CHAPTER I.

OFF ON THE WHEEL.

“What do you say to a ride to Greenpoint and back to-night, Dick?”

“That suits me, Joe.”

“It will be full moonlight, and the ride over the valley road will be elegant.”

“True enough. When shall we start?”

“As soon as we have had supper.”

The two speakers were Dick Burns and Joe Johnson.

Dick Burns was the only son of the leading lawyer in Lockport. He was a bright fellow of seventeen, and a bicycle rider of no mean ability.

The other boy was Joe Johnson, the hero of the present tale.

At the time of which we write Joe was not quite fifteen years of age. He had been born in a little town in Ohio called Rayford’s Run, but ere he was seven years old his parents moved to Lockport, where Mr. Johnson obtained employment in a large carpet works.

Joe attended the village school and had a host of friends. Every one liked the young fellow because he was so straightforward and honest in all he did. “You can trust Joe to do it,” was a common expression among his schoolmates.

Just three months before the opening of this story Joe had become the proud possessor of a bicycle. It had cost a neat little sum of money, but he had earned every dollar of it himself by doing odd jobs during off hours from school and home duties.

Joe was very proud of his wheel, and he soon learned to ride exceedingly well.

“Keep on, Joe, and you’ll become an expert,” said Dick to him one day.

“I wouldn’t like anything better,” returned Joe promptly.

That evening, long before the sun went down, the moon came up full and clear.

Dick Burns ate his supper as soon as he could and then hurried around to Joe’s house.

“Joe!”

“Coming!” was the reply from the woodshed. “Just wait till I put this wood in the box behind the kitchen stove.”

Having finished his evening chores, Joe came out with his wheel.

He wore a neat suit his mother had made for him, and cut a nice figure as he rode away by Dick Burns’ side.

As the two wheeled through the village they met pretty Carrie Burns, Dick’s sister.

Joe tipped his hat and stopped to chat with her a few minutes.

There was a tall, slim boy who saw this and scowled deeply from behind a pile of boxes at the corner grocery. This boy was Lemuel Akers, and he was Joe’s one enemy.

On one occasion Lemuel had given Joe the lie direct in school, and, much to his astonishment, had been knocked down for doing it.

There had been a short fight, and Joe had shown that he was clearly the stronger boy of the two, even though he was much smaller than Lemuel.

The tall boy hated Joe greatly, and was watching his chances to “get square,” as he termed it.

He did not attack Joe openly, but, instead, waited to do some mean trick behind Joe’s back.

“Going off for a ride, eh?” muttered Lemuel Akers, as Joe and Dick proceeded on their way. “I would like to make trouble for him while he is gone! I wonder if I can’t think of something.”

All unconscious of what was going on in Lemuel’s mind, Joe pushed on his pedals and made a spurt.

“Catch me, Dick!” he called, and a lively race took place, and was kept up until the outskirts of the place for which they were bound were reached.

Greenpoint was a fine town on the edge of a great lake, and here the two boys took a half-hour’s rest, while Dick, who always had pocket money, treated to soda water.

The rest over, Dick proposed that they return home by a different route.

“Let us go up Bacon Hill,” he said. “We have got lots of time, and coasting down the other side will be simply immense.”

“It’s pretty risky coasting on that hill in the moonlight,” replied Joe.

“Oh, it’s all right. I was over the road only two days ago and it is in prime condition.”

“All right, come on. I can’t bear to rest any longer.”

Off they went again, but this time not so fast, as there was a long and rather steep hill to climb.

The top reached, they stopped just a minute to look over the surrounding landscape, bathed in the white light of the full moon, and then started on the down grade leading to the Pentaco River, and back to Lockport.

A single push on the pedals was sufficient. The grade was not great, but it was enough, and with their feet up on the coasters they went flying down the long stretch, gaining additional speed as they advanced.

“Fine, eh?” cried Dick Burns.

“Immense!” yelled Joe, who was in the lead. “Come on!”

“I’m coming,” was his reply.

But try his best, Dick could not quite reach Joe.

Over a mile was passed without the least accident, and then, far beyond, the two saw the river winding along and sparkling in the pale light.

On the other side of the stream there was another hill, so the “fly” would have to end at the bridge.

“Now for a grand finish!” called out Joe. “Catch me, if you can, Dick!”

“I’m coming!” sang out his companion again.

Nearer and nearer they came to the river, Joe still well in advance.

Suddenly both boys saw something which made their hearts fairly leap into their throats.

The bridge was down!

That very afternoon the workmen had torn down the wooden structure, to replace it soon with one of iron.

The boys had ridden along so fast that neither had noticed the several notices posted up that the river could not be crossed on this road.

“The bridge is gone!” groaned Dick Burns.

Joe said nothing.

It was impossible for the bicyclists to stop on that downward grade.

Almost before they could think, they were within twenty feet of the river.

It was a rock-bound mountain torrent, not deep, but highly dangerous.

A fall from the road into it, at the speed at which they were going, would certainly mean death.

Could the two boys escape?