“Not much—­mostly stunned, I guess.  What happened?” he repeated.

“You and your motor-cycle tried to climb a tree,” remarked Tom with grim humor.

“Oh, yes, I remember now.  I couldn’t seem to steer out of the way.  And I couldn’t shut off the power in time.  Is the motor-cycle much damaged?”

“The front wheel is,” reported Tom, after an inspection, “and there are some other breaks, but I guess—­”

“I wish it was all smashed!” exclaimed the man vigorously.  “I never want to see it again!”

“Why, don’t you like it?” asked Tom eagerly.

“No, and I never will,” the man spoke faintly but determinedly.

“Never mind now,” interposed Mr. Swift.  “Don’t excite yourself.  My son and I will take you to our house and send for a doctor.”

“I’ll bring the motor-cycle, after we’ve carried you in,” added Tom.

“Don’t worry about the machine.  I never want to see it again!” went on the man, rising to a sitting position.  “It nearly killed me twice to day.  I’ll never ride again.”

“You’ll feel differently after the doctor fixes you up,” said Mr. Swift with a smile.

“Doctor!  I don’t need a doctor,” cried the stranger.  “I am only bruised and shaken up.”

“You have a bad cut on your head,” said Tom.

“It isn’t very deep,” went on the injured man, placing his fingers on it.  “Fortunately I struck the tree a glancing blow.  If you will allow me to rest in your house a little while and give me some plaster for the cut I shall be all right again.”

“Can you walk, or shall we carry you?” asked Tom’s father.

“Oh, I can walk, if you’ll support me a little.”  And the stranger proved that he could do this by getting to his feet and taking a few steps.  Mr. Swift and his son took hold of his arms and led him to the house.  There he was placed on a lounge and given some simple restoratives by Mrs. Baggert, who, when she found the accident was not serious, recovered her composure.

“I must have been unconscious for a few minutes,” went on the man.

“You were,” explained Tom.  “When I got up to you I thought you were dead, until I saw you breathe.  Then I shut off the power of your machine and ran in for dad.  I’ve got the motor-cycle outside.  You can’t ride it for some time, I’m afraid, Mr.—­er—­” and Tom stopped in some confusion, for he realized that he did not know the man’s name.

“I beg your pardon for not introducing myself before,” went on the stranger.  “I’m Wakefield Damon, of Waterfield.  But don’t worry about me riding that machine again.  I never shall.”

“Oh, perhaps—­” began Mr. Swift.

“No, I never shall,” went on Mr. Damon positively.  “My doctor told me to get it, as he thought riding around the country would benefit my health I shall tell him his prescription nearly killed me.”

“And me too,” added Tom with a laugh.