Tom Swift and His Motor-Cycle: Fun and Adventures on the Road

IN A SMASH-UP

Though the young inventor listened intently, in an endeavor to hear the conversation of the men at the table behind him, all he could catch was an indistinct murmur.  The strangers appeared to have heeded the caution of one of their number and were speaking in low tones.

Tom and Ned finished their meal, and started to leave the restaurant.  As Mr. Swift’s son passed the table where the men sat they looked up quickly at him.  Two of them gave Tom but a passing glance, but one—­he whom the young inventor had noticed in the post-office—­stared long and intently.

“I think he will know me the next time he sees me,” thought Tom, and he boldly returned the glance of the stranger.

The bolts were ready when the inventor’s son called at the machine shop a second time, and making a package of them Tom fastened it to the saddle of his bicycle.  He started for home at a fast pace, and was just turning from a cross road into the main highway when he saw ahead of him a woman driving a light wagon.  As the sun flashed on Tom’s shining wheel the horse gave a sudden leap, swerved to one side, and then bolted down the dusty stretch, the woman screaming at the top of her voice.

“A runaway!” cried Tom; “and partly my fault, too!”

Waiting not an instant the lad bent over his handle-bars and pedaled with all his force.  His bicycle seemed fairly to leap forward after the galloping horse.

“Sit still!  Don’t jump out!  Don’t jump!” yelled the young inventor.  “I’ll try to catch him!” for the woman was standing up in front of the seat and leaning forward, as if about to leap from the wagon.

“She’s lost her head,” thought Tom.  “No wonder!  That’s a skittish horse.”

Faster and faster he rode, bending all his energies to overtake the animal.  The wagon was swaying from side to side, and more than once the woman just saved herself from being thrown out by grasping the edge of the seat.  She found that her standing position was a dangerous one and crouched on the bottom of the swaying vehicle.

“That’s better!” shouted Tom, but it is doubtful if she heard him, for the rattling of the wagon and the hoofbeats of the horse drowned all other sounds.  “Sit still!” he shouted.  “I’ll stop the horse for you!”

Trying to imagine himself in a desperate race, in order to excite himself to greater speed, Tom continued on.  He was now even with the tail-board of the wagon, and slowly creeping up.  The woman was all huddled up in a lump.

“Grab the reins!  Grab the reins!” shouted Tom.  “Saw on the bit!  That will stop him!”

The occupant of the wagon turned to look at the lad.  Tom saw that she was a handsome young lady.  “Grab the reins!” he cried again.  “Pull hard!”

“I—­I can’t!” she answered frightenedly.  “They have dropped down!  Oh, do please stop the horse!  I’m so—­so frightened!”

“I’ll stop him!” declared the youth firmly, and he set his teeth hard.  Then he saw the reason the fair driver could not grasp the lines.  They had slipped over the dashboard and were trailing on the ground.

The horse was slacking speed a bit now, for the pace was telling on his wind.  Tom saw his opportunity, and with a sudden burst of energy was at the animal’s head.  Steering his wheel with one hand, with the other the lad made a grab for the reins near the bit.  The horse swerved frightenedly to one side, but Tom swung in the same direction.  He grasped the leather and then, with a kick, he freed himself from the bicycle, giving it a shove to one side.  He was now clinging to the reins with both hands, and, being a muscular lad and no lightweight, his bulk told.

“Sit—­still!” panted our hero to the young woman, who had arisen to the seat.  “I’ll have him stopped in half a minute now!”

It was in less time than that, for the horse, finding it impossible to shake off the grip of Tom, began to slow from a gallop to a trot, then to a canter, and finally to a slow walk.  A moment later the horse had stopped, breathing heavily from his run.

“There, there, now!” spoke Tom soothingly.  “You’re all right, old fellow.  I hope you’re not hurt”—­this to the young lady—­and Tom made a motion to raise his cap, only to find that it had blown off.

“Oh, no—­no; I’m more frightened than hurt.”

“It was all my fault,” declared the young inventor.  “I should not have swung into the road so suddenly.  My bicycle alarmed your horse.”

“Oh, I fancy Dobbin is easily disturbed,” admitted the fair driver.  “I can’t thank you enough for stopping him.  You saved me from a bad accident.”

“It was the least I could do.  Are you all right now?” and he handed up the dangling reins.  “I think Dobbin, as you call him, has had enough of running,” went on Tom, for the horse was now quiet.

“I hope so.  Yes, I am all right.  I trust your wheel is not damaged.  If it is, my father, Mr. Amos Nestor, of Mansburg, will gladly pay for its repair.”

This reminded the young inventor of his bicycle, and making sure that the horse would not start up again, he went to where his wheel and his cap lay.  He found that the only damage to the bicycle was a few bent spokes, and, straightening them and having again apologized to the young woman, receiving in turn her pardon and thanks, and learning that her name was Mary Nestor, Tom once more resumed his trip.  The wagon followed him at a distance, the horse evincing no desire now to get out of a slow amble.

“Well, things are certainly happening to me to-day,” mused Tom as he pedaled on.  “That might have been a serious runaway if there’d been anything in the road.”

Tom did not stop to think that he had been mainly instrumental in preventing a bad accident, as he had been the innocent cause of starting the runaway, but Tom was ever a modest lad.  His arms were wrenched from jerking on the bridle, but he did not mind that much, and bent over the handle-bars to make up for lost time.

Our hero was within a short distance of his house and was coasting easily along when, just ahead of him, he saw a cloud of dust, very similar to the one that had, some time before, concealed the inexperienced motor-cyclist.

“I wonder if that’s him again?” thought Tom.  “If it is I’m going to hang back until I see which way he’s headed.  No use running any more risks.”

Almost at that moment a puff of wind blew some of the dust to one side.  Tom had a glimpse of the man on the puffing machine.

“It’s the same chap!” he exclaimed aloud; “and he’s going the same way I am.  Well, I’ll not try to catch up to him.  I wonder what he’s been doing all this while, that he hasn’t gotten any farther than this?  Either he’s been riding back and forth, or else he’s been resting.  My, but he certainly is scooting along!”

The wind carried to Tom the sound of the explosions of the motor, and he could see the man clinging tightly to the handle-bars.  The rider was almost in front of Tom’s house now, when, with a suddenness that caused the lad to utter an exclamation of alarm, the stranger turned his machine right toward a big oak tree.

“What’s he up to?” cried Tom excitedly.  “Does he think he can climb that, or is he giving an exhibition by showing how close he can come and not hit it?”

A moment later the motor-cyclist struck the tree a glancing blow.  The man went flying over the handle-bars, the machine was shunted to the ditch along the road, and falling over on one side the motor raced furiously.  The rider lay in a heap at the foot of the tree.

“My, that was a smash!” cried Tom.  “He must be killed!” and bending forward, he raced toward the scene of the accident.