CHAPTER VIII
THE FORGED TELEGRAM
Bert's stay in Louisville was brief, and all the more so, becauseneither Tom nor Dick was there to meet him, as they had planned. Berttook it for granted that something out of the ordinary had happened,however, and bore his disappointment as philosophically as he could.
"No doubt they've been delayed," he thought, "and will meet me in thenext town. That will be a spur to me to go faster so that I can see themsooner."
He had a refreshing sleep, and was up early, resolved to make aprofitable day of it. After he had eaten breakfast, he paid his bill,and was just going out the door when the clerk stopped him. "Just aminute, sir," he said. "Here's a telegram for you. I almost forgot togive it to you."
"When did it come?" asked Bert, as he took the yellow envelope andprepared to open it.
"Oh, just about an hour ago," replied the clerk, "no bad news I hope?"
This question was occasioned no doubt by the expression of Bert's face."Come quick," the telegram read, "Tom very sick; may die. We are inMaysville. Dick."
Bert's voice shook as he addressed the hotel clerk. "One of my friendsis very sick," he said. "He's in Maysville. How long will it take me toget there?"
"Well, it's a matter of close on two hundred miles," replied the clerk,in a sympathetic voice, "but the roads are fair, and you can make prettyfast time with that machine of yours."
Bert whipped out his map of Kentucky, and the clerk pointed out to himthe little dot marked Maysville.
"All right, thanks," said Bert, briefly, "good-bye."
"Good-bye," said the other, "I hope your friend isn't as bad as youfear."
But before he finished speaking Bert was on the "Blue Streak," and wasflying down the street. In a moment his mind had grasped every angle ofthe catastrophe. If he went to Tom, it would very likely mean the lossof the race, for a matter of four hundred miles out of his road would bea fearful handicap. But what was the race compared to dear old Tom,Tom, who at this very moment might be calling for him? Every otherconsideration wiped from his mind, Bert leaned over and fairly flewalong the dusty road. Fences, trees, houses, streaked past him, andstill he rode faster and faster, recklessly, taking chances that hewould have shunned had he been bound on any other errand. He shot aroundsharp bends in the road at breakneck speed, sometimes escaping runninginto the ditch by a margin of an inch or so. Fast as the "Blue Streak"was, it was all too slow to keep pace with his feverish impatience, andBert fumed at the long miles that lay between him and his friend.
Now a steep hill loomed up in front of him, and he rushed it at breakneckspeed. Slowly the motorcycle lost speed under the awful drag of the steepascent, and at last Bert was forced to change to low gear. The "BlueStreak" toiled upward, and at last reached the top. A wonderful view layspread out before him, but Bert had no eye just now for the beauties ofnature. All he saw was a road that dipped and curved below him until itwas lost in the green shades of a valley. Bert saw he would have no needof his motor in making that descent, so threw out the clutch and coasted.Faster and faster he flew, gaining speed with every revolution of thewheels. With the engine stopped, the motorcycle swept along in absolutesilence, save for the slight hissing noise made by the contact of thetires with the road. The speed augmented until he was traveling almostwith the speed of a cannon ball. At this speed, brakes were useless, evenhad he been inclined to use them, which he was not. Two-thirds of theway down he flashed past a wagon, that was negotiating the descent withone wheel chained, so steep was it. Had the slightest thing gone wrongthen; had a nut worked loose, a tire punctured, a chain broken or jumpedthe sprockets, Bert would have been hurled through the air like a stonefrom a catapult. Fortunately for him, everything held, and now he wasnearing the bottom of the hill. Ten seconds later, and he was sweeping upthe opposite slope at a speed that it seemed could never slacken. Butgradually gravitation slowed him down to a safer pace, and at last heslipped in the clutch and started the motor. In the wild descent his caphad flown off, but he hardly noticed it.
"I'll soon be there at this rate," he thought, glancing at thespeedometer. "I've come over a hundred and fifty miles now, so Maysvillecan't be much further." And, indeed, less than an hour's additionalriding brought him to the town of that name.
He went immediately to the hotel at which his friends were supposed tobe. But when he stated his object to the hotel clerk, the latter gazedat him blankly. "There are no parties of that name stopping here," hesaid. "I guess you have the wrong address, young man." Bert showed himthe telegram, but the clerk only shook his head. "There's somethingwrong somewhere," he said; "suppose you see Bently, the telegrapher. Hecould probably give you a description of the person that sent thetelegram, anyway."
"Thanks, I will," said Bert, and hastened out. A dim idea of the truestate of affairs was beginning to form in his brain, but it hardlyseemed possible his suspicions could be true. He soon reached thetelegraph office, and accosted the operator.
"Can you tell me," he asked, "who sent that telegram early thismorning?"
The station agent glanced at the telegram, and replied: "Why, I can'tgive you a very good description of the man, for I didn't take specialnotice of him. He was a young man of medium build, though, with lighthair, and now I come to think of it, he wore goggles. Seems to me Iheard some one say he was riding a motorcycle in some cross countryrace, but that I can't vouch for."
"I think I know who he was, all right," said Bert, "and I'm much obligedto you."
"Don't mention it," returned the other, and turned again to his work.
Bert walked out of the station with clenched fists and blazing eyes."It's Hayward who sent that telegram," he muttered, between clenchedteeth. "I'd stake my soul on it. But I'll win this race in spite of thatcrook and his tricks. And anyway," he thought, with his eyes softening,"old Tom _isn't_ sick after all, and that's almost enough to make meforgive Hayward. I feel as though I had just awakened from an awfulnightmare."
It was characteristic of Bert that his anger and chagrin at beingtricked in this dastardly way were swallowed up in his relief at findingthe report of his friend's illness false.
Bert consulted his map, and found that by taking a different routethan that by which he had come he could save quite some distance, andstarted out again, after filling the "Blue Streak's" tanks with oil andgasoline, with the grim resolve to have revenge for the despicable trickthat had been played on him, by snatching from Hayward the prize that hewas willing to stoop to such depths to gain.
Up hill and down he flew, around curves, over bridges that shook andrattled at the impact of racing man and machine. Steadily the mileageindicator slipped around, as league after league rolled backward, andBert exulted as he watched it. "We'll make it ahead of everybody else ordie in the attempt, won't we, old fellow?" he said, apostrophizing the"Blue Streak." "Nobody's going to play a trick like that on us and getaway with it, are they?"
Only once on the return trip did he stop, and then only long enough tosnatch a little food. Then he was off again like the wind, and as duskbegan to fall rode into Louisville. As he entered the hotel, afterleaving his machine in a garage, Dick and Tom swooped down upon him."What's up?" they demanded, both in the same breath, "who sent thattelegram, do you know?"
"I think I know," replied Bert. "I haven't a doubt in the world that itwas sent by Hayward. You remember that we heard he was more or lesscrooked, and now we know it."
"I wish I could lay my hands on him," exclaimed Dick, with flashingeyes. "I'd make him regret the day he was born. Just you wait till thenext time I come across him, that's all."
"If I see him first there won't be anything left for you," said Tom. "Ofall the dirty, underhanded tricks I ever heard of, that is the limit."
"Well, I won't contradict you," said Bert, grimly, "but all he'll evergain out of it will be a sound thrashing. Don't you believe for a minutethat it's going to help him win this race. I'll ride day and night untilI've made up for this lost time."
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p; And ride he did, crowding three days' mileage into two, until at last hefelt that he had recovered the time lost in answering the call of theforged telegram.