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.  “But I guess he’s pretty badly hurt.  I must get help—­no, I’ll take him into our house.  It’s not far.  I’ll call dad.”

Leaning his wheel against the tree Tom started for his home, about three hundred feet away, and then he noticed that the stranger’s motor-cycle was running at full speed on the ground.

“Guess I’d better shut off the power!” he exclaimed.  “No use letting the machine be ruined.”  Tom had a natural love for machinery, and it hurt him almost as much to see a piece of fine apparatus abused as it did to see an animal mistreated.  It was the work of a moment to shut off the gasolene and spark, and then the youth raced on toward his house.

“Where’s dad?” he called to Mrs. Baggert, who was washing the dishes.

“Out in one of the shops,” replied the housekeeper.  “Why, Tom,” she went on hurriedly as she saw how excited he was, “whatever has happened?”

“Man hurt—­out in front—­motor-cycle smash—­I’m going to bring him in here—­get some things ready—­I’ll find dad!”

“Bless and save us!” cried Mrs. Baggert.  “Whatever are we coming to?  Who’s hurt?  How did it happen?  Is he dead?”

“Haven’t time to talk now!” answered Tom, rushing from the house.  “Dad and I will bring him in here.”

Tom found his father in one of the three small machine shops on the grounds about the Swift home.  The youth hurriedly told what had happened.

“Of course we’ll bring him right in here!” assented Mr. Swift, putting aside the work upon which he was engaged.  “Did you tell Mrs. Baggert?”

“Yes, and she’s all excited.”

“Well, she can’t help it, being a woman, I suppose.  But we’ll manage.  Do you know the man?”

“Never saw him before to-day, when he tried to run me down.  Guess he doesn’t know much about motor-cycles.  But come on, dad.  He may bleed to death.”

Father and son hurried to where the stranger lay.  As they bent over him he opened his eyes and asked faintly: 

“Where am I?  What happened?”

“You’re all right—­in good hands,” said Mr. Swift.  “Are you much hurt?”