"UNCLE SAM" Tom Slade stood looking with consternation at the scene before him.

His trusty motorcycle which had borne him so far stood beside him, and as he steadied it, it seemed as if this mute companion and co-patriot which he had come to love, were sharing his utter dismay.

Almost at his very feet rushed a boisterous torrent, melting the packed earth of the road like wax in a tropic sunshine, and carrying its devastating work of erosion to the very spot where he stood.
In a kind of cold despair, he stooped, reached for a board which lay near, and retreating a little, stood upon it, watching the surging water in its heedless career.

This one board was all that was left of the bridge over which Tom Slade and _Uncle Sam_ were to have rushed in their race with the dawn.

Already the first glimmering of gray was discernible in the sky behind him, and Tom looked at _Uncle Sam_ as if for council in his dilemma.