“How—­why—­are you the young man I nearly ran down this morning?” asked Mr. Damon, suddenly sitting up and looking at the youth.

“I am,” answered our hero.

“Bless my soul!  So you are!” cried Mr. Damon.  “I was wondering who it could be.  It’s quite a coincidence.  But I was in such a cloud of dust I couldn’t make out who it was.”

“You had your muffler open, and that made considerable dust,” explained Tom.

“Was that it?  Bless my existence!  I thought something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell what.  I went over all the instructions in the book and those the agent told me, but I couldn’t think of the right one.  I tried all sorts of things to make less dust, but I couldn’t.  Then, bless my eyelashes, if the machine didn’t stop just after I nearly ran into you.  I tinkered over it for an hour or more before I could get it to going again.  Then I ran into the tree.  My doctor told me the machine would do my liver good, but, bless my happiness, I’d as soon be without a liver entirely as to do what I’ve done to-day.  I am done with motor-cycling!”

A hopeful look came over Tom’s face, but he said nothing, that is, not just then.  In a little while Mr. Damon felt so much better that he said he would start for home.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your machine here,” said Tom.

“You can send for it any time you want to,” added Mr. Swift.

“Bless my hatband!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, who appeared to be very fond of blessing his various organs and his articles of wearing apparel.  “Bless my hatband!  I never want to see it again!  If you will be so kind as to keep it for me, I will send a junk man after it.  I will never spend anything on having it repaired.  I am done with that form of exercise—­liver or no liver—­doctor or no doctor.”

He appeared very determined.  Tom quickly made up his mind.  Mr. Damon had gone to the bathroom to get rid of some of the mud on his hands and face.

“Father,” said Tom earnestly, “may I buy that machine of him?”

“What?  Buy a broken motor-cycle?”

“I can easily fix it.  It is a fine make, and in good condition.  I can repair it.  I’ve wanted a motor-cycle for some time, and here’s a chance to get a good one cheap.”

“You don’t need to do that,” replied Mr. Swift.  “You have money enough to buy a new one if you want it.  I never knew you cared for them.”

“I didn’t, until lately.  But I’d rather buy this one and fix it up than get a new one.  Besides, I have an idea for a new kind of transmission, and perhaps I can work it out on this machine.”

“Oh, well, if you want it for experimental purposes, I suppose it will be as good as any.  Go ahead, get it if you wish, but don’t give too much for it.”

“I’ll not.  I fancy I can get it cheap.”

Mr. Damon returned to the living-room, where he had first been carried.

“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me,” he said.  “I might have lain there for hours.  Bless my very existence!  I have had a very narrow escape.  Hereafter when I see anyone on a motor-cycle I shall turn my head away.  The memory will be too painful,” and he touched the plaster that covered a cut on his head.