TOM AND A MOTOR-CYCLE
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 off 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."
"I didn't, until lately. But I'd rather buy this one and fix it up
than get a new one. Besides, I have an idea for a new kind of
transmission, and perhaps I can work it out on this machine."
"Oh, well, if you want it for experimental purposes, I suppose it
will be as good as any. Go ahead, get it if you wish, but don't give
too much for it."
"I'll not. I fancy I can get it cheap."
Mr. Damon returned to the living-room, where he had first been
carried.
"I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me," he said.
"I might have lain there for hours. Bless my very existence! I have
had a very narrow escape. Hereafter when I see anyone on a motor-cycle
I shall turn my head away. The memory will be too painful," and he
touched the plaster that covered a cut on his head.
"Mr. Damon," said Tom quickly, "will you sell me that motor-cycle?"
"Bless my finger rings! Sell you that mass of junk?"
"It isn't all junk," went on the young inventor. "I can easily fix
it; though, of course," he added prudently, "it will cost something.
How much would you want for it?"
"Well," replied Mr. Damon, "I paid two hundred and fifty dollars
last week. I have ridden a hundred miles on it. That is at the rate
of two dollars and a half a mile--pretty expensive riding. But if
you are in earnest I will let you have the machine for fifty
dollars, and then I fear that I will be taking advantage of you."
"I'll give you fifty dollars," said Tom quickly, and Mr. Damon
exclaimed:
"Bless my liver--that is, if I have one. Do you mean it?"
Tom nodded. "I'll fetch you the money right away," he said, starting
for his room. He got the cash from a small safe he had arranged,
which was fitted up with an ingenious burglar alarm, and was on his
way downstairs when he heard his father call out:
"Here! What do you want? Go away from that shop! No one is allowed
there!" and looking from an upper window, Tom saw his father running
toward a stranger, who was just stepping inside the shop where Mr.
Swift was constructing his turbine motor. Tom started as he saw that
the stranger was the same black-mustached man whom he had noticed in
the post-office, and, later, in the restaurant at Mansburg.