THE RUNAWAY WHEEL
The following Saturday Brimfield went to Thacher to play Thacher School.
As there was to be no practice for the second team, Clint decided to see
the game. Rather to his surprise, Amy readily agreed to accompany him.
Amy pretended a deep disdain for football and seldom attended practice
or, for that matter, minor contests. It is probable that he consented to
go to Thacher less to watch the game than for the sake of Clint's
society, for by that time the two were fairly inseparable. The team
started off about noon, but the "rooters", most of whom had
eleven-thirty recitations, started an hour later, after a hurried
dinner. Thacher was only twenty-odd miles away, but the journey occupied
more than an hour, since it was necessary to take train to Wharton and
change there to the trolley line.
It was a mild day, sunny and cloudless, and travelling, especially on
the electric car, was very pleasant. The fellows were full of spirits
and a bit noisy, and played pranks on each other and had a thoroughly
good time. The only untoward incident occurred when Peters, the second
team centre, fell off the running-board of the trolley car and rolled
down a six-foot embankment. Fortunately the accident occurred on a curve
and the car was running slowly. Still more fortunately, perhaps, Peters
was a rotund youth well padded with flesh and he sustained no injuries
beyond a sprained thumb. By the time the car had been stopped and
hurried back to the rescue Peters was climbing a trifle indignantly up
the bank. For the rest of the way he amused himself and others within
hearing by estimating the amount of damages he could collect from the
railway company.
Something like an hour later, however, when Peters made the discovery
that in his spectacular disembarkment he had emptied his pocket of all
the money he had with him, a matter of ninety-four cents, he could no
longer see the humorous aspect of the incident. For nearly two months he
conducted a campaign of correspondence with the railway company seeking
a refund of his money. Peters' claim against the company became a
standing joke. In the end he was defeated. His contention that the
company owed him the amount of money lost from his pocket resulted,
after many days, in a reply from the claims agent to the effect that
since the money was undoubtedly just where he had lost it and could be
found by search the company could not be held responsible. To this
Peters laboriously wrote that since the money had been abstracted from
him while a passenger on the company's car it was up to the company to
find it and return it to him. Also that, if the loss wasn't made good,
he would bring suit against the company for injuries sustained. After a
lapse of a fortnight the agent countered with a statement that as Peters
had been riding on the running-board, contrary to the rules of the
company, the company was in no way liable for his injury. Peters replied
that he had not ridden on the running-board from choice but that he had
been unable to find accommodations on any other part of the car, and he
wanted ninety-four cents, please. Whereupon a brief epistle announced
that the matter had been referred to the legal department and, upon
advice, the road was regretfully obliged to refuse further consideration
of the claim. That settled the matter, except that Peters wrote once
more and told the agent quite frankly what he, Peters, thought of the
railway, its officers, legal department, road-bed, rolling-stock and
claims department; especially claims department! Undoubtedly the
company had grounds for libel after the receipt of that epistle, but it
never made use of them.
But we are far ahead of our story.
The Thacher game was not especially interesting. Thacher faced Brimfield
with a light team, and, unable to gain consistently through the line,
reverted to kicking. This gave the visiting backs some good practice in
the handling of punts but gained the home team little advantage.
Brimfield rolled up twenty-six points in four ten-minute periods and was
scored on but once when, in the third quarter, Thacher managed a
brilliant field-goal from the enemy's thirty-three yards.
The contest was all over before four o'clock and Brimfield made a wild
rush from the grounds to the town in the endeavour to get the
four-fifteen trolley for Wharton. The team, which was provided with a
coach, and about half the "rooters" succeeded, but the rest, Clint and
Amy among them, arrived too late.
As there was not another car until a quarter to five, they set out to
kill time by viewing the town. Thacher was not a very large place and,
after wandering up one side of the main street and down the other,
looking in all the windows, and leisurely partaking of college-ices at
the principal drug store, there was still ten minutes left to be
disposed of. At the moment of making the discovery they were a block
from the square from which the trolley car trundled away to Wharton, and
they could have covered the distance in something like ten seconds from
a standing start. In spite of this, however, they never got that car!
Gradually they had become separated from the other fellows, and now they
were alone in their grandeur watching the efforts of a youth of about
twenty to start an automobile which stood in front of Thacher's
principal hotel, the Commercial House. They were not especially
interested in the spectacle and really didn't much care whether the
youth ever got going, but there wasn't much else to look at. Every time
the engine started and the youth made a wild dash at the throttle he
reached it too late. Before he could pull it down the chug-chugging died
away. Several minutes passed and Clint viewed the clock in front of a
jewelry store across the street apprehensively. It was seventeen minutes
of five. He tugged Amy's sleeve.
"Come on," he said. "We don't want to miss this one."
"Right-o," replied Amy. "Let's see, though, if he makes it this time."
"Say, one of you fellows pull that throttle down when I get her going,
will you?" asked the automobilist. Amy nodded and put his hand on
the quadrant.
"Now then!" The engine started after several crankings and Amy pulled a
lever. Unfortunately, however, he pulled the wrong one and the engine,
as Amy said, immediately choked to death. The youth observed him more in
sorrow than in anger and drew a sleeve over his perspiring forehead.
"Awfully sorry," said Amy. "I got the wrong handle. Try it again."
The clock showed four-forty-four and Clint saw the car roll around the
corner into the square. "Come on," he begged. "We'll have to beat it,
Amy." Amy nodded, but the youth was cranking again and he didn't want to
desert his post. This time their combined efforts were crowned with
success. The car awoke to a steady, frantic chugging. The youth mopped
his forehead again.
"Want a ride?" he asked. "I'm going by the school."
"Not our school," said Amy. "We're from Brimfield."
"Well, I'll put you down in Wharton before the trolley gets there.
That's where I'm going. Jump in."
Amy looked eagerly at Clint. "Want to?" he asked.
"Got to," replied Clint gloomily. "There goes the car, you silly chump!"
"All right," said Amy. "We don't have to get there until five-twenty,
anyway. Come on, Clint."
They climbed into the back of the car and threw themselves luxuriously
against the cushions.
"Home, James," commanded Amy.
The driver turned and grinned. He was a not-over-clean youth, and his
hair was badly in need of a barber's attentions, but he was evidently
good-natured. The car, which was an old one and had undoubtedly seen
much better days, swung around and headed back toward Thacher School and
the football field. The youth talked to them over his shoulder.
"She's hard to start," he said, "when she's been standing, but she can
go all right. You wait till we're out of town and I'll show you. I got
to go over to Wharton to get Mr. Cumnock."
"Who's he?" asked Amy disinterestedly.
"He runs the Commercial House. He comes out from New York on the
express and I go over and get him."
"Oh, is this his car?"
"No, it belongs to Sterry, the liveryman. I drive for him. It's been a
good car in its day, but it's pretty old now. Runs pretty well, though,
when it's in shape."
"I hope," said Clint, "it's in shape today."
"Sure. I was two hours fixing it this morning. Now I'll show you if she
can go."
He did and she could! They passed the school and the football field at a
thirty-mile clip and, a little further out of town, hit it up still
faster. Clint and Amy bumped around in the tonneau like two dried peas
in a pod. The engine was by no means noiseless and from somewhere under
their feet there came a protesting grind that nearly drowned their
efforts at conversation. Not that that mattered, though, for they were
going too fast to talk, anyway. At first they were a bit uneasy, but
presently when they found that the car did not jump into a ditch or
vault a fence, they got over their nervousness and thoroughly enjoyed
the well-nigh breathless sensation. The driver lolled back on his spine
with a nonchalance that aroused Clint's admiration and envy. He wondered
whether he would ever own a car and be able to go dashing through the
scenery at forty miles an hour like this. And he was still wondering
when something happened.
It happened so quickly that it was all over before it had begun. At
least, so Amy declared afterwards. The car, which fortunately had
decreased its speed to negotiate an abrupt turn in the road, suddenly
shot down a slope at the left, turned around once and stopped with a
disconcerting abruptness, its radiator against a four-inch birch tree.
Clint and Amy picked themselves from the bottom of the tonneau and
stared, more surprised than frightened. Behind them, on the level road,
a wheel--present investigation showed that it was the forward left
one--was proceeding firmly, independently on its way! As they looked,
open-mouthed, it began to wobble, as though doubtful of the propriety of
going off on its own hook like that, and finally, after turning around
several times, like a dog making its bed, it subsided in the dust.
The driver of the car, still clutching the steering-wheel, turned a
mildly surprised gaze on the boys. "Now, what," he asked slowly, "do you
think of that?"
They both thought it decidedly strange, but they didn't say so. Clint
laughed uncertainly and took a long breath and Amy viewed his
surroundings interestedly.
"When," asked Amy, "does the next car go, please?"
That flippant remark broke the tension and the driver climbed gingerly
out and viewed the bare hub. "It's lucky," he ruminated, "I had you
fellows in back there. If you hadn't been there I guess she'd have
turned turtle on me. Well, say, I've known this old boiler to do a heap
of tricks, but this is a new one on me, all right!" He stood off and
sought inspiration by scratching his head. The boys joined him on the
ground. "Just naturally slid off the hub and rolled away!" murmured the
youth. "What do you think of that?"
"I'd hate to tell you what I think of it," responded Amy. "Can you put
it on again?"
"Yes, but it won't stay, because the nut's gone." He went off and
rescued the wheel. "I guess the nut and the hub-cap came off down the
road somewhere. Might look for 'em, but like as not they're a mile or
two back."
"What will you do then?" asked Clint.
"Foot it to Wharton, I guess. Maybe I can find a telephone this side
somewhere." He reflected. "I guess there's one at Maxwell's Stock Farm
about three miles from here. I'll get Bumstead in Wharton to send out
and tow me in."
"That's all right for you," said Amy, "but what are we supposed to do?"
"Guess you'll either have to foot it or wait till someone comes along.
Sorry, but I didn't know that wheel was thinking of leaving."
"Do you reckon there'll be someone along?" asked Clint.
"Sure to be sooner or later."
"We'll get 'sooner or later' if we're not back at school in time for
supper," murmured Amy. "Guess we'd better hike along, Clint. How far is
Wharton from here?"
"About five miles, by road," said the youth. "Maybe less if you cross
over there and hit the trolley line. Say, if you get over there you
might catch a car. What time is it?"
"Just five-three," answered Clint.
"Oh, well, then there won't be one along for most a half-hour. That'll
be your shortest way, though."
"We'll never get back before six," said Clint.
"More likely eight," replied Amy. "Well, it can't be helped. We might as
well make the best of it. What are you going to do?"
The driver of the automobile looked up the road and down. "I might go
back and look for that nut," he muttered, "or I might go on to
Maxwell's, or I might stay here and wait for someone to come along.
Guess I'll wait a while."
"Well, we've got to beat it," said Amy. "Sorry about your car. Is there
anything we can do if we ever reach Wharton?"
The youth shook his head philosophically. "No, I'll get word to Bumstead
before you get there, I guess. Much obliged. I'm sorry I got you into
such a fix, fellows. I meant well." He grinned broadly.
"That's all right," Clint replied. "It wasn't your fault. Good-bye.
Straight across that field there, you say? How far is it to
the trolley?"
"About half a mile, I guess. You'll see the poles pretty quick.
Good-bye, fellows. Hope you get home all right. So long."