A DAY OF DISASTER
After he left his companions, Bert made good speed for a time,
and hummed along smoothly. At first all went well, and Bert was
congratulating himself on his good progress, when suddenly his engine
commenced racing wildly. In an instant Bert had shut off power, and came
to a stop as soon as possible. Then he dismounted, and commenced a hasty
examination. The first thought that flashed across his mind was that the
clutch had given way in some manner, thus allowing the motor to slip.
The clutch proved to be in perfect condition, however, but a short
further search revealed the cause of the trouble.
The nut that held the engine driving sprocket on the shaft had worked
loose and dropped off. Of course, the key that prevented the sprocket
from slipping on the shaft had dropped out soon afterward, thus allowing
the shaft to revolve without transmitting the slightest power.
"Well," thought Bert, "I'm in a pretty fix now, for fair. Here I am
thirty miles from the nearest town and provided with a permanent free
engine. It rather looks as though I were up against it for fair."
He made a careful search among his spare parts, but met with only
partial success. He found a nut that fitted the shaft fairly well, but
nothing he could substitute for the key.
"Perhaps if I walk back a way I'll find it," he thought, and accordingly
he walked slowly back the way he had come, carefully scanning every foot
of the path. He realized that the likelihood of finding it was very
slim, but there was always the chance, so he hunted carefully. His
efforts met with no success, and at last he was forced to admit to
himself the hopelessness of the search.
"But I've got to do something," he thought, "since I haven't got the
part, I'll have to try and make one, that's all." He reflected a few
moments, and then, seized with an idea, once more looked through the
tool bag. He selected the smallest of his screwdrivers and a file, and
began to file away at the screwdriver about half an inch from the end,
intending to use it in place of the lost key. But the steel of which it
was composed was very hard, and he found it a harder task than he had
anticipated.
At last, by dint of patient filing until his fingers ached, he cut
through the obstinate metal and finally held the precious bit of steel
between his fingers.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, mopping his streaming face, "that was an awful
job, but the end justifies the means. I wouldn't swap this little bit
of steel now for ten times its weight in gold."
He tried it in the slot on the engine shaft, and found it a fairly tight
fit. "Eureka!" he exclaimed aloud, "that's bending circumstances to suit
your will, or I don't know what is."
He quickly screwed on the holding nut, and once more was ready to start.
"Come along now, old fellow," he said, apostrophizing the "Blue Streak,"
"we've got to do double work now to make up for this delay. Speed's the
word from now on."
Misfortune after misfortune overtook him, however, and he was delayed
again and again. It almost seemed as though fate repented of having
saved him from a horrible death that morning, and was resolved to make
up for her leniency by imposing unusual hardships on the devoted
motorcyclist.
He had not gone more than ten miles from where he had made the new shaft
key when the long driving chain snapped. Of course, he had extra links
with him, and repaired it quickly, but even then much valuable time was
lost. Then, he had hardly started again before a weak place in the front
tire gave way with a report like that of a pistol shot, and he was
forced to put in a new tube and a repair patch.
This done, he chugged on some time without further mishap, and was just
beginning to believe that his troubles were over, when suddenly he was
apprised by the hard jarring of the back wheel that the tire on it had
gone flat. This meant another half hour's delay, and Bert began to feel
that he was "hoodooed" in earnest.
"I wonder what will happen next," he thought, as he started off, after
remedying the last misfortune. "Hard luck seems to be keeping me
company, and that isn't the best kind of a road companion to have."
But for the present his fears remained unrealized, and as the road
continued fairly good he raced along, mounting up the miles on his
speedometer in a very satisfactory fashion. He made good time, and only
stopped when the pangs of hunger warned him that it was lunch time.
Tom and Dick had taken care to see that he was provided with plenty of
wholesome "grub," and had personally supervised the putting up of the
lunch by the good-natured hotel chef.
"They certainly made a good job of it," thought he appreciatively, as he
partook of delicious fried chicken sandwiches and crisp brown crullers.
He washed down the meal with a long pull from his canteen, and then,
after allowing himself a few minutes of hard-earned rest, was off again
toward the goal that now began to seem less distant than it had before.
But the "jinx" had not yet deserted him, as he was soon to discover. As
he was bowling along at a pace well over thirty miles an hour, he
suddenly turned a sharp bend in the road and ran squarely into a deep
bed of sand. Before he could slow down appreciably, he was in it--and, a
second later, was in it literally. All his skill and strength could not
keep the machine from skidding, and he experienced a bone-racking fall.
In a second he had picked himself up, and ran to where the "Blue Streak"
was lying, its motor still plugging away and the rear wheel sending
showers of sand into the air. Bert shut off the power and proceeded to
take stock of damages. The footboard on the right had struck through the
sand to the hard gravel below and had broken one of its supports. This
weakened it so much that Bert found it would not bear his weight.
There was nothing for him to do but repair the damage as best he could,
and at length he managed to make a temporary repair with a spool of
copper wire and a pair of pliers.
"This is getting serious," thought Bert ruefully, as he finished the
job. "I'll never get anywhere if this keeps up long. But perhaps it's
better to have everything come at once and get it over with. I might as
well look at the bright side of it, anyway."
He started off finally, and now it seemed that at last he was to go
forward without interruption. But unfortunately, he was to find that
this view of the case was altogether too sanguine. The road grew
continually worse, and it became impossible to make even average speed.
In places it was very sandy, too, and this hindered him a good deal.
His trusty mount stood the bumping and wrenching it received without the
slightest sign of weakening, and Bert was grateful indeed for the
staunch construction that made its present satisfactory performance
possible.
The road was deeply rutted, and it was only by the most careful managing
that he steered clear of the depressions. But nothing could stop him,
and he plugged doggedly on. The "Blue Streak" slipped and skidded, and
tried to "lie down and roll over," as he described it afterward, and the
strain on his wrists and arms was tremendous. If the handlebars had once
gotten out of his control they would have zigzagged wildly and the
result would have been a bad fall. This Bert did his best to avoid, as
he was already bruised by the spills he had been through.
At times he was forced to stop and rest a few minutes, and he always
made use of these breathing spells to let the old oil out of his motor
and pump in a fresh supply. Then when he resumed his journey the motor
would be like a different piece of mechanism. It almost seemed as though
it, too, became weary at times and benefited by a brief rest. Probably
every experienced motorist has noticed this, and many theories have been
advanced in explanation, but none of them seem very satisfactory. Bert
by this time was beginning to feel the effects of the strain he had
endured all through the day. He plowed slowly through the clinging sand,
traveling most of the time on low gear. This was not the best thing in
the world for his engine, and every once in a while he was forced to
stop and let it cool. With the engine turning over so fast he had to use
an excessive supply of oil, and at length was warned, by the sucking
sound of the oil pump, that the tank was empty.
Fortunately, however, before he left Boyd he had secured an extra half
gallon can of lubricating oil, which he had strapped on the luggage
carrier. "And it's a mighty lucky thing I did, too," he thought,
"otherwise I'd be stalled for good, with the prospect of a long tramp to
the nearest town. But now I can still beat the game."
He unstrapped the can, and emptied its contents into the oil tank. "That
ought to last me until I reach some place where I can get more," he
thought, throwing the empty can away. "Here goes to buck this sand like
a rotary plow going through a snow bank."
He gave the motor a couple of pump fulls of oil, and started it going.
Slipping in the clutch, he moved forward with the grim resolve to take
long chances for the sake of gaining ground. Gradually he opened the
throttle, and when he had attained a good speed, changed to high gear.
The "Blue Streak" gained momentum and charged ahead, throwing showers of
sand into the air. Every muscle tense, Bert held the motorcycle on the
trail, despite the strong inclination it evinced to go off on little
exploring expeditions of its own. He reeled off mile after mile at a
good clip, and began to feel better.
"This might be a lot worse," thought Bert, "if nothing happens now,
I'll have made pretty fair progress by supper time." Consulting his
speedometer he found that he had covered something over a hundred and
twenty miles so far, which, considering all the delays he had been
subjected to, and the bad roads, was very fair progress.
But even as this thought was passing through his mind, the front wheel
caught in a hollow, the handlebars were wrenched from his hands with a
force that almost broke his wrists, and he was flying through the air.
He landed with a crash, and for a few moments, dazzling lights glittered
before his eyes. Gradually these cleared away, and he sat up, feeling
very dizzy and sick.
As his head cleared, he staggered to his feet, and looked around for his
motorcycle. There it lay, at some distance, half buried in the sand. He
went over to it, and, after scooping some of the sand away, succeeded
by a great effort in pulling it upright.
"I guess my part of the race is finished right here," he thought, with a
sinking heart. "Something _must_ have been badly broken in a fall like
that. It's a wonder I wasn't killed myself."
He set the "Blue Streak" up on its stand, and cranked the engine. It
gave a few spasmodic explosions, but then stopped. "I knew it," he
exclaimed aloud, with a feeling nearly akin to despair. But his
indomitable spirit was not yet ready to give up hope, and he commenced a
careful examination of his mount.
The handlebars were slewed around until they stood at right angles to
the machine. But this was a minor thing, and with the aid of a wrench he
soon set matters right. The main thing was to locate the cause of the
motor refusing to run, and he set himself to solve the problem, as he
had so many others in the course of this most eventful and unlucky day.
He tested the magneto spark by kicking the motor over energetically,
and holding the conduction cable a quarter of an inch or so from the
cylinders. A hot blue spark jumped snapping across the gap, and Bert
drew a sigh of relief. Provided the magneto were all right, he felt that
he might get started again after all.
"The trouble must be in the carburetor," he concluded, and forthwith
proceeded to dissect that highly important part of his equipment. His
suspicions proved well founded. The carburetor was packed with sand,
which had worked up into the spray plug and completely blocked the fine
grooves cut in it.
"That's easy," thought Bert. "I'll just wash this out in a little less
than no time, and then I hope everything will be all right."
He washed gasoline through the carburetor, and cleaned the spray plug
till not a vestige of sand remained. He then quickly assembled the
instrument and connected it up with the induction pipes. Flooding
the carburetor with gasoline, he gave the engine a quick turn over.
Immediately it started off with a roar, and Bert threw the wrench he had
been using into the air, and deftly caught it again.
"Hurrah!" he cried, "now, old boy, we'll try it again."
He still felt rather dizzy, but the sun was getting low, and he knew he
would have to "go some" to reach the next town before dark. He hastily
put his tools away, and in a short time was speeding along again,
nothing daunted by the accident. Presently the road improved, a sure
sign that he was approaching a settlement. Soon he could make out the
low houses of the little prairie town before him and he increased his
speed, "splitting the air" like a comet.
He reached the village without further trouble, and was soon solacing
himself for the strenuous day he had gone through with the best dinner
the resources of the town could provide.