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 ha without a liver entirely as to do what I've done to-day. I am done with motor-cycling!"
A hopeful look came over Tom's face, but he said nothing, that is, not just then. In a little while Mr. Damon felt so much better that he said he would start for home, "I'm afraid you'll have to leave your machine here," said Tom.
"You can send for it any time you want to," added Mr. Swift.
"Bless my hatband!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, who appeared to be very fond of blessing his vari-
