"Don't worry about the machine. I never want to see it again!" went on the man, rising to a sitting position. "It nearly killed me twice to-day. I'll never ride again." "You'll feel differently after the doctor fixes you up," said Mr. Swift with a smile. "Doctor! I don't need a doctor," cried the stranger. "I am only bruised and shaken up." "You have a bad cut on your head," said Tom. "It isn't very deep," went on the injured man, placing his fingers on it. "Fortunately I struck the tree a glancing blow. If you will allow me to rest in your house a little while and give me some plaster for the cut I shall be all right again." "Can you walk, or shall we carry you?" asked Tom's father. "Oh, I can walk, if you'll support me a little." And the stranger proved that he could do this by getting to his feet and taking a few steps. Mr. Swift and his son took hold of his arms and led him to the house. There he was placed on a lounge and given some simple restoratives by Mrs. Baggert, who, when she found the accident was not serious, recovered her composure. "I must have been unconscious for a few minutes," went on the man. "You were," explained Tom. "When I got up to you I thought you were dead, until I saw you breathe. Then I shut off the power of your machine and ran in for dad. I've got the motor-cycle outside. You can't ride it for some time, I'm afraid, Mr.--er--" and Tom stopped in some confusion, for he realized that he did not know the man's name. "I beg your pardon for not introducing myself before," went on the stranger. "I'm Wakefield Damon, of Waterfield. But don't worry about me riding that machine again. I never shall." "Oh, perhaps--" began Mr. Swift. "No, I never shall," went on Mr. Damon positively. "My doctor told me to get it, as he thought riding around the country would benefit my health. I shall tell him his prescription nearly killed me." "And me too," added Tom with a laugh. "How--why--are you the young man I nearly ran down this morning?" asked Mr. Damon, suddenly sitting up and looking at the youth. "I am," answered our hero. "Bless my soul! So you are!" cried Mr. Damon. "I was wondering who it could be. It's quite a coincidence. But I was in such a cloud of dust I couldn't make out who it was." "You had your muffler open, and that made considerable dust," explained Tom. "Was that it? Bless my existence! I thought something was wrong, but I couldn't tell what. I went over all the instructions in the book and those the agent told me, but I couldn't think of the right one. I tried all sorts of things to make less dust, but I couldn't. Then, bless my eyelashes, if the machine didn't stop just after I nearly ran into you. I tinkered over it for an hour or more before I could get it to going again. Then I ran into the tree. My doctor told me the machine would do my liver good, but, bless my happiness, I'd as soon be without a liver entirely as to do what I've done to-day. I am done with motor-cycling!"