Off to one side, with a crushed hat on the back of his
head, with a coat split up the back, with a broken riding
crop in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, sat a
dignified, elderly gentleman.

That is, he would have been dignified had it not been for
his position and condition. No gentleman can look dignified
with a split coat and a crushed hat on, sitting under the
nose of a horse on a front piazza, with his raiment
otherwise much disheveled, while he wipes his scratched and
bleeding face with a handkerchief.

"Bless my--bless my--" began the elderly gentleman, and he
seemed at a loss what particular portion of his anatomy or
that of the horse, to bless, or what portion of the universe
to appeal to, for he ended up with: "Bless everything, Tom
Swift!"

"I heartily agree with you, Mr. Damon!" cried Tom. "But
what in the world happened?"

"That!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, pointing with his broken crop
at the horse on the piazza. "I was riding him when he ran
away--just as my motorcycle tried to climb a tree. No more
horses for me! I'll stick to airships," and slamming his
riding crop down on the porch floor with such force that the
horse started back, Mr. Damon arose, painfully enough if the
contortions on his face and his grunts of pain went for
anything.