Mr. Nestor wouldn't
like that, if he isn't in any danger. And it may turn out that he
has met an old friend, and has been talking with him all this
while, forgetting all about the passage of time."
They were now driving along the highway that led from the
little suburb where Mr. Nestor lived, to the main part of
Shopton, just beyond which was Tom's home. This section was
country-like, with very few houses and those placed at rather
infrequent intervals. The road was a good one, though not the
main-traveled one, and Mr. Nestor, as was known, frequently used
it when he rode his bicycle, an exercise of which he was very
fond.
As Tom and Mr. Damon drove along, they scanned, as best they
could in the light from the young moon and the powerful lamps on
the runabout, every part of the highway. They were looking for
some dark blot which might indicate where a man had fallen from
his wheel and was lying in some huddled heap on the road. But
they saw nothing like this, much to their relief.
"Do you know, Tom," said Mr. Damon, when they were nearing the
town, and their search, thus far, had been in vain, "I think
we're going at this the wrong way.
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