CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MAD DOG.

It was two evenings later that Joe arranged to go out bicycling with Carrie Burns, who had obtained a situation at the district school.

He was to meet her on the road next day after school hours, and they were to take a trip over a road which was comparatively new to her.

At the appointed time Joe looked for Carrie, but she did not put in an appearance.

He waited half an hour, and then, mounting his wheel, pedaled slowly toward the schoolhouse situated on the outskirts, between Lockport and Greenpoint.

He thought something had detained Carrie at the school, although he could not imagine what it could be.

On the way Joe met Josiah Arkley. The old farmer was glad to see him.

“I ain’t forgot how ye saved my henroost, Joe,” he said. “An’ I ain’t likely to forgit it. They tell me you air a downright good wheeler an’ makin’ money. I wish ye success, I do, on my word.”

“Thank you, Mr. Arkley,” said Joe, and then he rode on.

As he neared the schoolhouse he heard a scream of terror and recognized Carrie Burns’ voice.

Evidently Dick’s sister was in great peril.

Without hesitation our hero shot forward on his wheel.

“Help! Help!”

“What’s the trouble?” cried Joe.

“A mad dog! Save me!” shrieked pretty Carrie Burns.

Leaping to the ground, Joe ran up the schoolhouse steps and burst open the door.

A curious and thrilling sight met his gaze.

There, on a high desk, stood Carrie Burns. She held a heavy ruler in her hand, with which she was trying to ward off the repeated attacks of a small but ferocious dog, who was leaping and snarling about her.

That the dog was mad was evident. He was trying his best to catch her dainty foot between his gleaming teeth.

“Oh! Joe, save me!”

“I will, Carrie!”

On hearing Joe’s voice the dog turned around and started to attack our hero.

But Joe was too quick for him and sprang on a desk. Then he caught up a chair and whacked the dog over the back with it.

The cur rolled over and over, letting out a wild howl as he did so.

As he rolled Joe sprang down and caught him under the neck with one leg of the chair.

Before he could free himself our hero had him by the tail.

The schoolhouse was built on the bank of a wide stream, and the windows were open.

Swinging the cur around his head, Joe hurled him through a window.

He landed in the water with a splash and disappeared. But soon he came to the surface again, and then struck out for the opposite shore, a sadder if not a wiser dog.

Then Joe ran to Carrie’s side. She had been fighting off the dog for nearly an hour and was completely exhausted.

“Oh, Joe, you saved my life!” she murmured.

“I would do as much for you every day, Carrie,” he replied quickly, and then blushed.

It was some time later that the pair returned to Mr. Burns’ house.

Here Joe was again thanked. Later on he and Carrie took their ride, and both enjoyed it very much, despite the mad-dog incident.

The next few weeks were busy ones for Joe Johnson. He worked with his father, and during his spare time entered half a dozen races.

Of these races he won four and received prizes to the amount of nearly a hundred dollars.

With part of the money he bought his mother a new sewing machine, something she wished for very much.

The rest of the money went into the bank.

“I’ll not become a spendthrift, no matter how much I make,” said Joe to himself.

That winter a bicycle carnival was arranged to take place in the city of Chicago.

Joe was asked to enter, and he did so for a twenty-mile event.

Among those who entered against him was Wilbur Rand, who had just come back from a fairly successful tour, on which he had been showing off the merits of a new high-geared bicycle.

“What did I tell you, Joe?” cried Rand. “Didn’t I say we would meet again, and on the professional track?”

“I am sorry we are to race against each other,” said Joe soberly. “I want to see you win, and I don’t want to lose.”

“Just my idea of it, too. But we must both do our best. There must be no such thing as throwing the race into the other’s hands.”

“Oh, I know that.”

The carnival brought thousands of bicyclists to Chicago, and Joe made a great host of friends.

“I think this will be the last long race I will enter,” he said to Dick, who came on just to see Joe and Rand race.

“Why, Joe, what do you mean?”

“After this I am going in for one, two, and three mile events. I think I may win a championship in one of those events.”

“You can!” cried Dick. “You spurt so beautifully.”

The races were very successful in every way, excepting that in one event three of the riders were badly hurt.

On the second day of the carnival the twenty-mile event came off.

There were sixteen entries, and at the call every man appeared.

“You want to be careful of a pocket, Joe,” said Dick.

“And look out for smash-ups,” put in Wilbur Rand. “The track is not just what it might be. That other mishap proves it.”

It took some time to effect a good start. But at last they were off in a bunch.

All went well for several miles. Three men dropped out, leaving thirteen on the track.

An unlucky number, thought some people, and so it proved.

Joe occupied fifth place, with Wilbur Rand just ahead of him.

The three leaders were way ahead. But they were using themselves up, and must sooner or later drop behind.

Then came a burst from behind, and Wilbur Rand and Joe were surrounded.

Rand managed to escape, but Joe was “pocketed.”

In vain he tried to break out. Three riders held him steadily in check.

Joe was inclined to think he had been caught on purpose, but he could not prove it.

He drove along steadily, watching every movement the others made.

Half a lap was lost, and then our hero saw a fighting chance to clear himself.

One of the bicyclists had turned out about a foot.

This left a narrow space between the fellow and the man beside him.

Like an arrow from a bow Joe made a mighty spurt.

He shot through the opening like lightning, just grazing one of the men as he passed.

Before the fellows could realize it he was ten yards in advance of them.

“I’ll not get in such a pocket again,” he muttered to himself. “They mean to make me lose if they can.”

By this time Wilbur Rand was close up to the three men ahead, who were now in a close bunch.

These positions were held for over two miles. Then a cry rang out.

The first man had slipped at one of the turns and gone down. Almost instantly the second and third riders came down on top of him.

Before they could right themselves Wilbur Rand came up, with Joe close beside him.

Rand was riding at a furious rate, and it looked as if he, too, must be thrown amid that mass of wounded humanity and twisted wheels.

He tried to turn out and began to slip.

But Joe caught him by the shoulder.

“Steady!” he cried. “Steady! Now you are all right.”

It was all done quicker than it can be told. But the crowd saw and applauded.

Joe had saved Wilbur Rand from a dangerous fall, and perhaps from great injury.

On went the two riders side by side.

Then the wreck was cleared away and the others followed.

Some began to spurt, and again Joe was hard pushed from behind, while Wilbur Rand led by a dozen yards.

And now the last mile was on.

Joe rode as he had never ridden before. Slowly but surely he crawled up to Wilbur Rand.

“Here they come!”

“It’s going to be a close race!”

“Joe Johnson has caught up!”

“See, they are wheel and wheel!”

The shouts were deafening as Joe and Rand neared the end of the final lap.

They were indeed side by side. Neither was a single inch ahead.

A flash and the tape was crossed.

A tie!

“Hurrah for Joe Johnson!”

“Three cheers for Wilbur Rand!”

Wilbur Rand and Joe shook hands, while the crowd continued to cheer.

“Shall we divide or race it over?” asked Rand.

“Let us divide,” said Joe. “I would rather have it that way. We can be better friends.”

“Just my way of thinking.”

But Rand did not forget how Joe had saved him from falling.

Before they separated he made Joe a present of a handsome diamond scarfpin.