CHAPTER I_Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer

BERT WILSON'S TWIN CYLINDER RACER

J. W. DUFFIELD

Author of "Bert Wilson at the Wheel,"

"Wireless Operator," "Fadeaway Ball,"

"Marathon Winner," "At Panama."

Sully And Kleinteich

Published and Printed, 1924, by

Western Printing & Lithographing Company

Racine, Wisconsin

Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE RUNAWAY LOCOMOTIVE 1

II. THE "BLUE STREAK" 13

III. FROM COAST TO COAST 28

IV. A FLYING START 41

V. THE DESERTED HUT 53

VI. THE BROKEN DAM 65

VII. A KENTUCKY FEUD 82

VIII. THE FORGED TELEGRAM 97

IX. IN DEADLY PERIL 104

X. A DAY OF DISASTER 118

XI. THE FLAMING FOREST 129

XII. RACING AN AIRSHIP 137

XIII. AN UNSEEN LISTENER 145

XIV. THE OUTLAW PLOT 154

XV. A MURDEROUS GRIP 163

XVI. DESPERATE CHANCES 175

XVII. THE WONDERFUL CITY 188

XVIII. A WINNING FIGHT 199

BERT WILSON'S TWIN CYLINDER RACER

CHAPTER I

THE RUNAWAY LOCOMOTIVE

"Stop her. Stop her. She's running wild!"

The cry ended almost in a shriek that rang high above the murmur of

voices at the railroad station.

It was a bright sunny morning early in June. The usual crowd of rustics

had gathered at the depot to see the train come in and depart. A few

commercial travelers were consulting time tables and attending to the

disposition of their baggage. Gay laughter and hasty farewells arose

from a bevy of girls and the young men who had assembled to see them

off. The conductor, watch in hand, stood ready to give the signal,

and the black porters were already gathering up the folding steps

preparatory to boarding the train. The bells were ringing and the

whistle had given its preliminary toot, when all were startled at the

sight of the station agent, who issued wild-eyed from his office and ran

on the track, frantically waving his hands and shouting at the top of

his voice.

As the startled passengers and trainmen followed the direction of his

look, they saw what had occasioned the wild commotion, and, for a

moment, their hearts stood still.

A big Mogul engine that had been shunted to a side track was moving down

the line, slowly at first but gathering speed with every passing second.

Neither engineer nor fireman could be seen in the cab. It was evident

that they had left before the power was completely shut off, or that

some sudden jar had started the mechanism. Even while the frightened

spectators watched as though under a spell, the pace grew swifter. Some

of the men lounging about the roundhouse made a hurried rush for it,

with a faint hope of getting aboard and shutting off steam. One of these

made a desperate grab at the rear end of the tender, but was flung in a

ditch alongside the track, where he rolled over and over. It was too

late to stop her. Amid a tempest of yells and a tumult of excitement she

gathered way and sped down the line.

The station master wrung his hands and tore his hair in desperation. For

the moment he was crazed with fright.

A clear eyed young fellow, tall, stalwart, muscular, had been chatting

with a party of friends on the road beside the platform. While he

talked, his hand rested on the handle-bars of a motorcycle at which he

glanced at intervals with a look of pride that was almost affection. It

was a superb machine, evidently of the latest type, and in its graceful

lines suggested in some vague way a resemblance to its owner. Both

looked like thoroughbreds.

At the Babel of cries that rent the air the young motorcyclist looked up

and his nostrils dilated with sudden purpose. At a glance he took in the

situation--the running men, the panic cries, the runaway engine. Then he

came plunging through the crowd and grasped the dazed agent by the

shoulder.

"Come, wake up," he cried. "Do something. Telegraph to the next

station."

The man looked up dully. Terror had benumbed his faculties. He was

clearly not the man for a sudden emergency.

"No use," he moaned. "The next station is thirteen miles away. And it's

a single track," he wailed, "and No. 56 is due in twenty minutes. If

she's on time she's already left there. They'll meet head-on--O God!"

"Quick," the newcomer commanded, as he fairly dragged him into the

office. "There's the key. Get busy. Call up the next station and see if

you can stop 56."

But as he saw the aimless, paralyzed way in which the agent fumbled at

the key, he thrust him aside and took his place. He was an expert

telegrapher, and his fingers fairly flew as he called up the operator

at Corridon.

"Engine running wild," he called. "Stop 56 and sidetrack the runaway."

A moment of breathless suspense and the answer came in sharp, staccato

clicks that betrayed the agitation of the man at the other end.

"56 just left. Rounding the curve half a mile away. Making up time, too.

For heaven's sake, do something."

"Do something." What bitter irony! What could be done? Death was at the

throttle of that mad runaway rushing down the line.

But the young fellow was of the never say die kind, and always at his

best when danger threatened. He thought with the rapidity of lightning.

Then he clutched the station agent, who sat with his head bowed on his

hands, a picture of abject misery.

"Is there a switch between here and Corridon?" he demanded fiercely.

"N-no," muttered the stupefied man. "That is, there is one at the old

stone quarry, but----"

The remainder of the sentence fell on empty air. Like a flash, the youth

who had so cavalierly taken matters in his own hands was out of the

room. He ploughed through the huddled group of passengers and trainmen,

and flung himself into the saddle of the waiting motorcycle. A roar as

he threw in the clutch, a quick scattering of those in front, and the

machine, like a living thing, darted down the road that lay beside the

track.

The wind sang in his ears and the path fell away behind him as he

crouched low over the fork so that his body might offer as little

resistance as possible. And, as he rushed along, his active mind was

thinking--thinking--

He knew the surrounding country like an open book. There was scarcely a

lane that he had not threaded, and as for the highways, he had gone over

them again and again. Now, as in a panorama, he saw every turn and bend,

every height and hollow of the road that lay before him. In sheer

delight of living he had ridden it before; now he must do it to keep

others from dying.

The old stone quarry was a familiar landmark. More than once, he and

other fellows from the College interested in geology had come over there

to hunt fossils. At an earlier date, it had been a buzzing hive of

activity, and a side track had been laid by the railroad company

in order to load the stone more easily. But of late it had proved

unprofitable to work the quarry, and nothing now remained but the

abandoned shacks of the workmen and some broken tools and machinery,

rusting in the grass that had grown up around them. He remembered that

the siding ran for about twenty rods and ended at bumpers set within a

few feet of the wall of rock.

For two or three miles, the road he was traveling ran almost parallel to

the railroad. At times, a shoulder of the path hid the rails from sight,

and at one place he had to make quite a wide detour before he again came

close to the right of way. The switch at the quarry was seven miles from

the town, and, though he hoped to make it in less than that many

minutes, it seemed as though he would never reach it. To his agonized

mind he appeared to be merely crawling. In reality he was flying.

For he was riding now as he had never ridden before. Human life was at

stake--perhaps hundreds of lives. He pictured the long line of cars full

of passengers--for 56 was the road's finest train, and almost always

filled to capacity--coming toward him without a thought of danger.

Some would be reading, others gazing out of the windows, still others

laughing and talking. But everywhere would be confidence, ease of

mind, an eager looking for the journey's end without the slightest

apprehension. And all this time, death was grimly bearing down upon them

in one of his most fearful forms.

He shuddered as in his mind's eye he saw the two monster locomotives

leaping at each other like enraged giants. He had seen a wreck once and

had fervently prayed that he might never see another. And as that scene

now came before him, he bent lower over the bars and let out every ounce

of speed that the machine possessed.

It was leaping now, only touching the high places. Had he been a less

skilful rider he would have been hurled from the saddle. Discretion was

thrown to the winds. It was no time to measure possibilities or look out

for his personal safety. He had to take chances. His siren warned all

comers to give him the road. A team was hauled up on its haunches by the

frightened driver; an automobile drew so hastily to one side that two

wheels went into the ditch. He caught a glimpse of startled faces at

doors and windows as he passed. Like a meteor he flashed by, all his

heart and soul wrapped up in the thought of rescue.

Now he had overtaken the locomotive and was running parallel to it. The

Mogul swayed and lurched as it tore along with all steam up on its

mission of destruction. Steadily the rider drew up on even terms, with

less than twenty feet separating the tracks from the high road. Then the

motorcycle swept into the lead and increased it with every bound.

Only two miles more to the quarry! His heart exulted as he realized that

he would get there first. But the margin would be fearfully close. The

switch might prove rusty and refuse to work. Some part of it might be

out of gear. For years it had been utterly abandoned. What a bitter

jest of fate if, after reaching it ahead of the locomotive, he should

have to stand helplessly by and see it dash past on its errand of

slaughter.

Then, too, a third factor entered into the problem. There was No. 56.

She was a limited express and famous for her speed. The operator at

Corridon had said that on this stretch of road, supposed to be clear,

she would make up time. If she reached and passed the switch before the

runaway, no power on earth could prevent a frightful disaster. And just

then, while this fear was tugging at his heart, a faint whistle in the

distance drove all the color from his face. 56 was coming!

He dared not take his eyes from the road in front, but he knew from the

lessened noise behind him that he was increasing his lead. And then as

he swept around a slight curve in the road, the abandoned quarry came

into view. There were the empty shacks, the deserted platform and, a few

rods further on, the switch.

He raced to the tracks and threw himself from the machine, almost

falling headlong from the momentum, although he had turned off the

power. Then he grasped the lever and tried to throw the switch.

It groaned and creaked, but, although it protested, it yielded to the

powerful young muscles that would not be denied. But, when it had moved

two-thirds of the way it balked, and, despite his frenzied attempts,

refused to budge another inch. And now the runaway engine was coming

close, rumbling and roaring hideously, while round the curve, a scant

quarter of a mile away, appeared the smokestack of No. 56.

Looking wildly about for the obstacle, he saw that a stone had been

wedged into the frog. He tried to remove it, but the turning of the

switch had jammed it against the rail. Straightening up, he swung

the lever far enough back to release the stone. He worked as if in

a nightmare. Fifty feet away, the Mogul was bearing down like a

fire-breathing demon. With one swift movement he threw the stone aside;

with the next he bowed his back over the lever until it felt as though

it would break. Then the rusted rails groaned into place; with an

infernal din and uproar the runaway took the switch. Scarcely had it

cleared the track when 56 thundered past, its wheels sending out streams

of sparks as the brakes ground against them.

The Mogul struck the bumpers with terrific force, tore them away and

leaped headlong against the wall of the quarry. There was a crash that

could be heard for miles, and the wrecked locomotive reared into the air

and then rolled over on its side, enveloped in smoke and hissing steam.

As soon as the long train of 56 could be stopped, the throttle was

reversed and it came gliding back to the switch. The engineer and

fireman sprang from their cab, conductor and trainmen came running up,

and the passengers swarmed from the cars.

There was a tumult of excited questionings, as they gathered round the

young fellow who stood there, panting with the strain of his tremendous

efforts. Now that he had succeeded in the forlorn hope that he had

undertaken, he was beginning to feel the reaction. He responded briefly

and modestly to the questions that were showered upon him, and, as

the full meaning of their narrow escape from death burst upon them,

passengers and trainmen alike were loud in their praise of his presence

of mind and thanks for their deliverance. They were for making him a

hero, but he shrank from this and would have none of it.

"Don't thank me," he laughed. "It was this that made it possible;" and

he patted the handlebars of the motorcycle. "She certainly did herself

proud this day."

"She surely is a dandy," smiled the conductor, "but you must admit that

you had a _little_ to do with it. We'll never forget what you have done

for us to-day. But now we must be starting. We'll put the machine in the

baggage car, and you come in here with me."

A blast of the whistle and No. 56 had resumed its interrupted journey.

A ringing cheer burst from the anxious crowds that surged about the

platform as the great train, puffing and snorting, came into the

station. The agent, white as a ghost, could not believe his eyes.

"Thank God," he cried. "I thought it was all over. I've telegraphed for

the wrecking crew, and all the doctors in town have been called to go

along. How on earth did you escape? Where is the Mogul?"

"You'll find that down in the quarry smashed to bits," answered the

conductor. "You'll need the wrecking train for that, all right, but you

can call off the doctors. We would have needed plenty of them--and

undertakers too--if it hadn't been for this young man. He threw the

switch without a second to spare."

The station agent grasped the rider's hand and stammered and stuttered,

as he tried to pour out his thanks. But just then a flying wedge of

college boys came through the crowd and, grabbing the reluctant hero,

hoisted him to their shoulders.

"Wilson." "Bert Wilson." "O, you Bert." "O, you speed boy," they yelled.

The enthusiastic lookers on took up the shout and it was a long time

before Bert, blushing and embarrassed, could free himself from his

boisterous admirers.

"O, cut it out, fellows," he protested. "It was all in the day's work."

"Sure," assented Tom Henderson, "but _such_ a day's work."

"And such a worker," added Dick Trent.

"Three times three and a tiger for Bert Wilson," roared a stentorian

voice. The answer came in a tempest of cheers, and, as the train pulled

out, the last sound that came to the waving passengers was the lusty

chorus:

"For he's a jolly good fellow,

Which nobody can deny."