He tried it in the slot on the engine shaft, and found it a fairly tight fit. “Eureka!” he exclaimed aloud, “that’s bending circumstances to suit your 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 the word from now on.”
Misfortune after misfortune overtook him, however, and he was delayed again and again. It almost seemed as though fate repented of having saved him from a horrible death that morning, and was resolved to make up for her leniency by imposing unusual hardships on the devoted motorcyclist.
He had not gone more than ten miles from where he had made the new shaft key when the long driving chain snapped. Of course, he had extra links with him, and repaired it quickly, but even then much valuable time was lost. Then, he had hardly started again before a weak place in the front tire gave way with a report like that of a pistol shot, and he was forced to put in a new tube and a repair patch.
This done, he chugged on some time without further mishap, and was just beginning to believe that his troubles were over, when suddenly he was apprised by the hard jarring of the back wheel that the tire on it had gone flat. This meant another half hour’s delay, and Bert began to feel that he was “hoodooed” in earnest.
“I wonder what will happen next,” he thought, as he started off, after remedying the last misfortune. “Hard luck seems to be keeping me company, and that isn’t the best kind of a road companion to have.”
But for the present his fears remained unrealized, and as the road continued fairly good he raced along, mounting up the miles on his speedometer in a very satisfactory fashion. He made good time, and only stopped 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 of wholesome “grub,” and had personally supervised the putting up of the lunch by the good-natured hotel chef.
“They certainly made a good job of it,” thought he appreciatively, as he partook 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 again toward 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. As he was bowling along at a pace well over thirty miles an hour, he suddenly turned a sharp bend in the road and ran squarely into a deep bed of sand. Before he could slow down appreciably, he was in it—and, a second later, was in it literally. All his skill and strength could not keep the machine from skidding, and he experienced a bone-racking fall.