“I want to get to town—­ to send a telegram home,” answered Dick.  Then, struck by a sudden idea, he added:  “Paul, is your motorcycle ready for use?”

“It is, and if you want to use it to run down to Ashton with, take it,” answered the other, readily.  He had once been up in the Dartaway and was glad of a chance to pay the debt he thought he owed the Rovers.

“Thanks very much, I’ll use it,” returned Dick.

“Come on, then, and I’ll make sure that it is all right.”

The two young collegians hurried to a room attached to the gymnasium, where bicycles, motorcycles, and other things were kept.  Soon the motorcycle was brought out and Paul gave it a brief inspection.

“All right,” he announced.  “I thought it would be.”

“Then I’m off,” answered Dick, and pushing the machine along the path towards the road, he hopped into the seat and turned on the power.

Dick had never had much experience in running a motorcycle, but he had tried one enough to know how it should be handled, and soon he was well on his way and riding at a fair rate of speed.  The road was good, and he had a fine headlight, and almost before he knew it he had reached Ashton and was approaching the depot.

He had been afraid the ticket and telegraph office would be closed, but he found the man inside, making up a report.

“I want to rush a message home,” he said.  “And I want to arrange to have it telephoned to our house.  I will pay the bill, whatever it is.”

“It will depend on whether we can get the operator at Oak Run,” said the man.  “He may have locked up for the night.”

The message was written out, and Dick waited in the depot for an answer.  Quarter of an hour passed slowly and then the telegraph operator came to him.

“Sorry, Mr. Rover, but Oak Run doesn’t answer.  I guess the office is closed for the night.”

“Try for Spotstown,” said Dick, naming another railroad station several miles further from his home.

Again came a wait.

“Same story—­ can’t get Spotstown, either,” said the operator.

“Well, I’ve got to get somebody, somehow,” murmured the oldest Rover boy.  “I guess you can get New York City, can’t you?” he asked, with a faint smile.

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll write another message.”

Dick knew that when his father was in the habit of going to the metropolis he usually stopped at a large place on Broadway, which I shall call the Outlook Hotel.  He accordingly addressed a message to the manager of that hotel, as follows: 

“Is Anderson Rover at your hotel?  If so, have him telegraph me; otherwise send me word at once.”

“Now I guess I’ll hear something,” thought Dick, as he turned in this telegram and paid for having it transmitted.  “Send it Rush, please,” he told the operator.

Again there was a wait—­ this time of nearly half an hour.  At last the instrument commenced to click in the telegraph office, and Dick waited anxiously while the man took the message down.