The sudden check in speed as the motorcycle ploughed into the sand sent both boys flying over the handle bars, while the machine staggered and at last fell down beside the trunk of a tree.
For a moment they lay still, the breath fairly knocked out of them by the shock. Then they slowly scrambled to their feet, a little shakily, and looked at each other in disgust.
“Did you ever see such luck as that?” asked Teddy. “Now our goose is cooked. We’ll lose sight of them and that will be the end of it.”
“Not by a jugful, it won’t,” declared Fred, stoutly. “Jump up, and we’ll catch up to them in a jiffy.”
He righted the machine, and after leading it through the streak of sandy road, they mounted and started off. But they had not gone twenty rods before they began to slow up, and Fred discovered to his dismay that they were riding on a flat tire.
“We must have had a puncture when the machine fell down,” he said as they jumped off. “It bumped up against the tree, and some projection jammed into the tire. Here it is now,” as he disclosed a tiny opening.
They opened Lester’s tool box and set themselves vigorously to work to repair the puncture. They worked feverishly, and in a minute or two got out the inner tube and prepared to patch the damaged spot.
“I can do this just as well alone,” said Fred. “You take a squint at the tank and see if we have enough gas to take us on. Lester may have been nearly out when we grabbed the machine from him.”
A groan from Teddy, a moment later, told him that he had hit on an unpleasant truth.
“Almost empty!” exclaimed Teddy. “There isn’t enough to take us another mile. There’s a hoodoo in it. We no sooner see those fellows than we lose them again.”