“There isn’t a machine in the place that would have a cylinder to fit yours,” said the proprietor; “if it had been a rear cylinder, it would have been easy enough to give you another, because we could take one off a one-cylinder machine that would fit. But, as it happens, I haven’t a twin cylinder machine in the place.”
“But how long will it take to get the new one here?” asked Bert.
“About half a day, I should say,” replied the other.
“Half a day!” echoed Bert, and his heart sank. “Why, if I lose that much time here it probably means that I’ll lose the race. Do you realize that?”
“I don’t see what we can do about it,” replied the proprietor, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll get the cylinder for you the first minute I can, but that’s the best I can do.”
Bert saw that there was no use arguing the matter. He walked out of the place without another word, but with a great bitterness in his heart. All his days of heartbreaking riding—the hardships he had undergone—the obstacles he had faced and overcome—all these things were in a fair way of being set at nought because of the carelessness of a stupid mechanician. The thought almost drove him frantic, and he hurried along the pavement, scarcely noticing where he was going. At last he collected his thoughts somewhat and pulled himself together. Looking about him, he saw that he was not far from the postoffice, and it occurred to him that there might be a letter for him from Tom or Dick.
With this thought in mind he entered the postoffice, in one corner of which there was also a telegraph station.
Walking up to the window, he inquired if there was any mail for Bert Wilson.
“No,” said the functionary behind the grating, “but there’s a telegram just come in for a party of that name. Bill!” he called, to the telegraph operator, “here’s Mr. Wilson now, him that you just got the telegram for.”
“Oh, all right,” replied the operator, “here you are, sir. I was just going to send it up to your hotel.”