“No, and he’s probably so frightened that he’ll not try it,” agreed Joe.  “He’ll crash right through the barrier fence, and—­”

He did not finish his sentence, but Blake knew what his chum meant.

About half a mile beyond the farmhouse the road ran over a bridge that spanned a deep and rocky ravine.  About a week before there had been an accident.  Weakened by the passing of a heavy traction threshing engine, it had been broken, and was ruled unsafe by the county authorities.

Accordingly the bridge had been condemned and partially torn down, a new structure being planned to replace it.  But this new bridge was not yet in place, though a frail, temporary span, open only to foot passengers and very light vehicles, had been thrown across the ravine.

The danger, though, was not so much in the temporary bridge, as in the fact that the temporary road, connecting with it, left the main and permanent highway at a sharp curve.  Persons knowing of the broken bridge made allowances for this curve, and approached along the main road carefully, to make the turn safely into the temporary highway.

But a maddened horse could not be expected to do this.  He would dash along the main road, and would not make the turn.  Or, if he did, going at the speed of this one, he would most certainly overturn the carriage.

The main highway was fenced off a short distance on either side of the broken bridge, but this barrier was of so frail a nature that it could not be expected to stop a runaway.

“He’ll crash right through it, run out on the end of the broken bridge and——­”

Once more Joe did not finish.

“We’ve got to do something!” cried Blake.

“Yes, but what?” asked Joe.

“We’ve got to save them!” cried Blake again, as he thought of the two men in the carriage.  He had had a glimpse of their faces as the vehicle, drawn by the frenzied horse, swept past him on the road below.  One of the men he knew to be employed in the only livery stable of Central Falls, on the outskirts of which he and Joe were spending their holiday.  The other man was a stranger.  Blake had only seen that he was a young man, rather good-looking, and of a foreign cast of countenance.  Blake had momentarily put him down for an Italian.

“The motor cycle!” suddenly cried Joe.

“What?” asked Blake, only half comprehending.

“We might overtake them on the motor cycle!” repeated his chum.

A look of understanding came into Blake’s eyes.

“That’s right!” he cried.  “Why didn’t I think of that before, instead of standing here mooning?  I wonder if we’ve got time?”

“We’ll make time!” cried Joe grimly.  “Get her out, and we’ll ride for all we’re worth.  It’ll be a race, Blake!”

“Yes.  A race to save a life!  Lucky she’s got plenty of gas and oil in her.”

“Yes, and she hasn’t had a chance to cool down.  Run her out.”