DESPERATE CHANCES
Bert's stay at the pleasant seaside hotel was limited to a few hours
only, but he gained incalculable refreshment from the short rest. It was
with regret that he could not spend more time there that he took leave
of the proprietor, and repaired to the motorcycle store where he had
left the "Blue Streak" to have some very necessary work done on it. The
engine had not been overhauled since starting from New York, and the
cylinders were badly incrusted with carbon. He had left directions for
this to be scraped out, and when he reached the shop expected to find
his machine waiting for him in first-class condition. What was his
chagrin therefore, when, on entering the place, the first thing he saw
was the "Blue Streak" in a dismantled condition, parts of it strewn all
over the floor.
He hunted up the proprietor, and indignantly asked him why the machine
was not ready according to promise.
"I'm very sorry," the man told him, "but as one of the mechanics was
scraping the front cylinder it dropped on the floor, and when he picked
it up he found it was split. So we can't do anything with the machine
until we get a new cylinder."
"But haven't you got a machine in the place you could take a cylinder
from, and put it on my machine?" asked Bert. "I can't afford to be held
up here for a day while you send away for a new part."
"There isn't a machine in the place that would have a cylinder to fit
yours," said the proprietor; "if it had been a rear cylinder, it would
have been easy enough to give you another, because we could take one off
a one-cylinder machine that would fit. But, as it happens, I haven't a
twin cylinder machine in the place."
"But how long will it take to get the new one here?" asked Bert.
"About half a day, I should say," replied the other.
"Half a day!" echoed Bert, and his heart sank. "Why, if I lose that much
time here it probably means that I'll lose the race. Do you realize
that?"
"I don't see what we can do about it," replied the proprietor, shrugging
his shoulders. "I'll get the cylinder for you the first minute I can,
but that's the best I can do."
Bert saw that there was no use arguing the matter. He walked out of
the place without another word, but with a great bitterness in his
heart. All his days of heartbreaking riding--the hardships he had
undergone--the obstacles he had faced and overcome--all these things
were in a fair way of being set at nought because of the carelessness
of a stupid mechanician. The thought almost drove him frantic, and he
hurried along the pavement, scarcely noticing where he was going. At
last he collected his thoughts somewhat and pulled himself together.
Looking about him, he saw that he was not far from the postoffice, and
it occurred to him that there might be a letter for him from Tom or
Dick.
With this thought in mind he entered the postoffice, in one corner of
which there was also a telegraph station.
Walking up to the window, he inquired if there was any mail for Bert
Wilson.
"No," said the functionary behind the grating, "but there's a telegram
just come in for a party of that name. Bill!" he called, to the
telegraph operator, "here's Mr. Wilson now, him that you just got the
telegram for."
"Oh, all right," replied the operator, "here you are, sir. I was just
going to send it up to your hotel."
"Much obliged," said Bert, and tore open the yellow envelope.
"Ride fast," it read, "have just heard Hayward is within three hundred
miles of San Francisco. Hurry."
The slip of yellow paper dropped from Bert's nerveless fingers. Three
hundred miles away. Why, Bert was as far from San Francisco as that
himself, with mountainous roads still before him, and his machine out of
commission!
If he could only do something, anything, that would be a relief. But he
was absolutely helpless in the grasp of an unforeseen calamity, and all
he could do was to pray desperately for the speedy arrival of the new
cylinder.
He hastened back to the repair shop, and found that in his absence
everything, with, of course, the exception of the front cylinder, had
been put together. "We've done all we can," the proprietor assured him.
"A few minutes ago I called up the agents in Clyde and they said that
their man was on the way with it. So it ought to get here early this
afternoon."
"Well," declared Bert grimly, "I'm not going to stir out of this place
till it does come, let me tell you."
He waited with what patience he could muster, and at last, a little
before two o'clock, the long-awaited cylinder arrived. With feverish
haste Bert fastened it to the motor base himself, too impatient to let
anybody else do it. Besides, he was resolved to take no chances of
having _this_ cylinder damaged. Ten minutes later the last nut had been
tightened, and the "Blue Streak" was wheeled out into the street. Now
that the heartbreaking waiting was over, Bert felt capable of anything.
As he vaulted into the saddle, he made a compact with himself. "If my
machine holds out," he resolved, "I will not sleep again until I reach
San Francisco;" and when Bert made a resolution, he kept it.
He scorched through the streets of the town regardless, for the time
being, of local speed ordinances. In a few minutes he was out on
the open road, and then,--well, the "Blue Streak" justified all the
encomiums he had ever heaped upon it. Up hill and down he sped, riding
low over the handlebars, man and machine one flying, space-devouring
unit. The day drew into dusk, dusk changed to darkness, and Bert
dismounted long enough to light his lamp and was off again, streaking
over the smooth road like a flying comet. At times he slowed down as he
approached curves, but was off again like the wind when he had rounded
them. Sometimes steep hills confronted him, but the speeding motorcycle
took them by storm, and topped their summits almost before gravity could
act to slacken his headlong speed. Then the descent on the other side
would be a wild, dizzy rush, when at time the speedometer needle reached
the ninety mark.
But the country became more mountainous after a while, and Bert
encountered hills that even the "Blue Streak" was forced to negotiate on
low speed. This ate up gasoline, and about midnight Bert, on stopping a
moment to examine his fuel supply, found that it was almost exhausted.
Fortunately, however, about a mile further on he reached a wayside
garage. He knocked repeatedly, but received no answer.
"Just the same, I've got to have gasoline," thought Bert, and acted
accordingly. With a screwdriver he pried open a window, and, filling a
can from a barrel, returned to his machine and filled the tank. Then he
replaced the can, and left the price of the gasoline in a prominent
place.
"Needs must when the devil drives," he thought, "and I simply had to
have that juice."
And now he was once more flying through the night, the brilliant rays
from his lamp dancing and flickering on the road ahead, and at times
striking prismatic colors from rocky walls as the road passed through
some cut. Mile after mile passed back under the flying rider and
machine, but still they kept on with no sign of slackening. Gradually
dawn broke, misty and gray at first, but then brightening and expanding
until the glorious light of full day bathed the hills in splendor. And
then, as Bert looked up and around, slowing down so that he could the
better drink in the glorious scene, he beheld, at a great distance, the
roofs and towers of a great city, and knew that it was San Francisco,
the golden city of the West. Sixteen days since he left New York and
the goal toward which he had struggled so bravely was at hand!
But even now there was no time to be lost. At this moment, Hayward might
also be approaching the city, and Bert was too wise to risk failure now
with the prize so nearly within his grasp. He started on again, his mind
in a whirl, and all thought of fatigue and exhaustion banished. The road
was bordered by signs indicating the right direction, and in less than
an hour Bert was riding through the suburbs of San Francisco.
Bert's entrance into the city was signalized by a display of the wildest
enthusiasm on the part of a big crowd that had turned out to meet the
winner. The details of the thrilling transcontinental race in which he
had been engaged had received their due share of space in the big
dailies, and his adventures and those of the other contestants had been
closely followed by every one possessing a drop of red blood in his
veins.
Bert was totally unprepared for such a reception, however, and it took
him by surprise. He had been through many adventures and had encountered
many obstacles, but had pulled through by dint of indomitable will and
pluck. But, as he afterward confessed to Tom and Dick, he now felt for
the first time like running away. But he soon abandoned this idea, and
chugged slowly along until at last he was forced by the press of people
about him to stop.
When he dismounted he was deluged by a flood of congratulations and good
wishes, and was besieged by a small army of newspaper men, each anxious
to get Bert's own account of the race. It was some time before he could
proceed, but at last he started on, surrounded by a contingent of
motorcycles, ridden by members of local clubs. They went slowly along,
until in due time they reached the city hall. Bert was ushered into the
presence of the mayor, who received him with great cordiality, and after
a few words read the letters Bert handed him.
"Well, Mr. Wilson," he said, when he had mastered their contents, "I am
certainly glad to know you, and I only wish you were a native of this
State. We need a few more young men of your sort."
"I'm much obliged for your good opinion, your Honor, I'm sure," replied
Bert, and after answering many questions regarding his trip, took his
departure.
Returning to the street, he mounted his machine, and, still accompanied
by the friendly motorcyclists, proceeded to the hotel at which he had
arranged to stop during his stay in San Francisco. Of course, Tom and
Dick were there to meet him, and hearty were the greetings the three
comrades exchanged.
"It hardly seems possible that I've won at last," said Bert. "I wasn't
sure that Hayward hadn't beaten me in, until I heard the crowds
cheering."
"Oh, you won, all right," Dick assured him, "but you didn't have much
time to spare. I just heard somebody say that Hayward got in not five
minutes ago. I'll bet he nearly went crazy when he heard that you'd
beaten him in spite of his crooked work."
"Well, when I learned what kind of a fellow he was, I just _had_ to beat
him," said Bert, with a smile.
Dick and Tom took charge of his machine, and stored it safely in the
local agency, where it was immediately hoisted into the show window and
excited much attention.
By the time they returned to the hotel, Bert had answered the questions
of a number of newspaper men, taken a much-needed bath, and dressed.
In his well-fitting clothes, that set off his manly figure, he looked a
very different person from the dusty, travel-stained young fellow he had
been but a short time before, and he was delighted to feel that for a
little while he was "out of uniform."
But Tom and Dick immediately collared him, and, as he professed himself
"fresh as a daisy," took him out to see some of the town. They had not
gone far before they were recognized by one of the riders who had formed
Bert's "Bodyguard" during his ride to the mayor's office. He introduced
himself as John Meyers. Nothing less than their immediately paying a
visit to his club would satisfy him, they found, so at last they gave in
and told him to "lead on."
The other laughingly complied. "It isn't far from here," he assured
them, "and if you like our looks we'll be glad to have you stay to
dinner. After that, if you're not too fagged, a few of us will be glad
to take you around and show you the sights. We're all proud of it, and
we want visitors to see it."
"That programme listens good," replied Bert, "and we're 'on,' as far as
the dinner goes. After that, though, I think I'll be about ready to turn
in. I was riding all last night, and I feel like sleeping without
interruption for the next week."
"Well, that's just as you say," agreed Meyers, "but here we are now.
Pretty nifty building, don't you think?"
It was indeed a handsome house into which he presently ushered them, and
they soon saw that its interior did not belie its outward appearance.
The rooms were large, and furnished comfortably and in good taste.
In the front room several fine looking young fellows were engaged in a
laughing conversation. They broke off when they caught sight of Meyers
and the three strangers with him. Introductions were soon made, and the
three comrades found themselves made thoroughly at home.
Of course, the chief topic of conversation was Bert's journey, and he
answered questions until he was tired.
"Here, fellows," said Meyers, perceiving this, "I think we've
cross-examined Wilson enough for the present. Anyway, dinner's ready,
and we'll see if you can eat as well as you can ride."
"Lead me to it," exclaimed Bert, "I'm as hungry as a wolf."
They were soon seated around a table on which was set forth a substantial
meal, and it is almost needless to say that they all did it ample
justice.
During the meal the chief topic of discussion, next to Bert's
record-breaking feat, was the forthcoming race at the big saucer track,
in which riders from all over the world were to compete.
Bert listened with great attention, for it was of the most vital
importance to him to know as much as possible of the track on which he
was scheduled to pit his skill and courage against the best and most
experienced motorcyclists of the globe. Of course, he would be given
ample time to practice and learn the tricks of the big saucer for
himself, but his experience of life so far had taught him not to
neglect even the slightest bit of knowledge that might make for success.
In due course of time the meal was despatched, and they returned to the
lounging room. A couple of pleasant hours were spent in conversation and
joking, and swapping tales of eventful rides under every conceivable
condition of sunshine and storm.
At last Bert rose, and said, "Well, boys, I've certainly enjoyed my
visit, but I'm afraid I'll have to make a break"--consulting his watch.
"I've had a mighty hard time of it lately, and I'm about all in."
He shook hands all around, and with many expressions of friendship from
the club members and amid hearty invitations to call again, Bert and his
companions took their departure.
"I suppose you'll begin practicing at the track pretty soon now, won't
you, Bert?" asked Tom, as they turned their steps toward the hotel.
"You suppose right, old timer," said Bert, slapping him affectionately
on the shoulder, "to-morrow, or maybe the day after, I'll get down to
business. I want to know that track as well as I know the back yard at
home before the day of the race."
"You can't know too much about it, that's certain," said Dick, soberly.
"You haven't had much practice in that sort of racing, Bert, and I'm
almost afraid to have you try it."
"Nonsense," laughed Bert, "why, I'll be safer there than I would be
dodging autos on Broadway, back in little old New York. Don't worry
about me. I'll put the jody sign on all of them, provided, of course,
that my machine doesn't take it into its head,--or into its gasoline
tank--to blow up, or something else along the same line."
"Heaven forbid," ejaculated Dick, piously, "but I guess we'd better
change the subject. It isn't a very cheerful one at best."
"You're right, it isn't," agreed Bert, "but those club fellows gave me
some good tips regarding the track. They seem to know what they're
talking about."
"They're a great crowd," said Tom, enthusiastically, "and they know how
to do things up right, too. They certainly gave us a fine dinner."
"No doubt about it," concurred Bert, "but it's made me feel mighty
sleepy. I haven't slept in so long that I'm afraid I've forgotten how."
"Well, here we are at the hotel, anyway," laughed Dick, "so you'll soon
have the chance to find out."
After a little more conversation they parted and went to their rooms.
The last thing Bert heard as he dropped off to sleep was the strident
cry of a newsboy. "Wuxtra! Wuxtra! All about Wilson winning the
transcontinental race. Wuxtra! Wuxtra!"