Bert’s stay in Louisville was brief, and all the more so, because neither Tom nor Dick was there to meet him, as they had planned. Bert took it for granted that something out of the ordinary had happened, however, and bore his disappointment as philosophically as he could.
“No doubt they’ve been delayed,” he thought, “and will meet me in the next town. That will be a spur to me to go faster so that I can see them sooner.”
He had a refreshing sleep, and was up early, resolved to make a profitable day of it. After he had eaten breakfast, he paid his bill, and was just going out the door when the clerk stopped him. “Just a minute, sir,” he said. “Here’s a telegram for you. I almost forgot to give it to you.”
“When did it come?” asked Bert, as he took the yellow envelope and prepared to open it.
“Oh, just about an hour ago,” replied the clerk, “no bad news I hope?”
This question was occasioned no doubt by the expression of Bert’s face. “Come quick,” the telegramread, “Tom very sick; may die. We are in Maysville. Dick.”
Bert’s voice shook as he addressed the hotel clerk. “One of my friends is very sick,” he said. “He’s in Maysville. How long will it take me to get there?”
“Well, it’s a matter of close on two hundred miles,” replied the clerk, in a sympathetic voice, “but the roads are fair, and you can make pretty fast time with that machine of yours.”
Bert whipped out his map of Kentucky, and the clerk pointed out to him the little dot marked Maysville.
“All right, thanks,” said Bert, briefly, “good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said the other, “I hope your friend isn’t as bad as you fear.”
But before he finished speaking Bert was on the “Blue Streak,” and was flying down the street. In a moment his mind had grasped every angle of the catastrophe. If he went to Tom, it would very likely mean the loss of the race, for a matter of four hundred miles out of his road would be a fearful handicap. But what was the race compared to dear old Tom, Tom, who at this very moment might be calling for him? Every other consideration wiped from his mind, Bert leaned over and fairly flew along the dusty road. Fences, trees, houses, streaked past him, and still he rode fasterand faster, recklessly, taking chances that he would have shunned had he been bound on any other errand. He shot around sharp bends in the road at breakneck speed, sometimes escaping running into the ditch by a margin of an inch or so. Fast as the “Blue Streak” was, it was all too slow to keep pace with his feverish impatience, and Bert fumed at the long miles that lay between him and his friend.
Now a steep hill loomed up in front of him, and he rushed it at breakneck speed. Slowly the motorcycle lost speed under the awful drag of the steep ascent, and at last Bert was forced to change to low gear. The “Blue Streak” toiled upward, and at last reached the top. A wonderful view lay spread out before him, but Bert had no eye just now for the beauties of nature. All he saw was a road that dipped and curved below him until it was lost in the green shades of a valley. Bert saw he would have no need of his motor in making that descent, so threw out the clutch and coasted. Faster and faster he flew, gaining speed with every revolution of the wheels. With the engine stopped, the motorcycle swept along in absolute silence, save for the slight hissing noise made by the contact of the tires with the road. The speed augmented until he was traveling almost with the speed of a cannon ball. At this speed, brakes were useless, even had he been inclined to use them, which hewas not. Two-thirds of the way down he flashed past a wagon, that was negotiating the descent with one wheel chained, so steep was it. Had the slightest thing gone wrong then; had a nut worked loose, a tire punctured, a chain broken or jumped the sprockets, Bert would have been hurled through the air like a stone from a catapult. Fortunately for him, everything held, and now he was nearing the bottom of the hill. Ten seconds later, and he was sweeping up the opposite slope at a speed that it seemed could never slacken. But gradually gravitation slowed him down to a safer pace, and at last he slipped in the clutch and started the motor. In the wild descent his cap had flown off, but he hardly noticed it.
“I’ll soon be there at this rate,” he thought, glancing at the speedometer. “I’ve come over a hundred and fifty miles now, so Maysville can’t be much further.” And, indeed, less than an hour’s additional riding brought him to the town of that name.
He went immediately to the hotel at which his friends were supposed to be. But when he stated his object to the hotel clerk, the latter gazed at him blankly. “There are no parties of that name stopping here,” he said. “I guess you have the wrong address, young man.” Bert showed him the telegram, but the clerk only shook his head. “There’s something wrong somewhere,” he said; “supposeyou see Bently, the telegrapher. He could probably give you a description of the person that sent the telegram, anyway.”
“Thanks, I will,” said Bert, and hastened out. A dim idea of the true state of affairs was beginning to form in his brain, but it hardly seemed possible his suspicions could be true. He soon reached the telegraph office, and accosted the operator.
“Can you tell me,” he asked, “who sent that telegram early this morning?”
The station agent glanced at the telegram, and replied: “Why, I can’t give you a very good description of the man, for I didn’t take special notice of him. He was a young man of medium build, though, with light hair, and now I come to think of it, he wore goggles. Seems to me I heard some one say he was riding a motorcycle in some cross country race, but that I can’t vouch for.”
“I think I know who he was, all right,” said Bert, “and I’m much obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” returned the other, and turned again to his work.
Bert walked out of the station with clenched fists and blazing eyes. “It’s Hayward who sent that telegram,” he muttered, between clenched teeth. “I’d stake my soul on it. But I’ll win this race in spite of that crook and his tricks. And anyway,” he thought, with his eyes softening, “old Tomisn’tsick after all, and that’s almostenough to make me forgive Hayward. I feel as though I had just awakened from an awful nightmare.”
It was characteristic of Bert that his anger and chagrin at being tricked in this dastardly way were swallowed up in his relief at finding the report of his friend’s illness false.
Bert consulted his map, and found that by taking a different route than that by which he had come he could save quite some distance, and started out again, after filling the “Blue Streak’s” tanks with oil and gasoline, with the grim resolve to have revenge for the despicable trick that had been played on him, by snatching from Hayward the prize that he was willing to stoop to such depths to gain.
Up hill and down he flew, around curves, over bridges that shook and rattled at the impact of racing man and machine. Steadily the mileage indicator slipped around, as league after league rolled backward, and Bert exulted as he watched it. “We’ll make it ahead of everybody else or die in the attempt, won’t we, old fellow?” he said, apostrophizing the “Blue Streak.” “Nobody’s going to play a trick like that on us and get away with it, are they?”
Only once on the return trip did he stop, and then only long enough to snatch a little food. Then he was off again like the wind, and as dusk beganto fall rode into Louisville. As he entered the hotel, after leaving his machine in a garage, Dick and Tom swooped down upon him. “What’s up?” they demanded, both in the same breath, “who sent that telegram, do you know?”
“I think I know,” replied Bert. “I haven’t a doubt in the world that it was sent by Hayward. You remember that we heard he was more or less crooked, and now we know it.”
“I wish I could lay my hands on him,” exclaimed Dick, with flashing eyes. “I’d make him regret the day he was born. Just you wait till the next time I come across him, that’s all.”
“If I see him first there won’t be anything left for you,” said Tom. “Of all the dirty, underhanded tricks I ever heard of, that is the limit.”
“Well, I won’t contradict you,” said Bert, grimly, “but all he’ll ever gain out of it will be a sound thrashing. Don’t you believe for a minute that it’s going to help him win this race. I’ll ride day and night until I’ve made up for this lost time.”
And ride he did, crowding three days’ mileage into two, until at last he felt that he had recovered the time lost in answering the call of the forged telegram.
It was after he reached the Western deserts that Bert experienced the hardest going. The roads, if mere trails could be dignified by that name, were unspeakably bad, and time and again he was forced to ride on the railroad embankment, between the tracks. Of course, progress in this manner was necessarily slow, and again and again Bert had occasion to feel grateful for the wonderful springing system of his mount. Without some such aid, he felt his task would be well nigh hopeless.
As it was, he had to let a little air out of the tires, to reduce the shocks caused by contact with the rough ballast and uneven ties. In some places, where the roadbed was exceptionally well ballasted he was able to open up a little, but such stretches were few and far between. In places he was forced to dismount because of drainage culverts running under the tracks. When this happened he would lift the “Blue Streak” up on a rail and trundle it over. It was back-breaking work, and tested even his courage and endurance to the utmost.
His oil and gasoline supply ran low, but by great good fortune he was able to secure almost a gallonof gasoline from an agent at a lonely little station, and about a quart of very inferior lubricating oil. But he comforted himself with the thought that “half a loaf is better than none” and went on. After a while he noticed that a passable looking road skirted the railroad to the left, and he resolved to try it.
Accordingly, he scrambled down the steep embankment, the “Blue Streak” half rolling and half sliding down with him. He arrived safely at the bottom, and a minute later was on the road. It proved to be fairly good at first, but became more and more sandy, and at last Bert was brought to a standstill.
“I guess I’m through for to-day,” he reflected, and gazed anxiously in every direction for any sign of human habitation. His searching gaze met nothing but empty sky and empty desert, however, and he drew a sigh of resignation. “I guess there’s nothing for it but to camp out here and make the best of things,” he thought, and set about unstrapping his impedimenta from the luggage carrier.
His preparations for the night were soon made. He smoothed out a patch of sand and spread his thick army blanket over it. “Now that that’s done,” he thought, “I’ll just have a bite to eat, and turn in. This isn’t half bad, after all. It’s a lot better than some of the hotels I’ve put up at on this trip, and the ventilation is perfect.”
He always carried a substantial lunch with him, to guard against emergencies, and of this he now partook heartily. When he had finished, he busied himself in cleaning and thoroughly inspecting his faithful mount, and found it in fine condition, even after such a strenuous day. “No need to worry about your not delivering the goods, is there, old boy?” he said, affectionately. “As long as you stick to the job, we’ll pull through all right.”
By the time he had completed his inspection and made some adjustments it was almost dark, and Bert rolled himself in his blanket and was soon sleeping soundly.
Meantime Tom and Dick were awaiting him at Boyd, a small town in Northern Texas. When he failed to arrive, they decided that some unforeseen event had delayed him, and were not much worried. Nevertheless, they were not quite easy about him, and Tom made a proposition that met with instant approbation from Dick.
“Why wouldn’t it be a good idea,” Tom proposed, “to hire an automobile early to-morrow morning and meet him outside the town on his way in? It will break up the trip a little for him, and then, in case he’s had a breakdown we can help him out.”
“Fine!” agreed Dick, enthusiastically, “let’s go out right now and make arrangements with the garage keeper so we’ll be sure to get the machinein the morning. We might as well be on the safe side.”
They immediately sallied out to put this plan in execution. They experienced no difficulty in making the necessary arrangements. They paid the proprietor of the garage a deposit, and so secured the use of a fast, two-seated runabout for the following morning.
Before they left Dick asked the proprietor at what time the place was open. “Oh, it’s always open,” he replied, “come and get the car any time you want it. It’s all the same to me, so long as it’s paid for.”
“All right, we’ll take you at your word,” they promised, and returned to the hotel.
“We’ll get a good early start,” planned Tom, “we ought to leave the garage before six o’clock if we expect to meet Bert in time.”
“We’ll do just that,” agreed Dick, “and maybe I won’t be glad to set eyes on the old reprobate again.”
“I, too,” said Tom, “he’ll be a sight for sore eyes.”
“That’s what,” agreed Dick, “but if we’re going to get started at that unearthly hour, we’d better turn in early to-night.”
This proposition being self-evident, it met with no opposition, and shortly afterward they retired, leaving an early call at the office.
They were awakened punctually the next morning, and tumbled hastily into their clothes. They did not even stop for breakfast, arguing “that there would be plenty of time for that later on.” In a very short time they presented themselves at the garage, and the party in charge, following instructions left with him by the owner of the place, turned the automobile over to them.
Dick took the wheel, and they were soon spinning rapidly through the quiet streets of the town. Once outside the limits, Dick “cracked on speed,” and they went along at a fast clip. They passed right by the place where Bert had encamped at a distance of several miles, and before long came to a village, where they inquired if Bert had been through. No, the villagers said, he had not been through there, but they had heard that a motorcyclist had been seen riding on the railroad embankment, and there could be little doubt that the rider was Bert.
“You must have passed him somewhere,” concluded one of their informants, an old native whose tanned and weather-beaten face was seamed by a thousand wrinkles. “P’raps he stuck to the railroad tracks clean through, an’ is in Boyd by this time.”
But Dick shook his head. “If he’d followed the tracks right along he’d probably have reached town last night,” he said, with an anxious look in hiseyes. “I’m afraid he’s left the track for one reason or another, and lost his way.”
“Is there any road near the track that he might have used?” queried Tom.
“No, there ain’t,” replied the veteran, “leastways, nothin’ except the old Holloway trail, and you can’t rightly call that a road. It’s most wiped out now, an’ jest leads plumb to nowhere.”
“Just the same,” exclaimed Dick, excitedly, “that’s just what has happened.” He explained hurriedly the race and its object, and ended by entreating the old plainsman to guide them to the road he had spoken of.
“Waal, all right,” exclaimed the old man, after a moment of hesitation, “I’ll go ye. But whareabouts in that gasoline buggy o’ yourn am I goin’ to sit? Thar don’t seem to be much room to spare.”
“You sit here,” exclaimed Tom, jumping out. “I’ll sit on the floor and hold on somehow. Let her go, Dick.”
Before the plainsman had fairly settled himself in the seat Dick had let in the clutch, and the car started away with a jerk, Dick steering according to directions given him by the old man as they went along. They plowed through the sand at a breakneck pace, Tom hanging on for dear life. Soon they came in sight of the railroad embankment, and Dick slowed down slightly. Their guidewaved his arm to the right, and Dick wrenched the wheel around, causing the machine to skid wildly in the yielding sand. Their guide hung on desperately, but was heard to mutter something about “stickin’ to hosses after this.” Soon they reached the road that Bert had traversed the night before, and there, sure enough, were the marks of motorcycle tires. Their guide gave a whoop. “We’re close on his trail now,” he yelled, “give this tarnation machine a touch o’ the spurs, young feller.”
Dick followed out the spirit of this admonition, at any rate, and after ten minutes of furious driving they caught sight of the “Blue Streak.” A little further, and they could make out Bert’s recumbent form, apparently asleep.
“Well,” exclaimed Tom, heaving a sigh of relief as Dick reduced speed, “we’ve had all our worry for nothing, I guess.”
But the old plainsman was peering out from under his horny palm. “It’s almighty queer,” he muttered under his breath. “That young chap must be an all-fired heavy sleeper to sleep in broad daylight like that. Let’s get out an’ walk the rest o’ the way,” he continued, aloud.
Dick looked at him curiously, but did as he proposed, and brought the car to a standstill. They all got out, and Tom and Dick were going to make a dash for the sleeper, but their guide held them back. “Easy boys, easy,” he cautioned. “There’ssomethin’ wrong here, an’ I’ve an idee I know what it is, too.”
“That’s whatever!” he exclaimed, when they had advanced cautiously a few steps further. “They’s a bunch o’ scorpions has crawled up on him durin’ the night to keep warm, an’ if he moves an eyelash they’ll sting him, sure. An’ ef they do——” he stopped significantly, and the two friends of the threatened man paled as they realized the full horror of the situation.
Here was their friend menaced by a hideous death, and they found themselves powerless to help him. They were within a hundred feet of him, but to all intents and purposes they might as well have been a hundred miles distant. The first attempt on their part to help him would only precipitate the very tragedy that they sought to avoid.
Bert lay in the shadow cast by the “Blue Streak,” over which he had thrown a blanket to protect it from wind-blown sand. The hideous creatures would not leave him until the sun drove them into hiding, and Bert might wake at any moment. What to do they knew not. They racked their brains desperately for some plan of action, but could think of none.
It was the old frontiersman who came to their rescue. “Ef I only had a bit o’ lookin’ glass,” he muttered, looking aimlessly about him, “I might dosomethin’. But they probably ain’t no sech thing nearer than ten miles.”
“If that would do any good I can get you one,” exclaimed Tom, seized with an inspiration. He raced back to the auto, and, seizing a wrench, attacked the mirror attached to the dash for the purpose of reflecting objects coming in back of the car. He had it off in less time than it takes to tell, and ran back, waving it over his head. “Here you are!” he exclaimed, thrusting it into the hands of the guide. “But I don’t see what good that will do.”
“Never you mind, son,” said the old man, snatching the mirror from him. “Jest you watch my smoke.”
He took up a position on the other side of Bert, and manipulated the mirror so that a bright beam of sunlight fell on the recumbent form. Its effect was soon apparent. The poisonous insects stirred uneasily, trying to avoid the glare that they hated. Finding that there was no escaping it, they at last commenced to crawl down in search of a more shady resting place.
One by one they made off, the flashing ray of light hastening the departure of the laggards. Watching breathlessly, Dick and Tom waited for the last noxious insect to crawl sluggishly down onto the blanket and then off into the sand. Even after the last one had been dislodged, the prairiemanplayed the reflected sunlight over Bert until there was no longer cause for apprehension.
“All right, young fellers,” he said at last. “I cal’late you can wake your friend up now without takin’ any long chances.”
Dick and Tom were about to avail themselves of this permission, but found that there was no need. As they started forward the “sleeper” sat up, and then scrambled to his feet.
His comrades uttered a simultaneous expression of surprise, and Dick exclaimed, “Of all the lucky old reprobates that ever lived, Bert, you’re certainly the luckiest, without exception. If you had waked up ten minutes sooner, you would——”
“Waked up your grandmother,” interrupted Bert. “Why, I’ve been awake over an hour. I was awake when you got here, but I was afraid to move for fear of having one of those things bite me—ugh!” and a great shudder of disgust passed over him, “that was a waking nightmare in earnest. I feel as weak as a rag. Look at that!” and he held out his hand. It was trembling like a leaf.
“Waal, I’ll be jiggered,” exclaimed the Westerner, in an admiring voice, “you’ve sure got nerve, young feller, and no mistake. It ain’t everybody as could hold hisself the way you did with them blamed critters crawlin’ all over him. It took nerve, it shore did.”
“Probably you’d have done the same thing ifyou’d been in my place,” observed Bert, with a friendly smile.
“Waal, mebbe I would an’ mebbe I wouldn’t,” replied the old man, evidently much gratified by this little compliment, “although I don’t say as how I haven’t had one or two close shaves in my time, mind ye.”
“Well, at any rate, I guess I owe my life to you, and, of course, to my pals here,” said Bert, “and all I can say is, that I’m more than grateful.”
“That’s all right, young feller,” replied the plainsman, with a deprecatory wave of his hand, “you can thank me best by not sayin’ a word about it. You’d have done the same fer me ef you’d had the chance.”
Bert said no more, but shook hands all around, and then prepared to start on. “You fellows lead the way,” he said, “and I’ll follow. My appetite is beginning to come back with a rush.”
“Ye’d better follow the road we come by back a piece,” advised their guide, “ye’ll soon come to the main road leadin’ into Boyd, and you oughtn’t to have any further trouble.”
“That listens all right,” observed Bert, and Dick and Tom were of the same mind. Accordingly, they lost no time in packing up Bert’s luggage, and soon had it stored neatly on the carrier. Then Dick pointed the nose of the automobile in the direction their guide had advised, Bert followingat a little distance to give the dust raised by the passage of the automobile time to settle. In a short time they reached the road of which the guide had spoken, and they spun along merrily.
They made a slight detour to set down the old frontiersman, who had rendered them such invaluable assistance. They parted from him with great regret and many expressions of gratitude. He stood in the sandy road waving his hat after them until his figure became indistinct in the distance.
“There was a friend in need, if there ever was one,” said Tom, and Dick was of the same opinion.
After awhile the road broadened out somewhat, and Bert ranged up alongside the automobile. He closed the muffler of his machine, and as it glided along with scarcely a sound he and his friends conversed without the slightest difficulty. In this way the distance seemed nothing at all, and in due time they drew into Boyd.
Bert left the “Blue Streak” at the garage, and went with Tom and Dick to their hotel. They were all ravenously hungry, and the ravages they caused among the eatables filled the waiters with astonishment. At last they had finished, and then proceeded to discuss their future movements.
“I’ve managed to keep pretty well to schedule so far,” he told them, “and some of the worst goingis over. But, believe me, I wouldn’t want to repeat some of the experiences I’ve had. Take this morning, for instance.”
“No, I shouldn’t think you would,” said Dick. “But tell us about a few. It won’t do you any harm to rest up an hour or two now, and we’re crazy to hear some of your adventures. Reel off a few, like a good fellow.”
Bert gave them a brief review of his recent movements, and they listened with the greatest interest. Some of the incidents were very amusing, but they elicited less laughter than they usually would, for the nerves of all three had not yet fully recovered from the shock they had received that morning.
“Well,” said Bert at last, rising, “I’m sorry, fellows, but I’m afraid I’ll have to be moving. Get hold of that auto again, why don’t you, and go with me a little way. You can do that all right, can’t you?”
“Sure,” exclaimed Dick. “Bet your sweet life we can,” chimed in Tom, and so it was settled.
The three comrades proceeded directly to the garage, and had no difficulty in hiring the car that had already served them so well that morning. Bert ran the “Blue Streak” out onto the sunlit road, and, running beside it, shot on the spark. The motor started immediately, and he gave a flying leap into the saddle.
Dick and Tom were close behind, and tried to catch up with him. But Bert would not have it so. As soon as they began to get close he would shoot ahead, and although they had a speedy car, they realized that they stood no chance against such a motorcycle as the “Blue Streak.”
Laughingly they gave over the attempt, and Bert dropped back until they were abreast of him.
“No chance, fellows,” he called gaily. “The old ‘Blue Streak’ and I don’t take the dust of any mere automobile.”
They exchanged jokes and friendly insults until they had gone much further than they realized, and were forced to turn back.
They stopped before parting and shook hands.
“So long, old fellow,” said Dick. “We’ll be waiting to meet you at Oklahoma.”
“Good-bye,” said Bert, wringing their hands, “see you later,” and, leaping on the “Blue Streak,” was soon lost to sight in a cloud of dust.
After he left his companions, Bert made good speed for a time, and hummed along smoothly. At first all went well, and Bert was congratulating himself on his good progress, when suddenly his engine commenced racing wildly. In an instant Bert had shut off power, and came to a stop as soon as possible. Then he dismounted, and commenced a hasty examination. The first thought that flashed across his mind was that the clutch had given way in some manner, thus allowing the motor to slip. The clutch proved to be in perfect condition, however, but a short further search revealed the cause of the trouble.
The nut that held the engine driving sprocket on the shaft had worked loose and dropped off. Of course, the key that prevented the sprocket from slipping on the shaft had dropped out soon afterward, thus allowing the shaft to revolve without transmitting the slightest power.
“Well,” thought Bert, “I’m in a pretty fix now, for fair. Here I am thirty miles from the nearest town and provided with a permanent free engine. It rather looks as though I were up against it for fair.”
He made a careful search among his spare parts, but met with only partial success. He found a nut that fitted the shaft fairly well, but nothing he could substitute for the key.
“Perhaps if I walk back a way I’ll find it,” he thought, and accordingly he walked slowly back the way he had come, carefully scanning every foot of the path. He realized that the likelihood of finding it was very slim, but there was always the chance, so he hunted carefully. His efforts met with no success, and at last he was forced to admit to himself the hopelessness of the search.
“But I’ve got to do something,” he thought, “since I haven’t got the part, I’ll have to try and make one, that’s all.” He reflected a few moments, and then, seized with an idea, once more looked through the tool bag. He selected the smallest of his screwdrivers and a file, and began to file away at the screwdriver about half an inch from the end, intending to use it in place of the lost key. But the steel of which it was composed was very hard, and he found it a harder task than he had anticipated.
At last, by dint of patient filing until his fingers ached, he cut through the obstinate metal and finally held the precious bit of steel between his fingers.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, mopping his streaming face, “that was an awful job, but the end justifiesthe means. I wouldn’t swap this little bit of steel now for ten times its weight in gold.”
He tried it in the slot on the engine shaft, and found it a fairly tight fit. “Eureka!” he exclaimed aloud, “that’s bending circumstances to suit your will, or I don’t know what is.”
He quickly screwed on the holding nut, and once more was ready to start. “Come along now, old fellow,” he said, apostrophizing the “Blue Streak,” “we’ve got to do double work now to make up for this delay. Speed’s the word from now on.”
Misfortune after misfortune overtook him, however, and he was delayed again and again. It almost seemed as though fate repented of having saved him from a horrible death that morning, and was resolved to make up for her leniency by imposing unusual hardships on the devoted motorcyclist.
He had not gone more than ten miles from where he had made the new shaft key when the long driving chain snapped. Of course, he had extra links with him, and repaired it quickly, but even then much valuable time was lost. Then, he had hardly started again before a weak place in the front tire gave way with a report like that of a pistol shot, and he was forced to put in a new tube and a repair patch.
This done, he chugged on some time without further mishap, and was just beginning to believethat his troubles were over, when suddenly he was apprised by the hard jarring of the back wheel that the tire on it had gone flat. This meant another half hour’s delay, and Bert began to feel that he was “hoodooed” in earnest.
“I wonder what will happen next,” he thought, as he started off, after remedying the last misfortune. “Hard luck seems to be keeping me company, and that isn’t the best kind of a road companion to have.”
But for the present his fears remained unrealized, and as the road continued fairly good he raced along, mounting up the miles on his speedometer in a very satisfactory fashion. He made good time, and only stopped when the pangs of hunger warned him that it was lunch time.
Tom and Dick had taken care to see that he was provided with plenty of wholesome “grub,” and had personally supervised the putting up of the lunch by the good-natured hotel chef.
“They certainly made a good job of it,” thought he appreciatively, as he partook of delicious fried chicken sandwiches and crisp brown crullers. He washed down the meal with a long pull from his canteen, and then, after allowing himself a few minutes of hard-earned rest, was off again toward the goal that now began to seem less distant than it had before.
But the “jinx” had not yet deserted him, as hewas soon to discover. As he was bowling along at a pace well over thirty miles an hour, he suddenly turned a sharp bend in the road and ran squarely into a deep bed of sand. Before he could slow down appreciably, he was in it—and, a second later, was in it literally. All his skill and strength could not keep the machine from skidding, and he experienced a bone-racking fall.
In a second he had picked himself up, and ran to where the “Blue Streak” was lying, its motor still plugging away and the rear wheel sending showers of sand into the air. Bert shut off the power and proceeded to take stock of damages. The footboard on the right had struck through the sand to the hard gravel below and had broken one of its supports. This weakened it so much that Bert found it would not bear his weight.
There was nothing for him to do but repair the damage as best he could, and at length he managed to make a temporary repair with a spool of copper wire and a pair of pliers.
“This is getting serious,” thought Bert ruefully, as he finished the job. “I’ll never get anywhere if this keeps up long. But perhaps it’s better to have everything come at once and get it over with. I might as well look at the bright side of it, anyway.”
He started off finally, and now it seemed that at last he was to go forward without interruption.But unfortunately, he was to find that this view of the case was altogether too sanguine. The road grew continually worse, and it became impossible to make even average speed. In places it was very sandy, too, and this hindered him a good deal.
His trusty mount stood the bumping and wrenching it received without the slightest sign of weakening, and Bert was grateful indeed for the staunch construction that made its present satisfactory performance possible.
The road was deeply rutted, and it was only by the most careful managing that he steered clear of the depressions. But nothing could stop him, and he plugged doggedly on. The “Blue Streak” slipped and skidded, and tried to “lie down and roll over,” as he described it afterward, and the strain on his wrists and arms was tremendous. If the handlebars had once gotten out of his control they would have zigzagged wildly and the result would have been a bad fall. This Bert did his best to avoid, as he was already bruised by the spills he had been through.
At times he was forced to stop and rest a few minutes, and he always made use of these breathing spells to let the old oil out of his motor and pump in a fresh supply. Then when he resumed his journey the motor would be like a different piece of mechanism. It almost seemed as though it, too, became weary at times and benefited by a brief rest.Probably every experienced motorist has noticed this, and many theories have been advanced in explanation, but none of them seem very satisfactory. Bert by this time was beginning to feel the effects of the strain he had endured all through the day. He plowed slowly through the clinging sand, traveling most of the time on low gear. This was not the best thing in the world for his engine, and every once in a while he was forced to stop and let it cool. With the engine turning over so fast he had to use an excessive supply of oil, and at length was warned, by the sucking sound of the oil pump, that the tank was empty.
Fortunately, however, before he left Boyd he had secured an extra half gallon can of lubricating oil, which he had strapped on the luggage carrier. “And it’s a mighty lucky thing I did, too,” he thought, “otherwise I’d be stalled for good, with the prospect of a long tramp to the nearest town. But now I can still beat the game.”
He unstrapped the can, and emptied its contents into the oil tank. “That ought to last me until I reach some place where I can get more,” he thought, throwing the empty can away. “Here goes to buck this sand like a rotary plow going through a snow bank.”
He gave the motor a couple of pump fulls of oil, and started it going. Slipping in the clutch, he moved forward with the grim resolve to take longchances for the sake of gaining ground. Gradually he opened the throttle, and when he had attained a good speed, changed to high gear. The “Blue Streak” gained momentum and charged ahead, throwing showers of sand into the air. Every muscle tense, Bert held the motorcycle on the trail, despite the strong inclination it evinced to go off on little exploring expeditions of its own. He reeled off mile after mile at a good clip, and began to feel better.
“This might be a lot worse,” thought Bert, “if nothing happens now, I’ll have made pretty fair progress by supper time.” Consulting his speedometer he found that he had covered something over a hundred and twenty miles so far, which, considering all the delays he had been subjected to, and the bad roads, was very fair progress.
But even as this thought was passing through his mind, the front wheel caught in a hollow, the handlebars were wrenched from his hands with a force that almost broke his wrists, and he was flying through the air. He landed with a crash, and for a few moments, dazzling lights glittered before his eyes. Gradually these cleared away, and he sat up, feeling very dizzy and sick.
As his head cleared, he staggered to his feet, and looked around for his motorcycle. There it lay, at some distance, half buried in the sand. He went over to it, and, after scooping some of thesand away, succeeded by a great effort in pulling it upright.
“I guess my part of the race is finished right here,” he thought, with a sinking heart. “Somethingmusthave been badly broken in a fall like that. It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed myself.”
He set the “Blue Streak” up on its stand, and cranked the engine. It gave a few spasmodic explosions, but then stopped. “I knew it,” he exclaimed aloud, with a feeling nearly akin to despair. But his indomitable spirit was not yet ready to give up hope, and he commenced a careful examination of his mount.
The handlebars were slewed around until they stood at right angles to the machine. But this was a minor thing, and with the aid of a wrench he soon set matters right. The main thing was to locate the cause of the motor refusing to run, and he set himself to solve the problem, as he had so many others in the course of this most eventful and unlucky day.
He tested the magneto spark by kicking the motor over energetically, and holding the conduction cable a quarter of an inch or so from the cylinders. A hot blue spark jumped snapping across the gap, and Bert drew a sigh of relief. Provided the magneto were all right, he felt that he might get started again after all.
“The trouble must be in the carburetor,” heconcluded, and forthwith proceeded to dissect that highly important part of his equipment. His suspicions proved well founded. The carburetor was packed with sand, which had worked up into the spray plug and completely blocked the fine grooves cut in it.
“That’s easy,” thought Bert. “I’ll just wash this out in a little less than no time, and then I hope everything will be all right.”
He washed gasoline through the carburetor, and cleaned the spray plug till not a vestige of sand remained. He then quickly assembled the instrument and connected it up with the induction pipes. Flooding the carburetor with gasoline, he gave the engine a quick turn over. Immediately it started off with a roar, and Bert threw the wrench he had been using into the air, and deftly caught it again.
“Hurrah!” he cried, “now, old boy, we’ll try it again.”
He still felt rather dizzy, but the sun was getting low, and he knew he would have to “go some” to reach the next town before dark. He hastily put his tools away, and in a short time was speeding along again, nothing daunted by the accident. Presently the road improved, a sure sign that he was approaching a settlement. Soon he could make out the low houses of the little prairie town before him and he increased his speed, “splitting the air” like a comet.
He reached the village without further trouble, and was soon solacing himself for the strenuous day he had gone through with the best dinner the resources of the town could provide.
Early on the morning of the eighth day of the trip, Bert crossed the line into Oklahoma. He found little difference in the roads he encountered, most of them being of a very poor description. But by this time he was used to all sorts of going, and could listen without laughing, when one of the natives, in a fit of enthusiasm, would speak of some atrocious path as a “highway.”
Of course, in isolated instances some village or town had inaugurated a “good roads” movement, and then Bert found nothing to complain of. But as a rule the roads were inferior, and he found fast travel practically impossible.
He rode steadily, however, and by noon had made fairly good progress. He now found himself in a thickly wooded country, and rode mile after mile in a deep shade that was very grateful after some of the blistering hours in the open he had been forced to undergo. There was a brisk breeze blowing, and the leaves rustled pleasantly, allowing slender shafts of sunlight to flicker through them as they swayed and whispered.
Bert drew in great breaths of the fragrant air, redolent of a thousand woody odors, and wishedthat the whole of his journey lay through such pleasant places. After a while he came to a beautiful little glen through which ran a sparkling brook.
“Just the place to eat lunch,” thought Bert, and quickly brought the “Blue Streak” to a standstill. Dismounting, he unpacked his lunch box, and, sitting down on a broad, flat-topped rock at the edge of the stream, ate contentedly.
“This place is a regular little Garden of Eden,” he mused. “There must be fish in that stream. If I only had a hook and line along, I’ll wager I’d get some sport out of it.” Then another thought struck him. “By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud, “a swim would feel mighty good now, and there must be a place deep enough for one somewhere around here. I’m going on an exploring expedition, anyway.”
Sure enough, around a slight bend in the stream he discovered a pool that almost looked as though it had been made to order. A gigantic tree had fallen across the stream, forming a natural dam. The clear water ran over and under it with a tinkling, splashing sound, and Bert gave a shout of joy.
“Here goes for a glorious swim,” he cried, and, undressing hastily, plunged in. The water was icy cold, and for a moment the shock of it took away his breath and made his heart stand still. But in a few seconds the reaction came, and he splashedaround, and even managed to swim a few strokes in the deepest part.
“This is great,” he thought. “I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. It’s too bad the old ‘Blue Streak’ can’t enjoy it with me.” He smiled as this absurd thought crossed his mind, but little knew how much of prophecy there was in it.
When he felt thoroughly refreshed, he climbed out to the bank, and quickly slipped into his clothes. “I can dry out as I go along,” he thought, with a grin. “Somebody evidently forgot to hang bath towels on these trees. Very careless of them,Ithink.”
He hurried back to where he had left the motorcycle, and soon was once more purring along the woodland track. He had traveled something less than an hour, when he began to notice a thin blue haze in the air, and at the same time to smell a pungent smoke. His first thought was that he was near some settler’s cabin, but as he rode on he could see no sign of human habitation, and the green forest stretched away on both sides of the road without any break that might denote a trail.
But the smoke kept getting heavier every second, and suddenly the truth smote him like a blow in the face. “A forest fire,” he thought, “a forest fire! and here I am, in the heart of these woods, with absolutely no way of escape, that I can see.” Even as these thoughts flashed through his mind,a rabbit dashed out onto the road, so mad with terror that it almost ran under the wheels of the motorcycle.
Bert brought his machine to a standstill with a jerk, the back tire skidding as he jammed on his brake. A thousand plans raced through his head, only to be rejected as soon as formed. Of them all only one offered the slightest hope of escape.
“The brook,” he thought, “if I can only get back there I’ll have a chance to pull through. If the fire beats me to it—well, there will be one less contestant in this race, that’s all.”
He lifted the motorcycle bodily from the ground, in his excitement and dire need, handling it as easily as he would a bicycle, pointing it back the way he had so lately come. Then, with a shove and a leap he was off on a wild ride, with life itself as the prize.
He flew swiftly along the narrow trail, careless of ruts and obstructions that he had avoided with the greatest care but a short time before. The smoke grew thick and choking, reddening his eyes, irritating his lungs. It was only by the greatest good fortune that he avoided a collision with the panic-stricken animals that dashed across the road in great numbers, disappearing among the underbrush on the other side. Now he could hear a distant roaring and crackling, and great waves of heat billowed down upon him. He clenched his teeth,and opened the throttle to the utmost. The woods streaked away on both sides, and soon he saw that he was nearing his goal.
But the fire was traveling fast as well as he, and he could see it leaping through the tops of the trees at no great distance. The heat scorched and burned him, and the motorcycle felt hot to the touch. But, after what seemed an interminable time, he reached the brook, which now offered the last chance of safety.
Scarcely checking his speed, Bert swung off the road. His machine skidded wildly, but the tires gripped in time, and Bert steered for the deep pool in which he had bathed less than two hours ago. The “Blue Streak” crashed through the underbrush, beating down all opposition by its terrific momentum, the powerful motor forcing it forward like a battering ram. Bert gripped the tank with his knees, and held on grimly, checking his mount at last at the brink of the pool.
By now, the heat was almost intolerable, but there was still something left for him to do before he could plunge into the cool water. Way back in his camping days he had learned the best way of fighting a forest fire, and now he put his knowledge to account. He applied a light to the grass and underbrush bordering the pool, and a thin line of flame began creeping to meet the furious conflagration dashing through the trees. This wouldleave a narrow belt of charred land around the pool that would hold the fire at a little distance, at least.
This done, Bert seized the handlebars of his motorcycle, and hauled it into the pool after him, until it was partly immersed.
“That’s the best I can do for you, old friend,” he said. “I guess the fire can’t reach you there, at any rate.”
Then he waded in until he reached the deepest part of the pool, and waited for the advance of the devouring element.
He had plenty of company, as rabbits, foxes, and numerous other wild creatures continually plunged into the water, their eyes wide with terror, and all thoughts of age-old enmities wiped from their minds.
The heat grew more intense every moment, and Bert felt the skin on his face blistering. He took a long breath, and ducked his head completely under water. He kept it there until it seemed as though his lungs would burst for lack of air, and then lifted it to take another breath. In those few seconds the fire had made tremendous strides, and now met the backfire that Bert had started. He had only time to take a hasty glimpse of all this, and then was forced to duck under again. Every breath he drew was hot as the blast of a furnace, and seemed fairly to scorch his lungs.
The fire burned for a few minutes with no appreciable lessening of its fury, but then, deprived of fuel, gradually passed by on each side of the pool. Its terrific roaring slowly died away in the distance, and the unbearable heat abated somewhat, although smoke still hung in a heavy pall over the blackened ground.
At last Bert found he could venture from the water with safety, and accordingly did so. At the same time the wild creatures who had sought refuge in the same place bethought themselves of engagements elsewhere, and scampered off.
Bert hauled the “Blue Streak” out of the water, and found it practically unharmed. Some of the enamel had blistered, but Bert paid little attention to this, so long as the machine was still in running order. He had taken care not to let the water touch the magneto, and so was able to start immediately.
As he rode over the blackened trail, Bert could not help comparing the scene of desolation that now met his eye with the beautiful appearance the woods had presented so short a time before. In places the ground still smoked and smouldered, and in others trees burned like giant torches.
But Bert realized that he had had a narrow escape from death, and this thought kept him from dwelling too long on the devastated landscape. After two or three hours’ riding, he passed thefire belt, and once more entered a flourishing forest. He made steady progress, and before nightfall reached a fair-sized town. Most of the able-bodied men had not returned from fighting the fire, and at first the few who were left would hardly believe Bert’s account of his escape. But a look at the blistered enamel on the motorcycle convinced them, and they united in congratulating him on his good fortune. As one grizzled old fellow remarked, “Thar ain’t many folks as can say they’ve come through a forest fire as easy as you did, son. Thar generally ain’t much o’ them left to tell the story.”
It was a hot, oppressive day when Bert set out from Ralston. But he had had a restful sleep, and felt in fine trim for anything. He had eaten a hearty breakfast, and this no doubt added to his feeling of buoyancy and satisfaction with life in general. In addition, his mount was acting beautifully, purring along with the deep-throated exhaust that tells its own story of fine adjustments and perfect carburetion.
The country through which he traveled was very flat, and for mile after mile he glided easily along, encountering no obstructions worthy of the name. The road was smooth, and, contrary to the general run of roads in this section, comparatively free from sand and dust. The fresh, invigorating air added to his feeling of exhilaration, and he was tempted to “open ’er up” and do a little speeding.
He had about decided to do so, when suddenly he became conscious of hearing some noise not proceeding from his machine.
At first he thought it must be an automobile coming up back of him, but, as he glanced over his shoulder, he could see no sign of one, although the road stretched out for miles without a break.
Instantly his mind grasped the significance of the sound.
“It must be an aeroplane,” he thought, and, glancing upward, was not much surprised to see one outlined against the clear blue of the sky.
“Well, well,” thought Bert, “this is an unexpected pleasure. I didn’t know there was an aeroplane within two hundred miles of here.”
The aeroplane, which proved to be of the biplane type, was evidently descending. At first, Bert had stopped to get a good look at it, but then, feeling that he had no time to lose, had remounted and resumed his journey.
But as he went along, he knew that the ’plane was still descending because of the increasing noise of its exhaust. In the same way he could tell that the machine was overtaking him, but at first the thought of trying to beat it never entered his head. Even in all his varied and exciting adventures he had never had a brush with such an adversary.
In an incredibly short time, however, the aeroplane was directly over his head, and he glanced upward. As he did so, the aviator leaned forward slightly, and waved his gloved hand. Bert waved in reply, and then the airman made a gesture which Bert interpreted, and rightly, as being a challenge.
Needless to say, our hero was not one to decline such an invitation, and accordingly he opened his throttle a little. Instantly his exhaust changedfrom its deep grumble to a harsh bark, and his machine leaped forward.
In answer to this, the aviator fed more gas tohismotor, and his graceful machine soared forward in advance of Bert and the “Blue Streak.”
“Oho!” thought Bert, “this will never do,” and he gave his powerful machine more throttle, at the same time advancing the spark to the limit. That last fraction of an inch of spark sent his machine surging ahead like some wild thing let loose, and he leaned far down to escape the terrific resistance caused by the wind. The road streamed away behind him, and he had a thrill of exultation as he felt his machine leap forward in response to the slightest touch of the throttle.
His adversary in the air was not to be easily outdistanced, however, and he kept up with Bert, refusing to be shaken off.
Bert felt that now was the time to take the lead, if possible, and accordingly he opened the throttle almost to the limit, although he still held something in reserve.
The powerful motor responded nobly, and the machine skimmed over the sun-baked road at a terrific pace. The bird-man did his best to squeeze a little more speed out of his whirling motor, but was unable to cope with the rushing, roaring little speck down below him. At last he was forcedto a realization of this, and abruptly cut down his speed.
Bert continued his headlong flight for a short time, but finding that the aeroplane did not pass him, concluded that it must have fallen behind. Accordingly, he slackened his own speed, but very gradually, for he was too wise to risk disaster by slowing down too suddenly.
Soon his speed had abated sufficiently to allow the use of the brakes, and he brought his machine to a standstill. Lifting it onto its stand, he pushed his goggles up on his forehead, and looked around for his late rival.
He made out the aeroplane at no great distance, and could see that it was making preparations to land. When the aviator reached a point almost over Bert’s head, he shut off his engine entirely, and, describing a great spiral, landed gently on the ground not a hundred yards from where Bert and the “Blue Streak” were standing.
Bert immediately ran toward him, and the aviator stepped stiffly from his seat and held out his hand.
“You’ve got a mighty fast machine there, comrade,” he said, with a grin, as Bert shook hands with him. “I thought my ’plane was pretty good, but I guess your motor bike is better.”
“Well, it isn’t so bad, perhaps,” replied Bert, unable no matter how hard he tried, tokeep a little note of pride out of his voice. “I manage to get a little action out of it once in a while.”
“I should say you did,” agreed his late rival, “but what are you doing way out here a thousand miles from nowhere, more or less?”
“I might ask the same question of you,” replied Bert, with a smile, “but as you beat me to it, I’ll answer yours first.”
Bert then proceeded to outline briefly the contest in which he was engaged, but, before he had gone far, his companion interrupted him.
“Oh, I know all about that!” he exclaimed. “And so you’re one of the chaps in the transcontinental race, are you? Well, you haven’t got so much further to go, considering the distance you’ve covered already.”
“No, I guess the worst of it is over,” agreed Bert, “although I’ve been told that there are some very bad roads ahead of me.”
“You’re right, there are,” replied the aviator, “and that’s where I have an advantage over you. I don’t have to worry over road conditions.”
Bert saw that he was a little chagrined over his defeat, and so forebore to argue the merits of motorcycle versus airship.
“Just the same,” he thought to himself, “I’m a whole lot more likely to get where I want to go than he is.”
Then he and his new-found companion fell intoa discussion regarding various types of motors, and inspected each other’s machines with interest. By the time this was over it was high noon, and Bert proposed that they eat lunch together.
The aviator agreed heartily to this, and accordingly they unpacked their lunches and, sitting in the shade of one of the aeroplane wings, made a hearty meal.
When the last crumb had been disposed of, they shook hands with expressions of mutual regard, and the aviator was very cordial in wishing Bert all kinds of success in the contest. Then they said good-bye, and resumed their respective journeys. Bert watched the airship ascend in great spirals, until it was a mere speck in the distance, winging rapidly eastward.
Before starting, Bert looked over his machine carefully, in order to assure himself that nothing had been loosened by the vibration caused by the high speed. Everything seemed in perfect shape, and in less time than it takes to tell he was “eating up space” in a fashion that promised to land him speedily at his destination.
But before he had gone many miles, he found the road, which up to now had been exceptionally good, becoming more and more sandy, and he was forced to go slowly and pick his way very carefully. As the sand grew deeper his machine evinced a very decided tendency to skid, and he was forcedto exert all his strength to keep the front wheel pointed straight ahead.
Soon he shifted to low gear, and crawled forward at a pace little faster than a brisk walk. He now had reason, as indeed he had a score of times so far, to bless the foresight that had led him to purchase a two-speed machine. Without this, he felt that the accomplishment of his task would be well-nigh hopeless.
The heat became more and more oppressive, and the alkali dust on his face smarted and blistered. At intervals he would dismount, take a drink from his canteen, and give his motor a chance to cool off.
Then he would start on again, resolved to reach the next town before nightfall. What with the many interruptions and the slow pace, however, darkness overtook him while yet he was more than ten miles from his destination.
Dismounting, he lighted his lamp, and once more took up the forward flight. The air, from being excessively hot, now became quite the opposite, and he felt chilled to the bone. He kept doggedly on, nevertheless, and at last his perseverance was rewarded by his catching a glimpse of the lights of the town for which he was bound. At the same time the road became much better, and he covered the intervening mile or two at good speed.
The town was not a large one, but it could afford a square meal and a good bed, and that wasall that Bert asked for. He had a hard time to tear himself away from the other guests, who were very much interested in his adventures, and plied him with innumerable questions.
At last he managed to say good-night, and fifteen minutes afterward was sunk in the deep, dreamless sleep of utter but healthy exhaustion.