“Jee-whillikens and Jupiter crickets! Talk about a Scary Hen! A million old biddies cacklin’ and runnin’ from a hen hawk wouldn’t be a marker to that there crazy road rioter! But what’s Poke thinkin’ he’s tryin’ to do? And where’s he supposed to be headin’ for? Way he’s takin’ up the whole road and then a leetle more he’s bound to have trouble and a heap of it mighty quick and enthusiastic! Guess I’d better be follerin’ along, so’s to be able to help pick up the pieces.”
And with that Lon threw on his power, turned the big car about, and hurried in the hazy wake of the Saracen.
Poke, meanwhile, was continuing his wild ride, keeping the road by some freak of fortune. The slight but steady fall in the grade was making amends for any eccentricities of conduct on the part of the ancient motor, which, it must be confessed, was beginning to betray some of its weaknesses. It was missing fire now and then; but, curiously, the breaks seemed to make the uproar all the greater and more ear-splitting. It sufficed, at any rate, to give warning of his approach to a woman, who had been driving tranquilly toward town. Poke, sweeping along, had a glimpse of a frightened horse plunging through a wayside thicket, of a white-faced driver plying a whip frantically, of a buggy careening dizzily. Then his second escape from collision had been made and he was dashing through woods, and praying that the sidewise plunge he believed to be inevitable would not come until he was again in open country.
The snorting of his motor was more irregular—and a bit more terrifying. The whir of the propeller appeared to grow shriller. The “lift” of the machine was less noticeable. One wing, indeed, had suffered much damage at its tip by contact with branches, and on the other side there was an observable sag of the planes. Something had gone wrong astern—just what the trouble was he could not discover. Not that it mattered, though. By this time he was ready enough to let the Saracen go to the scrap-heap, if only he could escape with his life.
He was coming, now, to the border of the wooded tract. Through the trees to the left he had brief sight of the gleaming blue water of an arm of the lake. At that his courage rose a bit. He could swim. If the machine ended its runaway career in the depths, he would fare well enough, if he could avoid going down with the ship. It behooved him to make sure that he would not be caught by parts of the machine if he tried to jump. He bent forward, he strove for firmer footing on the cross braces. And then——
The ending of the Saracen’s dash was as sudden as its beginning. A lurch to the right was not followed by recovery. Instead, the machine held its new course, left the beaten track of the road, plunged into a tangle of undergrowth, which served as an efficient, if painful, brake. Thorns raked Poke’s arms and tore his clothes, just as branches ripped the planes to ribbons and saplings, bending before the machine’s charge, yet contrived to check it. The broken roar of the motor ceased; the whir of the propeller died away. In a second or two the monster of the road was stripped of all terrors, and lay in the midst of a tangled heap of debris, half contributed by its own parts and half by the brush and vines it had uprooted.
Poke had pitched forward from his saddle. Indeed, it was as if a giant arm had picked him up and tossed him bodily through another clump of dense undergrowth—and thereby supplied him with a sort of natural shock absorber. There was a tremendous cracking and crashing of small branches and twigs; and from the farther side of the thicket Poke rolled out upon the ground, shaken from head to foot, bleeding from a score of scratches, his garments fit only for the rag-bag. Yet almost miraculously he had escaped serious harm. Not a bone was broken. He might be sore and aching from forehead to toe, but all his wounds were superficial. He could raise himself on hands and knees, and this he did. Instead, though, of attempting to get upon his feet, he remained as he was for a moment, staring in amazement at the sight which met his eyes.
Poke, as it happened, had been catapulted into a tableau, so to speak, in which Zorn and Hagle figured. Apparently, the noisy approach of the Saracen had interrupted Zorn in the process of disciplining the smaller boy; for he still held Hagle by the collar, while with his victim he gazed spellbound at the picture presented by Poke in the rôle of the human projectile.
CHAPTER XVI
ZORN SHOWS HIS TEETH AGAIN
It occurred to Poke, subsequently, that his appearance on the scene produced upon Zorn and Hagle an effect even more marked than might be accounted for by the extraordinary manner of his approach. The pair were not merely startled; there was an alarm, a consternation hinting at something more than surprise or fear of physical harm. It was odd, too, that they seemed to have difficulty in finding tongue; and it was Poke who spoke first.