The lad nearly finished eating and was considering what direction
he might best search in next when he heard, running along a road
that bordered the lake, an automobile.
"Wonder who that is?" mused Tom. "It won't do any harm to take a
look, for it might be some of those thieves again. They probably
still have their auto or Happy Harry couldn't have gotten from
Sandport to Shopton so quickly."
The young inventor slipped ashore from the motor-boat, taking care
to make no noise. Stealing silently along toward the road, he
peered through the underbrush for a sight of the machine, which
seemed to be going slowly. But before the youth had a glimpse of
it he was made aware who the occupant was by hearing someone
exclaim:
"Bless my shoe laces if this cantankerous contraption isn't going
wrong again! I wonder if it's going to have a fit here in this
lonely place. It acts just as if it was. Bless my very
existence! Hold on now. Be nice! Be nice!"
"Mr. Damon!" exclaimed Tom, and, without knowing it, he had spoken
aloud.
"Hold on there! Hold on! Who's calling me in this forsaken
locality? Bless my shirt studs! But who is it?" and the
eccentric man who had sold Tom the motor-cycle looked intently at
the bushes.
"Here I am, Mr.
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