easily along when, just ahead of him, he saw a cloud of dust, very
similar to the one that had, some time before, concealed the
inexperienced motor-cyclist.

"I wonder if that's him again?" thought Tom. "If it is I'm going to
hang back until I see which way he's headed. No use running any more
risks."

Almost at that moment a puff of wind blew some of the dust to one
side. Tom had a glimpse of the man on the puffing machine.

"It's the same chap!" he exclaimed aloud; "and he's going the same
way I am. Well, I'll not try to catch up to him. I wonder what he's
been doing all this while, that he hasn't gotten any farther than
this? Either he's been riding back and forth, or else he's been
resting. My, but he certainly is scooting along!"

The wind carried to Tom the sound of the explosions of the motor,
and he could see the man clinging tightly to the handle-bars. The
rider was almost in front of Tom's house now, when, with a
suddenness that caused the lad to utter an exclamation of alarm, the
stranger turned his machine right toward a big oak tree.

"What's he up to?" cried Tom excitedly. "Does he think he can climb
that, or is he giving an exhibition by showing how close he can come
and not hit it?"

A moment later the motor-cyclist struck the tree a glancing blow.
The man went flying over the handle-bars, the machine was shunted to
the ditch along the road, and falling over on one side the motor
raced furiously. The rider lay in a heap at the foot of the tree.

"My, that was a smash!" cried Tom. "He must be killed!" and bending
forward, he raced toward the scene of the accident.

When Tom reached the prostrate figure on the grass at the foot of
the old oak tree, the youth bent quickly over the man. There was an
ugly cut on his head, and blood was flowing from it. But Tom quickly
noticed that the stranger was breathing, though not very strongly.

"Well, he's not dead—just yet!" exclaimed the youth with a sigh of
relief. "But I guess he's pretty badly hurt. I must get help—no,
I'll take him into our house. It's not far. I'll call dad."

Leaning his wheel against the tree Tom started for his home, about
three hundred feet away, and then he noticed that the stranger's
motor-cycle was running at full speed on the ground.

"Guess I'd better shut off the power!" he exclaimed. "No use letting
the machine be ruined." Tom had a natural love for machinery, and it
hurt him almost as much to see a piece of fine apparatus abused as
it did to see an animal mistreated. It was the work of a
moment to shut off the gasolene and spark, and then the youth raced
on toward his house.

"Where's dad?" he called to Mrs. Baggert, who was washing the
dishes.

"Out in one of the shops," replied the housekeeper. "Why, Tom," she
went on hurriedly as she saw how excited he was, "whatever has
happened?"

"Man hurt—out in front—motor-cycle smash—I'm going to bring him
in here—get some things ready—I'll find dad!"

"Bless and save us!" cried Mrs. Baggert. "Whatever are we coming to?
Who's hurt? How did it happen? Is he dead?"

"Haven't time to talk now!" answered Tom, rushing from the house.
"Dad and I will bring him in here."

Tom found his father in one of the three small machine shops on the
grounds about the Swift home. The youth hurriedly told what had
happened.

"Of course we'll bring him right in here!" assented Mr. Swift,
putting aside the work upon which he was engaged. "Did you tell Mrs.
Baggert?"

"Yes, and she's all excited."

"Well, she can't help it, being a woman, I suppose. But we'll
manage. Do you know the man?"

"Never saw him before to-day, when he tried to run me down. Guess he
doesn't know much about motor-cycles. But come on, dad. He may bleed
to death."

Father and son hurried to where the stranger lay. As they bent over
him he opened his eyes and asked faintly:

"Where am I? What happened?"

"You're all right—in good hands," said Mr. Swift. "Are you much
hurt?"

"Not much—mostly stunned, I guess. What happened?" he repeated.

"You and your motor-cycle tried to climb a tree," remarked Tom with
grim humor.

"Oh, yes, I remember now. I couldn't seem to steer out of the way.
And I couldn't shut off the power in time. Is the motor-cycle much
damaged?"

"The front wheel is," reported Tom, after an inspection, "and there
are some other breaks, but I guess—"

"I wish it was all smashed!" exclaimed the man vigorously. "I never
want to see it again!"

"Why, don't you like it?" asked Tom eagerly.

"No, and I never will," the man spoke faintly but determinedly.

"Never mind now," interposed Mr. Swift. "Don't excite yourself. My
son and I will take you to our house and send for a doctor."

"I'll bring the motor-cycle, after we've carried you in," added Tom.

"Don't worry about the machine. I never want to see it again!" went
on the man, rising to a sitting position. "It nearly killed me twice
to day. I'll never ride again."

"You'll feel differently after the doctor fixes you up," said Mr.
Swift with a smile.

"Doctor! I don't need a doctor," cried the stranger. "I am only
bruised and shaken up."

"You have a bad cut on your head," said Tom.

"It isn't very deep," went on the injured man, placing his fingers
on it. "Fortunately I struck the tree a glancing blow. If you will
allow me to rest in your house a little while and give me some
plaster for the cut I shall be all right again."

"Can you walk, or shall we carry you?" asked Tom's father.

"Oh, I can walk, if you'll support me a little." And the stranger
proved that he could do this by getting to his feet and taking a few
steps. Mr. Swift and his son took hold of his arms and led him to
the house. There he was placed on a lounge and given some simple
restoratives by Mrs. Baggert, who, when she found the accident was
not serious, recovered her composure.

"I must have been unconscious for a few minutes," went on the man.

"You were," explained Tom. "When I got up to you I thought you were
dead, until I saw you breathe. Then I shut off the power of your
machine and ran in for dad. I've got the motor-cycle outside. You
can't ride it for some time, I'm afraid, Mr.—er—" and Tom stopped
in some confusion, for he realized that he did not know the man's
name.

"I beg your pardon for not introducing myself before," went on the
stranger. "I'm Wakefield Damon, of Waterfield. But don't worry about
me riding that machine again. I never shall."

"Oh, perhaps—" began Mr. Swift.

"No, I never shall," went on Mr. Damon positively. "My doctor told
me to get it, as he thought riding around the country would benefit
my health I shall tell him his prescription nearly killed me."

"And me too," added Tom with a laugh.

"How—why—are you the young man I nearly ran down this morning?"
asked Mr. Damon, suddenly sitting up and looking at the youth.

"I am," answered our hero.

"Bless my soul! So you are!" cried Mr. Damon. "I was wondering who
it could be. It's quite a coincidence. But I was in such a cloud of
dust I couldn't make out who it was."

"You had your muffler open, and that made considerable dust,"
explained Tom.

"Was that it? Bless my existence! I thought something was wrong, but
I couldn't tell what. I went over all the instructions in the book
and those the agent told me, but I couldn't think of the right one.
I tried all sorts of things to make less dust, but I couldn't. Then,
bless my eyelashes, if the machine didn't stop just after I nearly
ran into you. I tinkered over it for an hour or more before I could
get it to going again. Then I ran into the tree. My doctor told me
the machine would do my liver good, but, bless my happiness, I'd as
soon be without a liver entirely as to do what I've done to-day. I
am done with motor-cycling!"

A hopeful look came over Tom's face, but he said nothing, that is,
not just then. In a little while Mr. Damon felt so much better that
he said he would start for home. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave
your machine here," said Tom.

"You can send for it any time you want to," added Mr. Swift.

"Bless my hatband!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, who appeared to be very
fond of blessing his various organs and his articles of wearing
apparel. "Bless my hatband! I never want to see it again! If you
will be so kind as to keep it for me, I will send a junk man after
it. I will never spend anything on having it repaired. I am done
with that form of exercise—liver or no liver—doctor or no doctor."

He appeared very determined. Tom quickly made up his mind. Mr. Damon
had gone to the bathroom to get rid of some of the mud on his hands
and face.

"Father," said Tom earnestly, "may I buy that machine of him?"

"What? Buy a broken motor-cycle?"

"I can easily fix it. It is a fine make, and in good condition. I
can repair it. I've wanted a motor-cycle for some time, and here's a
chance to get a good one cheap."

"You don't need to do that," replied Mr. Swift. "You have money
enough to buy a new one if you want it. I never knew you cared for
them."