“I didn’t hit you,” declared Tom, while Andy tore himself away, and struggled to his feet.

“Yes, you did, too, hit me!”

“I did not!  You tried to strike me with your whip, as I was shoving your carriage out of the way, which I had a perfect right to do, as you were blockading the highway.  You lost your balance and fell.  It was your own fault.”

“Well, you’ll suffer for it, just the same, snarled Andy, and then, putting his hand to his head, and bringing it away, with some drops of blood on it, he cried out:” 

“Oh, I’m hurt!  I’m injured!  Get a doctor, or maybe I’ll bleed to death!” He began blubbering, for Andy, like all bullies, was a coward.

“You’re not hurt,” asserted Tom, trying not to laugh.  “It’s only a scratch.  Next time don’t try to blockade the whole street, and you won’t get into trouble.  Are you able to drive home; or shall I take you in my car?”

“I wouldn’t ride in your car!” snapped the ugly lad.  “You go on, and mind your business now, and I’ll pay you back for this, some day.  I could have you arrested!”

“And so could I have you locked up for obstructing traffic.  But I’ll not.  Your rig isn’t damaged, and you’d better drive home.”

The old white horse had not moved, and was evidently glad of the rest.  A glance satisfied Tom that the carriage had not been damaged, and, getting into his car, while Andy was brushing the dust from his clothes, our hero started the motor.

There was now room enough to pass around the obstructing carriage, and soon Tom was humming down the road, leaving a much discomfited bully behind him.

“Tom Swift is too smart—­thinking he can run everybody, and everything, to suit himself,” growled Andy, as he finished dusting off his clothes, and wiping the blood from his face.  As Tom had said, the wound was but a scratch, though the bully’s head ached, and he felt a little dizzy.  “I wish I’d hit him with the horsewhip,” he went on, vindictively.  “I’ll get square with him some day.”

Andy had said this many times, but he had never yet succeeded in permanently getting the best of Tom.  Pondering on some scheme of revenge the rich lad—­for Mr. Foger, his father, was quite wealthy—­ drove on.

Meanwhile Tom, rather wishing the little encounter had not taken place, but refusing to blame himself for what had occurred, was speeding toward home.

“Let’s see,” he murmured, as he drove along in his powerful car.  “I’ve got quite a lot to do if I make an early start for Philadelphia, in my airship, to-morrow.  I want to tighten the propeller on the shaft a trifle, and give the engine a good try-out.  Then, too, I think I’d better make the landing springs a little stiffer.  The last time I made a descent the frame was pretty well jarred up.  Yes, if I make that air trip to-morrow I’ll have to do some tall hustling when I get home.”

The electric runabout swung into the yard of the Swift house, and Tom brought it to a stop opposite the side door.  He looked about for a sight of his father, Mrs. Baggert or Garret Jackson.  The only person visible was Eradicate Sampson, working in the garden.