The rival bicyclists

Lemuel Akers was so dazed by the blow he had received that it was fully a minute before he recovered sufficiently to stand on his feet.

“What did you hit me with that club for?” he bellowed.

“I hit with my fist, and I’ll do it again unless you take back what you said,” replied Joe. “I’ll fight you with one hand,” he added.

Lemuel Akers was fearfully frightened. He had never imagined that our hero was so strong. He glared at Joe, but did not dare attack him just then.

“I’ll fix you one of these days,” he muttered, and picked up his wheel.

“I want you to take back what you said,” went on Joe calmly, and he came a step closer to Lemuel.

The big boy was now thoroughly scared. He would have run away, but he understood that such an attempt would be fruitless.

“I—I—maybe I made a mistake,” he whined.

“You are a low, despicable fellow, Lemuel Akers! Now go; and beware how you speak of me in the future.”

So speaking, Joe turned on his heel, mounted his wheel, and rode off. He was thoroughly disgusted with Lemuel.

The meeting had disturbed our hero not a little, and it took an hour’s riding to make him easy in mind once more.

Lemuel’s words rang most unpleasantly in his ears. Would they convict him when the trial came off? Would they really send him to jail? The thought was fearful. His fair name would be blasted forever.

“I must do something toward clearing myself,” he thought. “If only I could find the real thief!”

On the following day a heavy storm came up. It rained for forty-eight hours, and, in consequence, the river which flowed to the west of Lockport was considerably swollen.

Joe’s younger brother, Paul, owned a rowboat, which was tied up on this stream. The rowboat broke away, and on the day it cleared, Paul went off in search of his property.

Joe had some work to do about the house after school hours, but about four o’clock in the afternoon he finished up, and then rode off on his wheel to see what had become of Paul, and if his brother’s boat had been found.

The roads were heavy after the rain, and wheeling was not very good. Joe went along slowly, and in several places he had to dismount and walk.

Just as he neared the stream he met three villainous-looking tramps. They had been camping out in an old shanty by the roadside. The tramps saw Joe some distance off, and at once began to whisper together.

“Hi, there, young feller!” called one of the tramps.

“What is it?” asked Joe.

“Give us a bit of terbacker, will yer?”

“I don’t use it.”

“Then give us the price o’ a paper, that’s a good son.”

“I have nothing for you.”

“Don’t git imperdent, son.”

And then the three tramps placed themselves directly in Joe’s path.

It was a lonely part of the road, and our hero realized that the tramps intended to stop him and go through his pockets. It was not the first time such a hold-up had occurred in the vicinity.

“Clear the way!” cried Joe sharply.

“Just you step down and pony up,” returned the leader of the trio.

“I won’t. Look out!”

As Joe spoke he turned back as if to retreat. At once the three tramps made after him.

Our hero waited until they were somewhat scattered, and then he turned again.

Like a flash he passed the two leading road ruffians.

The third tramp, a slight-built fellow, was directly in his way.

Whack! Joe’s wheel hit him directly in the side, and with a howl he went down in the mud.

Joe was almost unseated, but he managed to right his machine, and on he went.

When he had covered a good fifty yards he looked back. All three of the tramps were shaking their fists after him.

“That’s the time I got out of a tight pocket,” said Joe to himself.

The tramps did not remain long in the vicinity. They were afraid Joe would return with help and place them under arrest.

Ten minutes later brought our hero to the river. He was surprised to see how greatly the recent rains had swollen it. From a small creek it had grown into a swiftly-flowing river.

He looked up and down for Paul, but could see nothing of his brother.

“I’ll go below to Factory Falls,” he thought. “Maybe the boat went over the falls and was smashed to pieces.”

There was a fair road along the river bank, and along this our hero wheeled his way.

Presently he came to an iron bridge which spanned the river. Not fifty feet below were the Factory Falls, where the waters dropped a distance of twenty feet and more.

Joe wheeled on the bridge, and as he did so he noticed a rowboat away up the stream, with a single occupant in it.

As the rowboat came nearer, Joe saw that the person in it was a boy. He was standing up and waving his hands wildly.

“By jinks! That fellow has no oars!” exclaimed our hero suddenly.

On came the rowboat. It was caught in the mad current, and in a few minutes more would pass under the bridge and be hurled over the roaring falls.

Then Joe made a discovery that caused his heart to leap into his throat.

The boat was Paul’s craft and the occupant was his brother!

“Save me! Save me!” screamed Paul Johnson.

He saw Joe and held out his hands in despair.

What was to be done?

A thought flashed across Joe’s mind. There was one way in which his brother might be saved—only one.

Catching hold of one end of his bicycle our hero lowered the other end over the side of the bridge.

He leaned down as far as he dared.

“Catch hold of the wheel, Paul!” he yelled hoarsely.

Ten seconds more and it would be decided if Paul Johnson would be saved or if he would be dashed over the falls to his death.

The rowboat was coming along swiftly. Already it was in the shadow of the bridge.

Joe bent down still further. One hand clutched the wheel, the other a brace of the bridge.

And now the rowboat was directly beneath. Paul stretched out his hands, but could not reach the wheel.

“Jump! It’s your only chance!” shouted Joe.

And leaping on a seat, Paul jumped as high as he could.

His fingers grasped the lower rim of the bicycle wheel.

From under him swept the frail rowboat, to be dashed to pieces over the falls but a moment later.

The weight of his brother’s body was a great strain on Joe, but he managed to keep himself on the bridge.

“Hold tight, Paul!” he cried encouragingly.

“I will, but I can’t climb!” gasped the younger boy.

“I’ll pull you up!”

And Joe did pull him up, until Paul was able to step upon a bridge support and spring to the foot-planks.

Paul Johnson was saved!

He let out a sob and threw himself into his brother’s arms.

“Oh, Joe!”

It was all he could say, but the way he uttered the words was enough.

Joe was scarcely less affected. To lose his younger brother would have been a bitter blow to him.

For some time the two boys remained on the bridge to catch their breath and to get over the intense strain they had endured.

“Your boat is gone, Paul,” said Joe, at length.

“I don’t care. I wouldn’t want to go on the river any more, anyhow,” shuddered Paul.

“It always was a dangerous sport, Paul. Let us both save up, and we’ll buy a wheel for you to ride.”

Paul was too much overcome to walk home, and he rode behind Joe the greater part of the distance.

Our hero wanted to say nothing about the rescue, but Paul would not keep silent, and soon it was related how Joe had played the part of a hero.