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

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 of 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.