erious runaway if there'd been
anything in the road."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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. "Bu