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Look out how you mount here, for it's a hard proposition, Jerry, with these roots and stones." Frank had just started to move forward with his own motorcycle, when all of them heard a sound issuing from the woods alongside the "tote" road. "Help! help!" They looked at each other. "Somebody's in trouble there.
She would have wept: not waited, as she did, for the sound of the motorcycle that was driven with the dearest recklessness and would bring joy with it. She would never have had occasion to run to the door and open it impetuously to life. Her sensibility would have strayed on the dreary level of controlled grief.
The poor Glow-worm! She never had such a strenuous trip before or after. The man on the motorcycle came into the repair shop while we were there to have something done to his engine, and he listened with interest while we were telling the repair man how we had run into the limousine in the fog.
Ruth was "on pins and needles," as the saying is, for she very well remembered what the injured boy had murmured, in his half conscious state, when they brought him along the road on the stretcher. Had it been Jabez Potter who ran down Tom Cameron and forced him down the embankment with his motorcycle? This thought had been bobbing up in Ruth's mind ever since she had come to the Red Mill.
But I'll bet that not one of them was sorry he was there." "I'm glad that motorcycle carried double," replied Bart. "I'd have been cheated out of a lot of lovely fighting if it hadn't." They fought desperately, savagely, their bodies tired to the breaking point, but their courage never failing. And at last they won out. The armies rejoined each other. The gap was closed.
"You don't have to go very far; just try her through Middle Street, up Main, back along High, and down Willow, and here you are." Herbert looked dubious, but finally, after his companion had chaffed him a while, he agreed to make the venture. Roy gave full and complete directions about the manipulation of the motorcycle, and Rackliff, a trifle pale, finally mounted it and started down the incline.
They all agreed with this, and, after a final inspection of the projectile, the travellers entered it, and Jack was once more about to seal the big door. Before he could do so there came riding into the yard, on his motorcycle, which he had claimed that afternoon, Dick Johnson. "Wait a minute," he cried. "I've got a letter for you. It's from that man!"
He started the motorcycle. He raced toward the dam. He did not again press on the sensory device until he'd gone frantically through the village and hair-raisingly down the truck-road to the generator buildings. There he cut off the motor, and he heard men's voices, profane and agitated and alarmed. He saw the small flickerings of flashlights.
"I knew I'd catch a beastly cold coming home through the rain the other night on that old lemon of Hooker's," he said when he could get his breath. "I hate a cough; it always seems to tear my lungs out. Next thing I know I'll be throwing one of 'em up." "You don't look well." "I have felt better. Never mind, I'll get over it; but, oh! you bet your life you'll never catch me on a motorcycle again.
"My poor, poverty-stricken comrade!" murmured Herbert, preparing to light a fresh cigarette. "I sympathize with you. Follow my lead, and you'll wear diamonds." Thereafter Rackliff took great interest in Hooker's motorcycle more interest than the languid, indifferent fellow had seemed to show over anything else except his cigarettes.
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