will be sure to happen. I'll blow out a tire, or a spark plug
will get sooty on me and--"

"It's raining harder than ever," interrupted Tom. "Better stay
here to-night. You can telephone home." Which Mr. Damon did.

Tom was up early the next morning, in spite of the fact that he
did not go to bed in good season, and before breakfast he was
working at his new storage battery. After the meal he hurried
back to the shop, but it was not long before he came out,
wheeling his motor-cycle.

"Where are you going, Tom?" asked Mrs. Baggert.

"Oh, I've got to go to Mansburg to get some steel tubes for my
new battery," he replied. "I thought I had some large enough, but
I haven't." Mansburg was a good-sized town, near Shopton.

"Then I wish you'd bring me a bottle of stove polish,"
requested the housekeeper. "The liquid kind. I'm out of it, and
the stove is as red as a cow."

"All right," agreed the lad, as he leaped into the saddle and
pedaled off down the road. A moment later he had turned on the
power, and was speeding along the highway, which was in good
condition on account of the shower of the night before.

Tom was thinking so deeply of his new invention, and planning
what he would do when he had his electric runabout built, that,
almost before he knew it, he had reached Mansburg, purchased the