"Hold on there! Hold on! Who's calling me in this forsaken locality? Bless my shirt studs! But who is it?" and the eccentric man who had sold Tom the motor-cycle looked intently at the bushes.
"Here I am, Mr. Damon," answered the lad, stepping out into the road. "I knew it was you as soon as I saw you."
"Bless my liver, but that's very true! I suppose you heard my unfortunate automobile puffing along. I declare I don't know what ails it. I got it on the advice of my physician, who said I must get out in the air, but, bless my gears, it's the auto who needs a doctor more than I do! It's continually out of order. Something is going to happen right away. I can tell by the way it's behaving."
Mr. Damon had thrown out the clutch, but the engine was still running, though in a jerky, uncertain fashion which indicated to the trained ear of the young inventor that something was wrong.
"Perhaps I can fix it for you as I did before," ventured Tom.
"Bless my eyebrows! Perhaps you can," cried the eccentric man hopefully. "You always seem to turn up at the right moment. How do you manage it?"
"I don't know. I remember the time you
