Dave did not venture to climb up to the road as yet. His late captors would certainly make some kind of a search for him. He kept on running along in the dry ditch, out of view from the road. Its bottom was rock strewn, and several times his feet became tangled up in trailing vines. Finally, all unaware of what he was heading into, Dave plunged into a maze of bushes to take a direct tumble where the ditch dropped suddenly nearly a dozen feet.
It was a gravel pit Dave had fallen into, and a heavy tree stump lay at its bottom. Dave’s head struck this as he landed, and he was stunned.
He was conscious of partially rousing a little later. In a dreamy, dazed way the main idea in his mind was that he was very sleepy. Dave passed into another spell of insensibility. He awoke with a start finally, to find the sun shining brightly on his face.
“Oh, the mischief!” exclaimed Dave, as he realized that the day was several hours old.
The boy felt of his head. He found a lump there, but he was as bright as a dollar otherwise. He was immensely satisfied to find himself free. If his late captors had searched for him, they had looked in the wrong direction.
Dave got up on the roadway and looked up and down it. No one was in sight. He crossed it, plunged through the timber, and reaching a north and south road faced the sun on a pretty good sprint.
Dave wondered what had become of his guardian, and the sheriff, and the wrecked milk wagon. It seemed certain that sooner or later his enemies would look for him at Dayton. The lad did not mind that so much just now. He had great faith in Mr. King, and he believed that the airman would find some way to circumvent his enemies.
“It’s missing the race that makes me feel bad,” ruminated Dave. “Of course they’ll find a substitute to take my place.”
A mile down the road Dave came to a farmhouse. The men folks were out in the field and the mistress was just washing up her breakfast dishes. She prepared a hasty meal for Dave, which refreshed him considerably. She directed him to the nearest town, gave him a clear idea of his bearings, and told him it was nine o’clock.
“They are just starting at the meet,” said Dave rather mournfully, as he proceeded on his way. “That lady said Clyde is two miles ahead. Why, I remember now, Clyde is one of the towns on the route of the one hundred mile dash. Some of the contestants ought to be passing over the place inside of the next fifteen minutes.”