Kitabı oku: «Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer», sayfa 5
CHAPTER VIII
The Forged Telegram
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 telegram read, “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 faster and 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 he was 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; “suppose you 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 Tom isn’t sick after all, and that’s almost enough 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 began to 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.
CHAPTER IX
In Deadly Peril
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 gallon of 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 machine in 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 his eyes. “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 guide waved 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’s somethin’ 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 do somethin’. 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 prairieman played 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 if you’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 following at 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 going is 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.
