“I think I’ll take the old wood road and pass through Pompville,” Tom decided, after covering another mile or two.  He was approaching a division in the highway.  “It’s a bit sandy,” he went on, “and the going will be heavy, but it will be a good chance to test my machine.  Besides, I’ll save five miles, and, while I don’t have to hurry, I may need time on the other end.  I’d rather arrive in Albany a little before dusk than after dark.  I can deliver the model and papers and have a good night’s sleep before starting back.  So the old wood road it will be.”

The wood road, as Tom called it, was a seldom used highway, which, originally, was laid out for just what the name indicated, to bring wood from the forest.  With the disappearance of most of the trees the road became more used for ordinary traffic between the towns of Pompville and Edgefield.  But when the State built a new highway connecting these two places the old road fell into disuse, though it was several miles shorter than the new turnpike.

He turned from the main thoroughfare, and was soon spinning along the sandy stretch, which was shaded with trees that in some places met overhead, forming a leafy arch.  It was cool and pleasant, and Tom liked it.

“It isn’t as bad as I thought,” he remarked.  “The sand is pretty thick, but this machine of mine appears to be able to crawl through it.”

Indeed, the motor-cycle was doing remarkably well, but Tom found that he had to turn on full power, for the big rubber wheels went deep into the soft soil.  Along Tom rode, picking out the firmest places in the road.  He was so intent on this that he did not pay much attention to what was immediately ahead of him, knowing that he was not very likely to meet other vehicles or pedestrians.  He was considerably startled therefore when, as he went around a turn in the highway where the bushes grew thick, right down to the edge of the road, to see a figure emerge from the underbrush and start across the path.  So quickly did the man appear that Tom was almost upon him in an instant, and even though the young inventor shut off the power and applied the brake, the front wheel hit the man and knocked him down.

“What’s the matter with you?  What are you trying to do—­kill me?  Why don’t you ring a bell or blow a horn when you’re coming?” The man had sprung up from the soft sand where the wheel from the motor-cycle had sent him and faced Tom angrily.  Then the rider, who had quickly dismounted, saw that his victim was a ragged tramp.

“I’m sorry,” began Tom.  “You came out of the bushes so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to warn you.  Did I hurt you much?”