Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer

by Burt L. Standish

  CHAPTER X

  A DAY OF DISASTER

  After he left his companions, Bert made good speed for a time,and hummed along smoothly. At first all went well, and Bert wascongratulating himself on his good progress, when suddenly his enginecommenced racing wildly. In an instant Bert had shut off power, and cameto a stop as soon as possible. Then he dismounted, and commenced a hastyexamination. The first thought that flashed across his mind was that theclutch had given way in some manner, thus allowing the motor to slip.The clutch proved to be in perfect condition, however, but a shortfurther search revealed the cause of the trouble.

  The nut that held the engine driving sprocket on the shaft had workedloose and dropped off. Of course, the key that prevented the sprocketfrom slipping on the shaft had dropped out soon afterward, thus allowingthe shaft to revolve without transmitting the slightest power.

  "Well," thought Bert, "I'm in a pretty fix now, for fair. Here I amthirty miles from the nearest town and provided with a permanent freeengine. It rather looks as though I were up against it for fair."

  He made a careful search among his spare parts, but met with onlypartial success. He found a nut that fitted the shaft fairly well, butnothing he could substitute for the key.

  "Perhaps if I walk back a way I'll find it," he thought, and accordinglyhe walked slowly back the way he had come, carefully scanning every footof the path. He realized that the likelihood of finding it was veryslim, but there was always the chance, so he hunted carefully. Hisefforts met with no success, and at last he was forced to admit tohimself the hopelessness of the search.

  "But I've got to do something," he thought, "since I haven't got thepart, I'll have to try and make one, that's all." He reflected a fewmoments, and then, seized with an idea, once more looked through thetool bag. He selected the smallest of his screwdrivers and a file, andbegan to file away at the screwdriver about half an inch from the end,intending to use it in place of the lost key. But the steel of which itwas composed was very hard, and he found it a harder task than he hadanticipated.

  At last, by dint of patient filing until his fingers ached, he cutthrough the obstinate metal and finally held the precious bit of steelbetween his fingers.

  "By Jove!" he exclaimed, mopping his streaming face, "that was an awfuljob, but the end justifies the means. I wouldn't swap this little bitof steel now for ten times its weight in gold."

  He tried it in the slot on the engine shaft, and found it a fairly tightfit. "Eureka!" he exclaimed aloud, "that's bending circumstances to suityour will, or I don't know what is."

  He quickly screwed on the holding nut, and once more was ready to start."Come along now, old fellow," he said, apostrophizing the "Blue Streak,""we've got to do double work now to make up for this delay. Speed's theword from now on."

  Misfortune after misfortune overtook him, however, and he was delayedagain and again. It almost seemed as though fate repented of havingsaved him from a horrible death that morning, and was resolved to makeup for her leniency by imposing unusual hardships on the devotedmotorcyclist.

  He had not gone more than ten miles from where he had made the new shaftkey when the long driving chain snapped. Of course, he had extra linkswith him, and repaired it quickly, but even then much valuable time waslost. Then, he had hardly started again before a weak place in the fronttire gave way with a report like that of a pistol shot, and he wasforced to put in a new tube and a repair patch.

  This done, he chugged on some time without further mishap, and was justbeginning to believe that his troubles were over, when suddenly he wasapprised by the hard jarring of the back wheel that the tire on it hadgone flat. This meant another half hour's delay, and Bert began to feelthat he was "hoodooed" in earnest.

  "I wonder what will happen next," he thought, as he started off, afterremedying the last misfortune. "Hard luck seems to be keeping mecompany, and that isn't the best kind of a road companion to have."

  But for the present his fears remained unrealized, and as the roadcontinued fairly good he raced along, mounting up the miles on hisspeedometer in a very satisfactory fashion. He made good time, and onlystopped when the pangs of hunger warned him that it was lunch time.

  Tom and Dick had taken care to see that he was provided with plenty ofwholesome "grub," and had personally supervised the putting up of thelunch by the good-natured hotel chef.

  "They certainly made a good job of it," thought he appreciatively, as hepartook of delicious fried chicken sandwiches and crisp brown crullers.He washed down the meal with a long pull from his canteen, and then,after allowing himself a few minutes of hard-earned rest, was off againtoward the goal that now began to seem less distant than it had before.

  But the "jinx" had not yet deserted him, as he was soon to discover. Ashe was bowling along at a pace well over thirty miles an hour, hesuddenly turned a sharp bend in the road and ran squarely into a deepbed of sand. Before he could slow down appreciably, he was in it--and, asecond later, was in it literally. All his skill and strength could notkeep the machine from skidding, and he experienced a bone-racking fall.

  In a second he had picked himself up, and ran to where the "Blue Streak"was lying, its motor still plugging away and the rear wheel sendingshowers of sand into the air. Bert shut off the power and proceeded totake stock of damages. The footboard on the right had struck through thesand to the hard gravel below and had broken one of its supports. Thisweakened it so much that Bert found it would not bear his weight.

  There was nothing for him to do but repair the damage as best he could,and at length he managed to make a temporary repair with a spool ofcopper wire and a pair of pliers.

  "This is getting serious," thought Bert ruefully, as he finished thejob. "I'll never get anywhere if this keeps up long. But perhaps it'sbetter to have everything come at once and get it over with. I might aswell look at the bright side of it, anyway."

  He started off finally, and now it seemed that at last he was to goforward without interruption. But unfortunately, he was to find thatthis view of the case was altogether too sanguine. The road grewcontinually worse, and it became impossible to make even average speed.In places it was very sandy, too, and this hindered him a good deal.

  His trusty mount stood the bumping and wrenching it received without theslightest sign of weakening, and Bert was grateful indeed for thestaunch construction that made its present satisfactory performancepossible.

  The road was deeply rutted, and it was only by the most careful managingthat he steered clear of the depressions. But nothing could stop him,and he plugged doggedly on. The "Blue Streak" slipped and skidded, andtried to "lie down and roll over," as he described it afterward, and thestrain on his wrists and arms was tremendous. If the handlebars had oncegotten out of his control they would have zigzagged wildly and theresult would have been a bad fall. This Bert did his best to avoid, ashe was already bruised by the spills he had been through.

  At times he was forced to stop and rest a few minutes, and he alwaysmade use of these breathing spells to let the old oil out of his motorand pump in a fresh supply. Then when he resumed his journey the motorwould be like a different piece of mechanism. It almost seemed as thoughit, too, became weary at times and benefited by a brief rest. Probablyevery experienced motorist has noticed this, and many theories have beenadvanced in explanation, but none of them seem very satisfactory. Bertby this time was beginning to feel the effects of the strain he hadendured all through the day. He plowed slowly through the clinging sand,traveling most of the time on low gear. This was not the best thing inthe world for his engine, and every once in a while he was forced tostop and let it cool. With the engine turning over so fast he had to usean excessive supply of oil, and at length was warned, by the suckingsound of the oil pump, that the tank was empty.

  Fortunately, however, before he left Boyd he had secured an extra halfgallon can of lubricating oil, which he had strapped on the luggagecarrier. "And it's a mighty lucky thing I did, too," he thought,"otherwise I'd be stalled f
or good, with the prospect of a long tramp tothe nearest town. But now I can still beat the game."

  He unstrapped the can, and emptied its contents into the oil tank. "Thatought to last me until I reach some place where I can get more," hethought, throwing the empty can away. "Here goes to buck this sand likea rotary plow going through a snow bank."

  He gave the motor a couple of pump fulls of oil, and started it going.Slipping in the clutch, he moved forward with the grim resolve to takelong chances for the sake of gaining ground. Gradually he opened thethrottle, and when he had attained a good speed, changed to high gear.The "Blue Streak" gained momentum and charged ahead, throwing showers ofsand into the air. Every muscle tense, Bert held the motorcycle on thetrail, despite the strong inclination it evinced to go off on littleexploring expeditions of its own. He reeled off mile after mile at agood clip, and began to feel better.

  "This might be a lot worse," thought Bert, "if nothing happens now,I'll have made pretty fair progress by supper time." Consulting hisspeedometer he found that he had covered something over a hundred andtwenty miles so far, which, considering all the delays he had beensubjected to, and the bad roads, was very fair progress.

  But even as this thought was passing through his mind, the front wheelcaught in a hollow, the handlebars were wrenched from his hands with aforce that almost broke his wrists, and he was flying through the air.He landed with a crash, and for a few moments, dazzling lights glitteredbefore his eyes. Gradually these cleared away, and he sat up, feelingvery dizzy and sick.

  As his head cleared, he staggered to his feet, and looked around for hismotorcycle. There it lay, at some distance, half buried in the sand. Hewent over to it, and, after scooping some of the sand away, succeededby a great effort in pulling it upright.

  "I guess my part of the race is finished right here," he thought, with asinking heart. "Something _must_ have been badly broken in a fall likethat. It's a wonder I wasn't killed myself."

  He set the "Blue Streak" up on its stand, and cranked the engine. Itgave a few spasmodic explosions, but then stopped. "I knew it," heexclaimed aloud, with a feeling nearly akin to despair. But hisindomitable spirit was not yet ready to give up hope, and he commenced acareful examination of his mount.

  The handlebars were slewed around until they stood at right angles tothe machine. But this was a minor thing, and with the aid of a wrench hesoon set matters right. The main thing was to locate the cause of themotor refusing to run, and he set himself to solve the problem, as hehad so many others in the course of this most eventful and unlucky day.

  He tested the magneto spark by kicking the motor over energetically,and holding the conduction cable a quarter of an inch or so from thecylinders. A hot blue spark jumped snapping across the gap, and Bertdrew a sigh of relief. Provided the magneto were all right, he felt thathe might get started again after all.

  "The trouble must be in the carburetor," he concluded, and forthwithproceeded to dissect that highly important part of his equipment. Hissuspicions proved well founded. The carburetor was packed with sand,which had worked up into the spray plug and completely blocked the finegrooves cut in it.

  "That's easy," thought Bert. "I'll just wash this out in a little lessthan no time, and then I hope everything will be all right."

  He washed gasoline through the carburetor, and cleaned the spray plugtill not a vestige of sand remained. He then quickly assembled theinstrument and connected it up with the induction pipes. Floodingthe carburetor with gasoline, he gave the engine a quick turn over.Immediately it started off with a roar, and Bert threw the wrench he hadbeen using into the air, and deftly caught it again.

  "Hurrah!" he cried, "now, old boy, we'll try it again."

  He still felt rather dizzy, but the sun was getting low, and he knew hewould have to "go some" to reach the next town before dark. He hastilyput his tools away, and in a short time was speeding along again,nothing daunted by the accident. Presently the road improved, a suresign that he was approaching a settlement. Soon he could make out thelow houses of the little prairie town before him and he increased hisspeed, "splitting the air" like a comet.

  He reached the village without further trouble, and was soon solacinghimself for the strenuous day he had gone through with the best dinnerthe resources of the town could provide.