“That reminds me,” spoke Tom.  “I have the money for the motor-cycle,” and he drew out the bills.  “You are sure you will not regret your bargain, Mr. Damon?  The machine is new, and needs only slight repairs.  Fifty dollars is—­”

“Tut, tut, young man!  I feel as if I was getting the best of you.  Bless my handkerchief!  I hope you have no bad luck with it.”

“I’ll try and be careful,” promised Tom with a smile as he handed over the money.  “I am going to gear it differently and put some improvements on it.  Then I will use it instead of my bicycle.”

“It would have to be very much improved before I trusted myself on it again,” declared Mr. Damon.  “Well, I appreciate what you have done for me, and if at any time I can reciprocate the favor, I will only be too glad to do so.  Bless my soul, though, I hope I don’t have to rescue you from trying to climb a tree,” and with a laugh, which showed that he had fully recovered from his mishap, he shook hands with father and son and left.

“A very nice man, Tom,” commented Mr. Swift.  “Somewhat odd and out of the ordinary, but a very fine character, for all that.”

“That’s what I say,” added the son.  “Now, dad, you’ll see me scooting around the country on a motor-cycle.  I’ve always wanted one, and now I have a bargain.”

“Do you think you can repair it?”

“Of course, dad.  I’ve done more difficult things than that.  I’m going to take it apart now, and see what it needs.”

“Before you do that, Tom, I wish you would take a telegram to town for me.  I must wire my lawyers at once.”

“Dad looks worried,” thought Tom as he wheeled the broken motor-cycle into a machine shop, where he did most of his work.  “Well, I don’t blame him.  But we’ll get the best of those scoundrels yet!”

CHAPTER VI.

AN INTERVIEW IN THE DARK

While Mr. Swift was writing the message he wished his son to take to the village, the young mechanic inspected the motor-cycle he had purchased.  Tom found that a few repairs would suffice to put it in good shape, though an entire new front wheel would be needed.  The motor had not been damaged, as he ascertained by a test.  Tom rode into town on his bicycle, and as he hurried along he noticed in the west a bank of ugly-looking clouds that indicated a shower.

“I’m in for a wetting before I get back,” he mused, and he increased his speed, reaching the telegraph office shortly before seven o’clock.

“Think this storm will hold off until I get home?” asked Tom.

“I’m afraid not,” answered the agent.  “You’d better get a hustle on.”

Tom sprinted off.  It was getting dark rapidly, and when he was about a mile from home he felt several warm drops on his face.

“Here it comes!” exclaimed the youth.  “Now for a little more speed!”

Tom pressed harder on the pedals, too hard, in fact, for an instant later something snapped, and the next he knew he was flying over the handlebars of the bicycle.  At the same time there was a metallic, clinking sound.