Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer

by Burt L. Standish

  E-text prepared by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam (https://www.pgdp.net)

  BERT WILSON'S TWIN CYLINDER RACER

  by

  J. W. DUFFIELD

  Author of "Bert Wilson at the Wheel,""Wireless Operator," "Fadeaway Ball,""Marathon Winner," "At Panama."

  Copyright, 1914, BySully And Kleinteich

  All rights reserved.

  Published and Printed, 1924, byWestern Printing & Lithographing CompanyRacine, WisconsinPrinted in U. S. A.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE I. THE RUNAWAY LOCOMOTIVE 1 II. THE "BLUE STREAK" 13 III. FROM COAST TO COAST 28 IV. A FLYING START 41 V. THE DESERTED HUT 53 VI. THE BROKEN DAM 65 VII. A KENTUCKY FEUD 82 VIII. THE FORGED TELEGRAM 97 IX. IN DEADLY PERIL 104 X. A DAY OF DISASTER 118 XI. THE FLAMING FOREST 129 XII. RACING AN AIRSHIP 137 XIII. AN UNSEEN LISTENER 145 XIV. THE OUTLAW PLOT 154 XV. A MURDEROUS GRIP 163 XVI. DESPERATE CHANCES 175 XVII. THE WONDERFUL CITY 188 XVIII. A WINNING FIGHT 199

  BERT WILSON'S TWIN CYLINDER RACER

  CHAPTER I

  THE RUNAWAY LOCOMOTIVE

  "Stop her. Stop her. She's running wild!"

  The cry ended almost in a shriek that rang high above the murmur ofvoices at the railroad station.

  It was a bright sunny morning early in June. The usual crowd of rusticshad gathered at the depot to see the train come in and depart. A fewcommercial travelers were consulting time tables and attending to thedisposition of their baggage. Gay laughter and hasty farewells arosefrom a bevy of girls and the young men who had assembled to see themoff. The conductor, watch in hand, stood ready to give the signal,and the black porters were already gathering up the folding stepspreparatory to boarding the train. The bells were ringing and thewhistle had given its preliminary toot, when all were startled at thesight of the station agent, who issued wild-eyed from his office and ranon the track, frantically waving his hands and shouting at the top ofhis voice.

  As the startled passengers and trainmen followed the direction of hislook, they saw what had occasioned the wild commotion, and, for amoment, their hearts stood still.

  A big Mogul engine that had been shunted to a side track was moving downthe line, slowly at first but gathering speed with every passing second.Neither engineer nor fireman could be seen in the cab. It was evidentthat they had left before the power was completely shut off, or thatsome sudden jar had started the mechanism. Even while the frightenedspectators watched as though under a spell, the pace grew swifter. Someof the men lounging about the roundhouse made a hurried rush for it,with a faint hope of getting aboard and shutting off steam. One of thesemade a desperate grab at the rear end of the tender, but was flung in aditch alongside the track, where he rolled over and over. It was toolate to stop her. Amid a tempest of yells and a tumult of excitement shegathered way and sped down the line.

  The station master wrung his hands and tore his hair in desperation. Forthe moment he was crazed with fright.

  A clear eyed young fellow, tall, stalwart, muscular, had been chattingwith a party of friends on the road beside the platform. While hetalked, his hand rested on the handle-bars of a motorcycle at which heglanced at intervals with a look of pride that was almost affection. Itwas a superb machine, evidently of the latest type, and in its gracefullines suggested in some vague way a resemblance to its owner. Bothlooked like thoroughbreds.

  At the Babel of cries that rent the air the young motorcyclist looked upand his nostrils dilated with sudden purpose. At a glance he took in thesituation--the running men, the panic cries, the runaway engine. Then hecame plunging through the crowd and grasped the dazed agent by theshoulder.

  "Come, wake up," he cried. "Do something. Telegraph to the nextstation."

  The man looked up dully. Terror had benumbed his faculties. He wasclearly not the man for a sudden emergency.

  "No use," he moaned. "The next station is thirteen miles away. And it'sa single track," he wailed, "and No. 56 is due in twenty minutes. Ifshe's on time she's already left there. They'll meet head-on--O God!"

  "Quick," the newcomer commanded, as he fairly dragged him into theoffice. "There's the key. Get busy. Call up the next station and see ifyou can stop 56."

  But as he saw the aimless, paralyzed way in which the agent fumbled atthe key, he thrust him aside and took his place. He was an experttelegrapher, and his fingers fairly flew as he called up the operatorat Corridon.

  "Engine running wild," he called. "Stop 56 and sidetrack the runaway."

  A moment of breathless suspense and the answer came in sharp, staccatoclicks that betrayed the agitation of the man at the other end.

  "56 just left. Rounding the curve half a mile away. Making up time, too.For heaven's sake, do something."

  "Do something." What bitter irony! What could be done? Death was at thethrottle of that mad runaway rushing down the line.

  But the young fellow was of the never say die kind, and always at hisbest when danger threatened. He thought with the rapidity of lightning.Then he clutched the station agent, who sat with his head bowed on hishands, a picture of abject misery.

  "Is there a switch between here and Corridon?" he demanded fiercely.

  "N-no," muttered the stupefied man. "That is, there is one at the oldstone quarry, but----"

  The remainder of the sentence fell on empty air. Like a flash, the youthwho had so cavalierly taken matters in his own hands was out of theroom. He ploughed through the huddled group of passengers and trainmen,and flung himself into the saddle of the waiting motorcycle. A roar ashe threw in the clutch, a quick scattering of those in front, and themachine, like a living thing, darted down the road that lay beside thetrack.

  The wind sang in his ears and the path fell away behind him as hecrouched low over the fork so that his body might offer as littleresistance as possible. And, as he rushed along, his active mind wasthinking--thinking--

  He knew the surrounding country like an open book. There was scarcely alane that he had not threaded, and as for the highways, he had gone overthem again and again. Now, as in a panorama, he saw every turn and bend,every height and hollow of the road that lay before him. In sheerdelight of living he had ridden it before; now he must do it to keepothers from dying.

  The old stone quarry was a familiar landmark. More than once, he andother fellows from the College interested in geology had come over thereto hunt fossils. At an earlier date, it had been a buzzing hive ofactivity, and a side track had been laid by the railroad companyin order to load the stone more easily. But of late it had provedunprofitable to work the quarry, and nothing now remained but theabandoned shacks of the workmen and some broken tools and machinery,rusting in the grass that had grown up around them. He remembered thatthe siding ran for about twenty rods and ended at bumpers set within afew feet of the wall of rock.

  For two or three miles, the road he was traveling ran almost parallel tothe railroad. At times, a shoulder of the path hid the rails from sight,and at one place he had to make quite a wide detour before he again cameclose to the right of way. The switch at the quarry was seven miles fromthe town, and, though he hoped to make it in less than that manyminutes, it seemed as though he would never reach it. To his agonizedmind he appeared to be merely crawling. In reality he was flying.

  For he was riding now as he had never ridden before. Human life was atstake--perhaps hundreds of lives. He pictured the long line of cars fullof passengers--for 56 was the road's finest train, and almost
alwaysfilled to capacity--coming toward him without a thought of danger.Some would be reading, others gazing out of the windows, still otherslaughing and talking. But everywhere would be confidence, ease ofmind, an eager looking for the journey's end without the slightestapprehension. And all this time, death was grimly bearing down upon themin one of his most fearful forms.

  He shuddered as in his mind's eye he saw the two monster locomotivesleaping at each other like enraged giants. He had seen a wreck once andhad fervently prayed that he might never see another. And as that scenenow came before him, he bent lower over the bars and let out every ounceof speed that the machine possessed.

  It was leaping now, only touching the high places. Had he been a lessskilful rider he would have been hurled from the saddle. Discretion wasthrown to the winds. It was no time to measure possibilities or look outfor his personal safety. He had to take chances. His siren warned allcomers to give him the road. A team was hauled up on its haunches by thefrightened driver; an automobile drew so hastily to one side that twowheels went into the ditch. He caught a glimpse of startled faces atdoors and windows as he passed. Like a meteor he flashed by, all hisheart and soul wrapped up in the thought of rescue.

  Now he had overtaken the locomotive and was running parallel to it. TheMogul swayed and lurched as it tore along with all steam up on itsmission of destruction. Steadily the rider drew up on even terms, withless than twenty feet separating the tracks from the high road. Then themotorcycle swept into the lead and increased it with every bound.

  Only two miles more to the quarry! His heart exulted as he realized thathe would get there first. But the margin would be fearfully close. Theswitch might prove rusty and refuse to work. Some part of it might beout of gear. For years it had been utterly abandoned. What a bitterjest of fate if, after reaching it ahead of the locomotive, he shouldhave to stand helplessly by and see it dash past on its errand ofslaughter.

  Then, too, a third factor entered into the problem. There was No. 56.She was a limited express and famous for her speed. The operator atCorridon had said that on this stretch of road, supposed to be clear,she would make up time. If she reached and passed the switch before therunaway, no power on earth could prevent a frightful disaster. And justthen, while this fear was tugging at his heart, a faint whistle in thedistance drove all the color from his face. 56 was coming!

  He dared not take his eyes from the road in front, but he knew from thelessened noise behind him that he was increasing his lead. And then ashe swept around a slight curve in the road, the abandoned quarry cameinto view. There were the empty shacks, the deserted platform and, a fewrods further on, the switch.

  He raced to the tracks and threw himself from the machine, almostfalling headlong from the momentum, although he had turned off thepower. Then he grasped the lever and tried to throw the switch.

  It groaned and creaked, but, although it protested, it yielded to thepowerful young muscles that would not be denied. But, when it had movedtwo-thirds of the way it balked, and, despite his frenzied attempts,refused to budge another inch. And now the runaway engine was comingclose, rumbling and roaring hideously, while round the curve, a scantquarter of a mile away, appeared the smokestack of No. 56.

  Looking wildly about for the obstacle, he saw that a stone had beenwedged into the frog. He tried to remove it, but the turning of theswitch had jammed it against the rail. Straightening up, he swungthe lever far enough back to release the stone. He worked as if ina nightmare. Fifty feet away, the Mogul was bearing down like afire-breathing demon. With one swift movement he threw the stone aside;with the next he bowed his back over the lever until it felt as thoughit would break. Then the rusted rails groaned into place; with aninfernal din and uproar the runaway took the switch. Scarcely had itcleared the track when 56 thundered past, its wheels sending out streamsof sparks as the brakes ground against them.

  The Mogul struck the bumpers with terrific force, tore them away andleaped headlong against the wall of the quarry. There was a crash thatcould be heard for miles, and the wrecked locomotive reared into the airand then rolled over on its side, enveloped in smoke and hissing steam.

  As soon as the long train of 56 could be stopped, the throttle wasreversed and it came gliding back to the switch. The engineer andfireman sprang from their cab, conductor and trainmen came running up,and the passengers swarmed from the cars.

  There was a tumult of excited questionings, as they gathered round theyoung fellow who stood there, panting with the strain of his tremendousefforts. Now that he had succeeded in the forlorn hope that he hadundertaken, he was beginning to feel the reaction. He responded brieflyand modestly to the questions that were showered upon him, and, asthe full meaning of their narrow escape from death burst upon them,passengers and trainmen alike were loud in their praise of his presenceof mind and thanks for their deliverance. They were for making him ahero, but he shrank from this and would have none of it.

  "Don't thank me," he laughed. "It was this that made it possible;" andhe patted the handlebars of the motorcycle. "She certainly did herselfproud this day."

  "She surely is a dandy," smiled the conductor, "but you must admit thatyou had a _little_ to do with it. We'll never forget what you have donefor us to-day. But now we must be starting. We'll put the machine in thebaggage car, and you come in here with me."

  A blast of the whistle and No. 56 had resumed its interrupted journey.

  A ringing cheer burst from the anxious crowds that surged about theplatform as the great train, puffing and snorting, came into thestation. The agent, white as a ghost, could not believe his eyes.

  "Thank God," he cried. "I thought it was all over. I've telegraphed forthe wrecking crew, and all the doctors in town have been called to goalong. How on earth did you escape? Where is the Mogul?"

  "You'll find that down in the quarry smashed to bits," answered theconductor. "You'll need the wrecking train for that, all right, but youcan call off the doctors. We would have needed plenty of them--andundertakers too--if it hadn't been for this young man. He threw theswitch without a second to spare."

  The station agent grasped the rider's hand and stammered and stuttered,as he tried to pour out his thanks. But just then a flying wedge ofcollege boys came through the crowd and, grabbing the reluctant hero,hoisted him to their shoulders.

  "Wilson." "Bert Wilson." "O, you Bert." "O, you speed boy," they yelled.The enthusiastic lookers on took up the shout and it was a long timebefore Bert, blushing and embarrassed, could free himself from hisboisterous admirers.

  "O, cut it out, fellows," he protested. "It was all in the day's work."

  "Sure," assented Tom Henderson, "but _such_ a day's work."

  "And such a worker," added Dick Trent.

  "Three times three and a tiger for Bert Wilson," roared a stentorianvoice. The answer came in a tempest of cheers, and, as the train pulledout, the last sound that came to the waving passengers was the lustychorus:

  "For he's a jolly good fellow, Which nobody can deny."