He was riding on, looking carefully ahead of him, to avoid stones and ruts that the gleam of light revealed, when, as he came to rather a lonely spot on the road, he heard, just ahead of him, a commotion.
There was a sound of carriage wheels scraping on the iron body guards, the tramping of a horse’s feet, and then a voice called out:
“Whoa now! Stand still, can’t you, until I see what’s the matter? Whoa! Something’s broken, that’s evident, worse luck! And I’m two miles from nowhere. Whoa, now!”
“Where have I heard that voice before?” mused Joe as he rode more slowly so as not to have another collision in the darkness.
He could hear some one jump to the ground and then the restless horse quieted down under the soothing words of the driver.
“Yes, it’s broken all right,” the voice went on. “And how in the mischief am I going to mend it? Whoa, now!”
Then Joe rode up, and in the glow of his light he saw Darrell Blackney, the manager of the Silver Stars, who was standing beside a carriage one side of the shafts of which hung down from the axle. The bolt had evidently broken.
“What’s the matter?” asked Joe, dismounting.
“Who’s that?” quickly asked Darrell.
“I’m Joe Matson,” was the answer. “I know you. I’m in the junior high class.”