ion. As he
threw forward the levers, having acquired what he thought was the
necessary momentum, he was surprised that no explosion followed. The
motor seemed "dead."

"That's queer," he thought, and he began to pedal more rapidly. "It
always used to start easily. Maybe it doesn't like this sandy
road."

It was hard work sending the heavy machine along by "leg power," and
once more, when he had acquired what he thought was sufficient
speed, Tom turned on the power. But no explosions followed, and in
some alarm he jumped to the ground.

"Something's wrong," he said aloud. "That tramp must have damaged
the machine when he yanked it so." Tom went quickly over the
different parts. It did not take him long to discover what the
trouble was. One of the wires, leading from the batteries to the
motor, which wire served to carry the current of electricity that
exploded the mixture of air and gasolene, was missing. It had been
broken off close to the battery box and the spark plug.

"That's what Happy Harry did!" exclaimed Tom. "He pulled that wire
off when he yanked my machine. That's what he meant by hoping I'd
get to Albany. That fellow was no tramp. He was disguised, and up to
some game. And he knows something about motor-cycles, too, or he
never would have taken that wire. I'm stalled, now, for I haven't
got another piece. I ought to have brought some. I'll have to push
this machine until I get to town, or else go back home."

The young inventor looked up and down the lonely road, undecided
what to do. To return home meant that he would be delayed in getting
to Albany, for he would lose a day. If he pushed on to Pompville he
might be able to get a bit of wire there.

Tom decided that was his best plan, and plodded on through the thick
sand. He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile, every step
seeming harder than the preceding one, when he heard, from the woods
close at his left hand, a gun fired. He jumped so that he nearly let
the motor-cycle fall over, for a wild idea came into his head that
the tramp had shot at him. With a quickly-beating heart the lad
looked about him.

"I wonder if that was Happy Harry?" he mused.

There was a crackling in the bushes and Tom, wondering what he might
do to protect himself, looked toward the place whence the noise
proceeded. A moment later a hunter stepped into view. The man
carried a gun and wore a canvas suit, a belt about his waist being
filled with cartridges.

"Hel