“Oh, no—­no; I’m more frightened than hurt.”

“It was all my fault,” declared the young inventor.  “I should not have swung into the road so suddenly.  My bicycle alarmed your horse.”

“Oh, I fancy Dobbin is easily disturbed,” admitted the fair driver.  “I can’t thank you enough for stopping him.  You saved me from a bad accident.”

“It was the least I could do.  Are you all right now?” and he handed up the dangling reins.  “I think Dobbin, as you call him, has had enough of running,” went on Tom, for the horse was now quiet.

“I hope so.  Yes, I am all right.  I trust your wheel is not damaged.  If it is, my father, Mr. Amos Nestor, of Mansburg, will gladly pay for its repair.”

This reminded the young inventor of his bicycle, and making sure that the horse would not start up again, he went to where his wheel and his cap lay.  He found that the only damage to the bicycle was a few bent spokes, and, straightening them and having again apologized to the young woman, receiving in turn her pardon and thanks, and learning that her name was Mary Nestor, Tom once more resumed his trip.  The wagon followed him at a distance, the horse evincing no desire now to get out of a slow amble.

“Well, things are certainly happening to me to-day,” mused Tom as he pedaled on.  “That might have been a serious 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?”