Dick Merriwell's Aëro Dash; Or, Winning Above the Clouds

THE CATASTROPHE.

A glorious midsummer morning, clear, balmy and bracing. An ideal stretch of macadam, level as a floor and straight as a die for close onto two miles, with interminable fields of waving wheat on either side. A new, high-power car in perfect running order.

It was a temptation for speeding which few could resist, certainly not Brose Stovebridge, who was little given to thinking of the consequences when his own pleasure was concerned, and who had a reputation for reckless driving which was exceeded by none.

With a shout of joy, he snatched off his cap and flung it on the seat beside him. The next instant he had opened the throttle wide and advanced the spark to the last notch. The racing roadster leaped forward like a thing alive and shot down the stretch--cut-out wide open and pistons throbbing in perfect unison--a blurred streak of red amidst a swirling cloud of dust.

Stovebridge bent over the wheel, his eyes shining with excitement and his curly, blond hair tossed by the cutting wind into a disordered mass above his rather handsome face. The speedometer hand was close to the fifty mark.

“You’ll do, you beauty,” he muttered exultingly. “I could squeeze another ten out of you, if I had the chance.”

The horn shrieked a warning as he pulled her down to take the curve ahead, but her momentum was so great that she shot around the wide swerve almost on two wheels, with scarcely any perceptible slackening.

The next instant Stovebridge gave a gasping cry of horror.

Directly in the middle of the road stood a little girl. Her eyes were wide and staring, and she seemed absolutely petrified with fright.

The car swerved suddenly to one side, there was a grinding jar of the emergency and the white, stricken face vanished. With a sickening jolt, the roadster rolled on a short distance and stopped.

For a second or two Stovebridge sat absolutely still, his hands trembling, his face the color of chalk. Then he turned, as though with a great effort, and looked back.

The child lay silent, a crumpled, dust-covered heap. The white face was stained with blood, one tiny hand still clutched a bunch of wild flowers.

The man in the car gave a shuddering groan.

“I’ve killed her!” he gasped. “My God, I’ve killed her!”

He would be arrested--convicted--imprisoned. At the thought every bit of manhood left him and fear struck him to the soul. He knew that every law, human or divine, bound him to pick up the child and hurry her to a doctor, for there might still be a spark of life which could be fanned into flame. But he was lost to all sense of humanity, decency, or honor. Maddened by the fear of consequences, his one impulse was to fly--fly quickly before he was discovered.

In a panic he threw off the brakes, started the car and ran through his gears into direct drive with frantic haste. The car leaped forward, and, without a backward glance at the victim of his carelessness, Stovebridge opened her up wide and disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

The child lay still where she had fallen. Slowly the dust settled and a gentle breeze stirred the flaxen hair above her blood-stained face.

Then came the throbbing of another motor approaching, a deep-toned horn sounded, and a big, red touring car, containing four young fellows, rounded the bend at a fair speed.

Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale athlete, was at the wheel, and, catching sight of the little heap in the roadway, he stopped the car with a jerk and sprang out.

As he ran forward and gathered the limp form into his arms, he gave an exclamation of pity. Then his face darkened.

“By heavens!” he cried. “I’d like to get my hands on the man who did this. Poor little kid! Just look at her face, Brad.”

As Brad Buckhart, Dick’s Texas chum, caught sight of the great gash over the child’s temple, his eyes flashed and he clenched his fists.

“The coyote!” he exploded. “He certain ought to have a hemp necktie put around his neck with the other end over a limb. I’d sure like to have a hold of that other end. You hear me talk!”

Squeezing past the portly form of Bouncer Bigelow, Tommy Tucker leaned excitedly out of the tonneau.

“Is she dead, Dick?” he asked anxiously.

Merriwell took his fingers from the small wrist he had been feeling.

“Not quite,” he said shortly. “But it’s no thanks to the scoundrel who ran her down and left her here.”

His eyes, which had been looking keenly to right and left, lit up as they fell upon the roof of a farm house nestling among some trees a little way back from the road.

“There’s a house, Brad,” he said in a relieved tone. “Even if she doesn’t belong there, they’ll make her comfortable and send for a doctor.”

With infinite tenderness he carried the child down the road a little way to a gate, and thence up a narrow walk bordered with lilac bushes. The door of the farm house was open and, without hesitation, he walked into the kitchen, where a woman stood ironing.

“I found----” he began.

The woman turned swiftly, and as she saw his burden, her face grew ghastly white and her hands flew to her heart.

“Amy!” she gasped in a choking voice. “Is--she----”

“She’s not dead,” Dick reassured her, “but I’m afraid she’s badly hurt. I picked her up in the road outside. Some one in a car had run over her and left her there.”

For an instant he thought the woman was going to faint. Then she pulled herself together with a tremendous effort.

“Give her to me!” she cried fiercely, her arms outstretched. “Give her to me!”

Her eyes were blinded with a sudden rush of tears.

“Little Amy, that never did a bit o’ harm to nobody,” she sobbed. “Oh, it’s too much!”

“Careful, now,” Merriwell cautioned. “Take her gently. I’m afraid her arm is broken.”

“Would you teach a woman to be gentle to her child?” she cried wildly.