I A NARROW ESCAPE
........................ 1
II TOM OVERHEARS
SOMETHING ............... 13
III IN A SMASH-UP
........................ 21
IV TOM AND A
MOTOR-CYCLE ................. 28
V MR. SWIFT IS ALARMED
................... 37
VI AN INTERVIEW IN THE
DARK .............. 45
VII OFF ON A SPIN
........................ 51
VIII SUSPICIOUS ACTIONS
.................. 60
IX A FRUITLESS PURSUIT
................... 70
X OFF TO ALBANY
.......................... 76
XI A VINDICTIVE TRAMP
.................... 86
XII THE MEN IN THE AUTO
.................. 96
XIII CAUGHT IN A STORM
................... 105
XIV ATTACKED FROM
BEHIND ................. 111
XV A VAIN SEARCH
......................... 118
XVI BACK HOME
............................ 127
XVII MR. SWIFT IN
DESPAIR ................ 134
XVIII HAPPY HARRY AGAIN
.................. 142
XIX TOM ON A HUNT
........................ 150
XX ERADICATE SAWS WOOD
................... 159
XXI ERADICATE GIVES A
CLUE ............... 165
XXII THE STRANGE
MANSION ................. 173
XXIII TOM IS PURSUED
..................... 180
XXIV UNEXPECTED HELP
..................... 188
XXV THE CAPTURE -
GOOD-BY ................ 196
"THAT’S the way to
do it! Whoop her up, Andy! Shove the spark lever over, and turn on more
gasolene! We’ll make a record this trip."
Two lads in the tonneau
of a touring car, that was whirling along a country road, leaned forward to
speak to the one at the steering wheel. The latter was a red-haired youth, with
somewhat squinty eyes, and not a very pleasant face, but his companions seemed
to regard him with much favor. Perhaps it was because they were riding in his
automobile.
"Whoop her up,
Andy!" added the lad on the seat beside the driver. "This is immense!"
"I rather thought
you’d like it," remarked Andy Foger, as he turned the car to avoid a stone
in the road. "I’ll make things hum around Shopton!"
"You have made
them hum already, Andy," commented the lad beside him. "My ears are
ringing. Wow! There goes my cap!"
As the boy spoke, the
breeze, created by the speed at which the car was traveling, lifted off his
cap, and sent it whirling to the rear.
Andy Foger turned for
an instant’s glance behind. Then he opened the throttle still wider, and exclaimed:
"Let it go, Sam.
We can get another. I want to see what time I can make to Mansburg! I want to
break a record, if I can."
"Look out, or you’ll
break something else!" cried a lad on the rear seat. "There’s a
fellow on a bicycle just ahead of us. Take care, Andy!"
"Let him look out
for himself," retorted Foger, as he bent lower over the steering wheel,
for the car was now going at a terrific rate. The youth on the bicycle was
riding slowly along, and did not see the approaching automobile until it was
nearly upon him. Then, with a mean grin, Andy Foger pressed the rubber bulb of
the horn with sudden energy, sending out a series of alarming blasts.
"It’s Tom
Swift!" cried Sam Snedecker. "Look out, or you’ll run him down!"
"Let him keep out
of my way," retorted Andy savagely.
The youth on the wheel,
with a sudden spurt of speed, tried to cross the highway. He did manage to do
it, but by such a narrow margin that in very terror Andy Foger shut off the
power, jammed down the brakes and steered to one side. So suddenly was he
obliged to swerve over that the ponderous machine skidded and went into the
ditch at the side of the road, where it brought up, tilting to one side.
Tom Swift, his face
rather pale from his narrow escape, leaped from his bicycle, and stood
regarding the automobile. As for the occupants of that machine, from Andy
Foger, the owner, to the three cronies who were riding with him, they all
looked very much astonished.
"Are we—is it
damaged any, Andy?" asked Sam Snedecker.
"I hope not,"
growled Andy. "If my car’s hurt it’s Tom Swift’s fault!"
He leaped from his seat
and made a hurried inspection of the machine. He found nothing the matter,
though it was more from good luck than good management. Then Andy turned and
looked savagely at Tom Swift. The latter, standing his wheel up against the
fence, walked forward.
"What do you mean
by getting in the way like that?" demanded Andy with a scowl. "Don’t
you see that you nearly upset me?"
"Well, I like your
nerve, Andy Foger!" cried Tom. "What do you mean by nearly running me
down? Why didn’t you sound your horn? You automobilists take too much for
granted! You were going faster than the legal rate, anyhow!"
"I was, eh?"
sneered Andy.
"Yes, you were,
and you know it. I’m the one to make a kick, not you. You came pretty near
hitting me. Me getting in your way! I guess I’ve got some rights on the
road!"
"Aw, go on!"
growled Andy, for he could think of nothing else to say. "Bicycles are a
back number, anyhow."
"It isn’t so very
long ago that you had one," retorted Tom. "First you fellows know,
you’ll be pulled in for speeding."
"I guess we had
better go slower, Andy," advised Sam in a low voice. "I don’t want to
be arrested."
"Leave this to
me," retorted Andy. "I’m running this tour. The next time you get in
my way I’ll run you down!" he threatened Tom. "Come on, fellows, we’re
late now, and can’t make a record run, all on account of him," and Andy
got back into the car, followed by his cronies, who had hurriedly alighted
after their thrilling stop.
"If you try
anything like this again you’ll wish you hadn’t," declared Tom, and he
watched the automobile party ride off.
"Oh, forget
it!" snapped back Andy, and he laughed, his companions joining.
Tom Swift said nothing
in reply. Slowly he remounted his wheel and rode off, but his thoughts toward
Andy Foger were not very pleasant ones. Andy was the son of a wealthy man of
the town, and his good fortune in the matter of money seemed to have spoiled
him, for he was a bully and a coward. Several times he and Tom Swift had
clashed, for Andy was overbearing. But this was the first time Andy had shown
such a vindictive spirit.
"He thinks he can
run over everything since he got his new auto," commented Tom aloud as he
rode on. "He’ll have a smash-up some day, if he isn’t careful. He’s too
fond of speeding. I wonder where he and his crowd are going?"
Musing over his narrow
escape Tom rode on, and was soon at his home, where he lived with his widowed
father, Barton Swift, a wealthy inventor, and the latter’s housekeeper, Mrs.
Baggert. Approaching a machine shop, one of several built near his house by Mr.
Swift, in which he conducted experiments and constructed apparatus Tom was met
by his parent.
"What’s the
matter, Tom?" asked Mr. Swift. "You look as if something had
happened."
"Something very
nearly did," answered the youth, and related his experience on the road.
"Humph,"
remarked the inventor; "your little pleasure-jaunt might have ended
disastrously. I suppose Andy and his chums are off on their trip. I remember
Mr. Foger speaking to me about it the other day. He said Andy and some
companions were going on a tour, to be gone a week or more. Well, I’m glad it
was no worse. But have you anything special to do, Tom?"
"No; I was just
riding for pleasure, and if you want me to do anything, I’m ready."
"Then I wish you’d
take this letter to Mansburg for me. I want it registered, and I don’t wish to
mail it in the Shopton post-office. It’s too important, for it’s about a
valuable invention."
"The new turbine
motor, dad?"
"That’s it. And on
your way I wish you’d stop in Merton’s machine shop and get some bolts he’s
making for me."
"I will. Is that
the letter?" and Tom extended his hand for a missive his father held.
"Yes. Please be
careful of it. It’s to my lawyers in Washington regarding the final steps in
getting a patent for the turbine. That’s why I’m so particular about not
wanting it mailed here. Several times before I have posted letters here, only
to have the information contained in them leak out before my attorneys received
them. I do not want that to happen in this case. Another thing; don’t speak
about my new invention in Merton’s shop when you stop for the bolts."
"Why, do you think
he gave out information concerning your work?"
"Well, not
exactly. He might not mean to, but he told me the other day that some strangers
were making inquiries of him, about whether he ever did any work for me."
"What did he tell
them?"
"He said that he
occasionally did, but that most of my inventive work was done in my own shops,
here. He wanted to know why the men were asking such questions, and one of them
said they expected to open a machine shop soon, and wanted to ascertain if they
might figure on getting any of my trade. But I don’t believe that was their
object."
"What do you think
it was?"
"I don’t know,
exactly, but I was somewhat alarmed when I heard this from Merton. So I am
going to take no risks. That’s why I send this letter to Mansburg. Don’t lose
it, and don’t forget about the bolts. Here is a blue-print of them, so you can
see if they come up to the specifications."
Tom rode off on his
wheel, and was soon spinning down the road.
"I wonder if I’ll
meet Andy Foger and his cronies again?" he thought. "Not very likely
to, I guess, if they’re off on a tour. Well, I’m just as well satisfied. He and
I always seem to get into trouble when we meet." Tom was not destined to
meet Andy again that day, but the time was to come when the red-haired bully
was to cause Tom Swift no little trouble, and get him into danger besides. So
Tom rode along, thinking over what his father had said to him about the letter
he carried.
Mr. Barton Swift was a
natural inventor. From a boy he had been interested in things mechanical, and
one of his first efforts had been to arrange a system of pulleys, belts and
gears so that the windmill would operate the churn in the old farmhouse where
he was born. The fact that the mill went so fast that it broke the churn all to
pieces did not discourage him, and he at once set to work, changing the gears.
His father had to buy a new churn, but the young inventor made his plan work on
the second trial, and thereafter his mother found butter-making easy.
From then on Barton
Swift lived in a world of inventions. People used to say he would never amount
to anything, that inventors never did, but Mr. Swift proved them all wrong by
amassing a considerable fortune out of his many patents. He grew up, married
and had one son, Tom. Mrs. Barton died when Tom was three years old, and since
then he had lived with his father and a succession of nurses and housekeepers.
The last woman to have charge of the household was a Mrs. Baggert, a motherly
widow, and she succeeded so well, and Tom and his father formed such an
attachment for her, that she was regarded as a fixture, and had now been in
charge ten years.
Mr. Swift and his son
lived in a handsome house on the outskirts of the village of Shopton, in New
York State. The village was near a large body of water, which I shall call Lake
Carlopa, and there Tom and his father used to spend many pleasant days boating,
for Tom and the inventor were better chums than many boys are, and they were
often seen together in a craft rowing about, or fishing. Of course Tom had some
boy friends, but he went with his father more often than he did with them.
Though many of Mr.
Swift’s inventions paid him well, he was constantly seeking to perfect others.
To this end he had built near his home several machine shops, with engines,
lathes and apparatus for various kinds of work. Tom, too, had the inventive
fever in his veins, and had planned some useful implements and small machines.
Along the pleasant
country roads on a fine day in April rode Tom Swift on his way to Mansburg to
register the letter. As he descended a little hill he saw, some distance away,
but coming toward him, a great cloud of dust.
"Somebody must be
driving a herd of cattle along the road," thought Tom. "I hope they
don’t get in my way, or, rather, I hope I don’t get in theirs. Guess I’d better
keep to one side, yet there isn’t any too much room."
The dust-cloud came
nearer. It was so dense that whoever or whatever was making it could not he
distinguished.
"Must be a lot of
cattle in that bunch," mused the young inventor, "but I shouldn’t
think they’d trot them so on a warm day like this. Maybe they’re stampeded. If
they are I’ve got to look out." This idea caused him some alarm.
He tried to peer through
the dust-cloud, but could not. Nearer and nearer it came. Tom kept on, taking
care to get as far to the side of the road as he could. Then from the midst of
the enveloping mass came the sound of a steady "chug-chug."
"It’s a
motor-cycle!" exclaimed Tom. "He must have his muffler wide open, and
that’s kicking up as much dust as the wheels do. Whew! But whoever’s on it will
look like a clay image at the end of the line!"
Now that he knew it was
a fellow-cyclist who was raising such a disturbance, Tom turned more toward the
middle of the road. As yet he had not had a sight of the rider, but the
explosions of the motor were louder. Suddenly, when the first advancing
particles of dust reached him, almost making him sneeze, Tom caught sight of
the rider. He was a man of middle age, and he was clinging to the handle-bars
of the machine. The motor was going at full speed.
Tom quickly turned to
one side, to avoid the worst of the dust. The motor-cyclist glanced at the
youth, but this act nearly proved disastrous for him. He took his eyes from the
road ahead for just a moment, and he did not see a large stone directly in his
path. His front wheel hit it, and the heavy machine, which he could not control
very well, skidded over toward the lad on the bicycle. The motor-cyclist
bounced up in the air from the saddle, and nearly lost his hold on the
handle-bars.
"Look out!"
cried Tom. "You’ll smash into me!"
"I’m—I’m—try—ing—not—to!"
were the words that were rattled out of the middle-aged man.
Tom gave his wheel a
desperate twist to get out of the way. The motor-cyclist tried to do the same,
but the machine he was on appeared to want matters its own way. He came
straight for Tom, and a disastrous collision might have resulted had not
another stone been in the way. The front wheel hit this, and was swerved to one
side. The motor-cycle flashed past Tom, just grazing his wheel, and then was
lost to sight beyond in a cloud of dust that seemed to follow it like a halo.
"Why don’t you
learn to ride before you come out on the road!" cried Tom somewhat
angrily.
Like an echo from the
dust-cloud came floating back these words:
"I’m—try—ing—to!"
Then the sound of the explosions became fainter.
"Well, he’s got
lots to learn yet!" exclaimed Tom. "That’s twice to-day I’ve nearly
been run down. I expect I’d better look out for the third time. They say that’s
always fatal," and the lad leaped from his wheel. "Wonder if he bent
any of my spokes?" the young inventor continued as he inspected his
bicycle.
"EVERYTHING seems
to be all right," Tom remarked, "but another inch or so and he’d have
crashed into me. I wonder who he was? I wish I had a machine like that. I could
make better time than I can on my bicycle. Perhaps I’ll get one some day. Well,
I might as well ride on."
Tom was soon at
Mansburg, and going to the post-office handed in the letter for registry.
Bearing in mind his father’s words, he looked about to see if there were any
suspicious characters, but the only person he noticed was a well-dressed man,
with a black mustache, who seemed to be intently studying the schedule of the
arrival and departure of the mails.
"Do you want the
receipt for the registered, letter sent to you here or at Shopton?" asked
the clerk of Tom. "Come to think of it, though, it will have to come here,
and you can call for it. I’ll have it returned to Mr. Barton Swift, care of
general delivery, and you can get it the next time you are over," for the
clerk knew Tom.
"That will
do," answered our hero, and as he turned away from the window he saw that
the man who had been inquiring about the mails was regarding him curiously. Tom
thought nothing of it at the time, but there came an occasion when he wished
that he had taken more careful note of the well-dressed individual. As the
youth passed out of the outer door he saw the man walk over to the registry
window.
"He seems to have
considerable mail business," thought Tom, and then the matter passed from
his mind as he mounted his wheel and hurried to the machine shop.
"Say, I’m awfully
sorry," announced Mr. Merton when Tom said he had come for the bolts,
"but they’re not quite done. They need polishing. I know I promised them
to your father today, and he can have them, but he was very particular about
the polish, and as one of my best workers was taken sick, I’m a little
behind."
"How long will it
take to polish them?" asked Tom.
"Oh, about an
hour. In fact, a man is working en them now. If you could call this afternoon
they’ll be ready. Can you?"
"I s’pose I’ve got
to," replied Tom good-naturedly. "Guess I’ll have to stay in Mansburg
for dinner. I can’t get back to Shopton in time now."
"I’ll be sure to
have them for you after dinner," promised Mr. Merton. "Now, there’s a
matter I want to speak to you about, Tom. Has your father any idea of giving
the work he has been turning over to me to some other firm?"
"Not that I know
of. Why?" and the lad showed his wonder.
"Well, I’ll tell
you why. Some time ago there was a stranger in here, asking about your father’s
work. I told Mr. Swift of it at the time. The stranger said then that he and
some others were thinking of opening a machine shop, and he wanted to find out
whether they would be likely to get any jobs from your father. I told the man I
knew nothing about Mr. Swift’s business, and he went away. I didn’t hear any
more of it, though of course I didn’t want to lose your father’s trade. Now a
funny thing happened. Only this morning the same man was back here, and he was making
particular inquiries about your father’s private machine shops."
"He was?"
exclaimed Tom excitedly.
"Yes. He wanted to
know where they were located, how they were laid out, and what sort of work he
did in them."
"What did you tell
him?"
"Nothing at all. I
suspected something, and I said the best way for him to find out would be to go
and see your father. Wasn’t that right?"
"Sure. Dad doesn’t
want his business known any more than he can help. What do you suppose they
wanted?"
"Well, the man
talked as though he and his partners would like to buy your father’s
shops."
"I don’t believe
he’d sell. He has them arranged just for his own use in making patents, and I’m
sure he would not dispose of them."
"Well, that’s what
I thought, but I didn’t tell the man so. I judged it would be best for him to
find out for himself."
"What was the man’s
name?"
"He didn’t tell
me, and I didn’t ask him."
"How did he
look?"
"Well, he was well
dressed, wore kid gloves and all that, and he had a little black
mustache."
Tom started, and Mr.
Merton noticed it.
"Do you know
him?" he asked.
"No," replied
Tom, "but I saw——" Then he stopped. He recalled the man he had seen
in the post-office. He answered this description, but it was too vague to be
certain.
"Did you say you’d
seen him?" asked Mr. Merton, regarding Tom curiously.
"No—yes—that is—well,
I’ll tell my father about it," stammered Tom, who concluded that it would
be best to say nothing of his suspicions. "I’ll be back right after
dinner, Mr. Merton. Please have the bolts ready for me, if you can."
"I will. Is your
father going to use them in a new machine?"
"Yes; dad is
always making new machines," answered the youth, as the most polite way of
not giving the proprietor of the shop any information. "I’ll be back right
after dinner," he called as he went out to get on his wheel.
Tom was much puzzled.
He felt certain that the man in the post-office and the one who had questioned
Mr. Merton were the same.
"There is
something going on, that dad should know about," reflected Tom. "I
must tell him. I don’t believe it will be wise to send any more of his patent
work over to Merton. We must do it in the shops at home, and dad and I will
have to keep our eyes open. There may be spies about seeking to discover
something about his new turbine motor. I’ll hurry back with those bolts and
tell dad. But first I must get lunch. I’ll go to the restaurant and have a good
feed while I’m at it."
Tom had plenty of
spending money, some of which came from a small patent he had marketed himself.
He left his wheel outside the restaurant, first taking the precaution to chain
the wheels, and then went inside. Tom was hungry and ordered a good meal. He
was about half way through it when some one called his name.
"Hello, Ned!"
he answered, looking up to see a youth about his own age. "Where did you
blow in from?"
"Oh, I came over
from Shopton this morning," replied Ned Newton, taking a seat at the table
with Tom. The two lads were chums, and in their younger days had often gone
fishing, swimming and hunting together. Now Ned worked in the Shopton bank, and
Tom was so busy helping his father, so they did not see each other so often.
"On business or
pleasure?" asked Tom, putting some more sugar in his coffee.
"Business. I had
to bring some papers over from our bank to the First National here. But what
about you?"
"Oh, I came on dad’s
account."
"Invented anything
new?" asked Ned as he gave his order to the waitress.
"No, nothing since
the egg-beater I was telling you about. But I’m working on some things."
"Why don’t you
invent an automobile or an airship?"
"Maybe I will some
day, but, speaking of autos, did you see the one Andy Foger has?"
"Yes; it’s a
beaut! Have you seen it?"
"Altogether at too
close range. He nearly ran over me this morning," and the young inventor
related the occurrence.
"Oh, Andy always
was too fresh," commented Ned; "and since his father let him get the
touring car I suppose he’ll be worse than ever."
"Well, if he tries
to run me down again he’ll get into trouble," declared Tom, calling for a
second cup of coffee.
The two chums began
conversing on more congenial topics, and Ned was telling of a new camera he
had, when, from a table directly behind him, Tom heard some one say in rather
loud tones:
"The plant is
located in Shopton, all right, and the buildings are near Swift’s house."
Tom started, and
listened more intently.
"That will make it
more difficult," one man answered. "But if the invention is as
valuable as——"
"Hush!" came
a caution from another of the party. "This is too public a place to
discuss the matter. Wait until we get out. One of us will have to see Swift, of
course, and if he proves stubborn——"
"I guess you’d
better hush yourself," retorted the man who had first spoken, and then the
voices subsided.
But Tom Swift had
overheard something which made him vaguely afraid. He started so at the sound
of his father’s name that he knocked a fork from the table.
"What’s the
matter; getting nervous?" asked Ned with a laugh.
"I guess so,"
replied Tom, and when he stooped to pick the fork up, not waiting for the girl
who was serving at his table, he stole a look at the strangers who had just
entered. He was startled to note that one of the men was the same he had seen
in the post-office—the man who answered the description of the one who had been
inquiring of Mr. Merton about the Swift shops.
"I’m going to keep
my ears open," thought Tom as he went on eating his dinner.
THOUGH the young
inventor listened intently, in an endeavor to hear the conversation of the men
at the table behind him, all he could catch was an indistinct murmur. The
strangers appeared to have heeded the caution of one of their number and were
speaking in low tones.
Tom and Ned finished
their meal, and started to leave the restaurant. As Mr. Swift’s son passed the
table where the men sat they looked up quickly at him. Two of them gave Tom but
a passing glance, but one—he whom the young inventor had noticed in the
post-office—stared long and intently.
"I think he will
know me the next time he sees me," thought Tom, and he boldly returned the
glance of the stranger.
The bolts were ready
when the inventor’s son called at the machine shop a second time, and making a
package of them Tom fastened it to the saddle of his bicycle. He started for
home at a fast pace, and was just turning from a cross road into the main
highway when he saw ahead of him a woman driving a light wagon. As the sun
flashed on Tom’s shining wheel the horse gave a sudden leap, swerved to one
side, and then bolted down the dusty stretch, the woman screaming at the top of
her voice.
"A runaway!"
cried Tom; "and partly my fault, too!"
Waiting not an instant
the lad bent over his handle-bars and pedaled with all his force. His bicycle
seemed fairly to leap forward after the galloping horse.
"Sit still! Don’t
jump out! Don’t jump!" yelled the young inventor. "I’ll try to catch
him!" for the woman was standing up in front of the seat and leaning
forward, as if about to leap from the wagon.
"She’s lost her
head," thought Tom. "No wonder! That’s a skittish horse."
Faster and faster he
rode, bending all his energies to overtake the animal. The wagon was swaying
from side to side, and more than once the woman just saved herself from being
thrown out by grasping the edge of the seat. She found that her standing
position was a dangerous one and crouched on the bottom of the swaying vehicle.
"That’s
better!" shouted Tom, but it is doubtful if she heard him, for the
rattling of the wagon and the hoofbeats of the horse drowned all other sounds.
"Sit still!" he shouted. "I’ll stop the horse for you!"
Trying to imagine
himself in a desperate race, in order to excite himself to greater speed, Tom
continued on. He was now even with the tail-board of the wagon, and slowly
creeping up. The woman was all huddled up in a lump.
"Grab the reins!
Grab the reins!" shouted Tom. "Saw on the bit! That will stop
him!"
The occupant of the
wagon turned to look at the lad. Tom saw that she was a handsome young lady.
"Grab the reins!" he cried again. "Pull hard!"
"I—I can’t!"
she answered frightenedly. "They have dropped down! Oh, do please stop the
horse! I’m so—so frightened!"
"I’ll stop
him!" declared the youth firmly, and he set his teeth hard. Then he saw
the reason the fair driver could not grasp the lines. They had slipped over the
dashboard and were trailing on the ground.
The horse was slacking
speed a bit now, for the pace was telling on his wind. Tom saw his opportunity,
and with a sudden burst of energy was at the animal’s head. Steering his wheel with
one hand, with the other the lad made a grab for the reins near the bit. The
horse swerved frightenedly to one side, but Tom swung in the same direction. He
grasped the leather and then, with a kick, he freed himself from the bicycle,
giving it a shove to one side. He was now clinging to the reins with both
hands, and, being a muscular lad and no lightweight, his bulk told.
"Sit—still!"
panted our hero to the young woman, who had arisen to the seat. "I’ll have
him stopped in half a minute now!"
It was in less time
than that, for the horse, finding it impossible to shake off the grip of Tom,
began to slow from a gallop to a trot, then to a canter, and finally to a slow
walk. A moment later the horse had stopped, breathing heavily from his run.
"There, there,
now!" spoke Tom soothingly. "You’re all right, old fellow. I hope you’re
not hurt"—this to the young lady—and Tom made a motion to raise his cap,
only to find that it had blown off.
"Oh, no—no; I’m
more frightened than hurt."
"It was all my fault,"
declared the young inventor. "I should not have swung into the road so
suddenly. My bicycle alarmed your horse."
"Oh, I fancy
Dobbin is easily disturbed," admitted the fair driver. "I can’t thank
you enough for stopping him. You saved me from a bad accident."
"It was the least
I could do. Are you all right now?" and he handed up the dangling reins.
"I think Dobbin, as you call him, has had enough of running," went on
Tom, for the horse was now quiet.
"I hope so. Yes, I
am all right. I trust your wheel is not damaged. If it is, my father, Mr. Amos
Nestor, of Mansburg, will gladly pay for its repair."
This reminded the young
inventor of his bicycle, and making sure that the horse would not start up
again, he went to where his wheel and his cap lay. He found that the only
damage to the bicycle was a few bent spokes, and, straightening them and having
again apologized to the young woman, receiving in turn her pardon and thanks,
and learning that her name was Mary Nestor, Tom once more resumed his trip. The
wagon followed him at a distance, the horse evincing no desire now to get out
of a slow amble.
"Well, things are
certainly happening to me today," mused Tom as he pedaled on. "That
might have been a serious runaway if there’d been any thing in the road."
Tom did not stop to
think that he had been mainly instrumental in preventing a bad accident, as he
had been the innocent cause of starting the runaway, but Tom was ever a modest
lad. His arms were wrenched from jerking on the bridle, but he did not mind
that much, and bent over the handle-bars to make up for lost time.
Our hero was within a
short distance of his house and was coasting easily along when, just ahead of
him, he saw a cloud of dust, very similar to the one that had, some time before,
concealed the inexperienced motor-cyclist.
"I wonder if that’s
him again?" thought Tom. "If it is I’m going to hang back until I see
which way he’s headed. No use running any more risks."
Almost at that moment a
puff of wind blew some of the dust to one side. Tom had a glimpse of the man on
the puffing machine.
"It’s the same
chap!" he exclaimed aloud; "and he’s going the same way I am. Well, I’ll
not try to catch up to him. I wonder what he’s been doing all this while, that
he hasn’t gotten any farther than this? Either he’s been riding back and forth,
or else he’s been resting. My, but he certainly is scooting along!"
The wind carried to Tom
the sound of the explosions of the motor, and he could see the man clinging
tightly to the handle-bars. The rider was almost in front of Tom’s house now,
when, with a suddenness that caused the lad to utter an exclamation of alarm,
the stranger turned his machine right toward a big oak tree.
"What’s he up
to?" cried Tom excitedly. "Does he think he can climb that, or is he
giving an exhibition by showing how close he can come and not hit it?"
A moment later the
motor-cyclist struck the tree a glancing blow. The man went flying over the
handle-bars, the machine was shunted to the ditch along the road, and falling
over on one side the motor raced furiously. The rider lay in a heap at the foot
of the tree.
"My, that was a
smash!" cried Tom. "He must be killed!" and bending forward, he
raced toward the scene of the accident.
WHEN Tom reached the
prostrate figure on the grass at the foot of the old oak tree, the youth bent
quickly over the man. There was an ugly cut on his head, and blood was flowing
from it. But Tom quickly noticed that the stranger was breathing, though not
very strongly.
"Well, he’s not
dead—just yet!" exclaimed the youth with a sigh of relief. "But I
guess he’s pretty badly hurt. I must get help—no, I’ll take him into our house.
It’s not far. I’ll call dad."
Leaning his wheel
against the tree Tom started for his home, about three hundred feet away, and
then he noticed that the stranger’s motor-cycle was running at full speed on
the ground.
"Guess I’d better
shut off the power!" he exclaimed. "No use letting the machine be
ruined." Tom had a natural love for machinery, and it hurt him almost as
much to see a piece of fine apparatus abused as it did to see an animal
mistreated. It was the work of a moment to shut off the gasolene and spark, and
then the youth raced on toward his house.
"Where’s
dad?" he called to Mrs. Baggert, who was washing the dishes.
"Out in one of the
shops," replied the housekeeper. "Why, Tom" she went on
hurriedly as she saw how excited he was, "whatever has happened?"
"Man hurt—out in
front—motor-cycle smash—I’m going to bring him in here—get some things ready—I’ll
find dad!"
"Bless and save
us!" cried Mrs. Baggert. "Whatever are we coming to? Who’s hurt? How
did it happen? Is he dead?"
"Haven’t time to
talk now!" answered Tom, rushing from the house. "Dad and I will
bring him in here."
Tom found his father in
one of the three small machine shops on the grounds about the Swift home. The
youth hurriedly told what had happened.
"Of course we’ll
bring him right in here!" assented Mr. Swift, putting aside the work upon
which he was engaged. "Did you tell Mrs. Baggert?"
"Yes, and she’s
all excited."
"Well, she can’t
help it, being a woman, I suppose. But we’ll manage. Do you know the man?"
"Never saw him
before to-day, when he tried to run me down. Guess he doesn’t know much about
motor-cycles. But come on, dad. He may bleed to death."
Father and son hurried
to where the stranger lay. As they bent over him he opened his eyes and asked
faintly:
"Where am I? What
happened?"
"You’re all right—in
good hands," said Mr. Swift. "Are you much hurt?"
"Not much—mostly
stunned, I guess. What happened?" he repeated.
"You and your
motor-cycle tried to climb a tree," remarked Tom with grim humor.
"Oh, yes, I
remember now. I couldn’t seem to steer out of the way. And I couldn’t shut off
the power in time. Is the motor-cycle much damaged?"
"The front wheel
is," reported Tom, after an inspection, "and there are some other
breaks, but I guess——"
"I wish it was all
smashed!" exclaimed the man vigorously. "I never want to see it
again!"
"Why, don’t you
like it?" asked Tom eagerly.
"No, and I never
will," the man spoke faintly but determinedly.
"Never mind
now," interposed Mr. Swift. "Don’t excite yourself. My son and I will
take you to our house and send for a doctor."
"I’ll bring the
motor-cycle, after we’ve carried you in," added Tom.
"Don’t worry about
the machine. I never want to see it again!" went on the man, rising to a
sitting position. "It nearly killed me twice to day. I’ll never ride
again."
"You’ll feel
differently after the doctor fixes you up," said Mr. Swift with a smile.
"Doctor! I don’t
need a doctor," cried the stranger. "I am only bruised and shaken
up."
"You have a bad
cut on your head," said Tom.
"It isn’t very
deep," went on the injured man, placing his fingers on it.
"Fortunately I struck the tree a glancing blow. If you will allow me to
rest in your house a little while and give me some plaster for the cut I shall
be all right again."
"Can you walk, or
shall we carry you?" asked Tom’s father.
"Oh, I can walk,
if you’ll support me a little." And the stranger proved that he could do
this by getting to his feet and taking a few steps. Mr. Swift and his son took
hold of his arms and led him to the house. There he was placed on a lounge and
given some simple restoratives by Mrs. Baggert, who, when she found the accident
was not serious, recovered her composure.
"I must have been
unconscious for a few minutes," went on the man.
"You were,"
explained Tom. "When I got up to you I thought you were dead, until I saw
you breathe. Then I shut off the power of your machine and ran in for dad. I’ve
got the motorcycle outside. You can’t ride it for some time, I’m afraid, Mr.—er——"
and Tom stopped in some confusion, for he realized that he did not know the man’s
name.
"I beg your pardon
for not introducing myself before," went on the stranger. "I’m
Wakefield Damon, of Waterfield. But don’t worry about me riding that machine
again. I never shall."
"Oh, perhaps——"
began Mr. Swift.
"No, I never
shall," went on Mr. Damon positively. "My doctor told me to get it,
as he thought riding around the country would benefit my health I shall tell
him his prescription nearly killed one."
"And me too,"
added Tom with a laugh.
"How—why—are you
the young man I nearly ran down this morning?" asked Mr. Damon, suddenly
sitting up and looking at the youth.
"I am,"
answered our hero.
"Bless my soul! So
you are!" cried Mr. Damon. "I was wondering who it could be. It’s
quite a coincidence. But I was in such a cloud of dust I couldn’t make out who
it was."
"You had your
muffler open, and that made considerable dust," explained Tom.
"Was that it?
Bless my existence! I thought something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell what. I
went over all the instructions in the book and those the agent told me, but I
couldn’t think of the right one. I tried all sorts of things to make less dust,
but I couldn’t. Then, bless my eyelashes, if the machine didn’t stop just after
I nearly ran into you. I tinkered over it for an hour or more before I could
get it to going again. Then I ran into the tree. My doctor told me the machine
would do my liver good, but, bless my happiness, I’d as soon be without a liver
entirely as to do what I’ve done to-day. I am done with motorcycling!"
A hopeful look came
over Tom’s face, but he said nothing, that is, not just then. In a little while
Mr. Damon felt so much better that he said he would start for home.
"I’m afraid you’ll
have to leave your machine here," said Tom.
"You can send for
it any time you want to," added Mr. Swift.
"Bless my
hatband!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, who appeared to be very fond of blessing
his various organs and his articles of wearing apparel. "Bless my hatband!
I never want to see it again! If you will be so kind as to keep it for me, I
will send a junk man after it. I will never spend anything on having it
repaired. I am done with that form of exercise—liver or no liver—doctor or no
doctor."
He appeared very
determined. Tom quickly made up his mind. Mr. Damon had gone to the bathroom to
get rid of some of the mud on his hands and face.
"Father,"
said Tom earnestly, "may I buy that machine of him?"
"What? Buy a
broken motor-cycle?"
"I can easily fix
it. It is a fine make, and in good condition. I can repair it. I’ve wanted a
motor-cycle for some time, and here’s a chance to get a good one cheap."
"You don’t need to
do that," replied Mr. Swift. "You have money enough to buy a new one
if you want it. I never knew you cared for them."
"I didn’t, until
lately. But I’d rather buy this one and fix it up than get a new one. Besides,
I have an idea for a new kind of transmission, and perhaps I can work it out on
this machine."
"Oh, well, if you
want it for experimental purposes, I suppose it will be as good as any. Go ahead,
get it if you wish, but don’t give too much for it."
"I’ll not. I fancy
I can get it cheap."
Mr. Damon returned to
the living-room, where he had first been carried.
"I cannot thank
you enough for what you have done for me," he said. "I might have
lain there for hours. Bless my very existence! I have had a very narrow escape.
Hereafter when I see anyone on a motor-cycle I shall turn my head away. The
memory will be too painful," and he touched the plaster that covered a cut
on his head.
"Mr. Damon,"
said Tom quickly, "will you sell me that motor-cycle?"
"Bless my finger
rings! Sell you that mass of junk?"
"It isn’t all
junk," went on the young inventor. "I can easily fix it; though, of
course," he added prudently, "it will cost something. How much would
you want for it?"
"Well,"
replied Mr. Damon, "I paid two hundred and fifty dollars last week. I have
ridden a hundred miles on it. That is at the rate of two dollars and a half a
mile—pretty expensive riding. But if you are in earnest I will let you have the
machine for fifty dollars, and then I fear that I will be taking advantage of
you."
"I’ll give you
fifty dollars," said Tom quickly, and Mr. Damon exclaimed:
"Bless my liver—that
is, if I have one. Do you mean it?"
Tom nodded. "I’ll
fetch you the money right away," he said, starting for his room. He got
the cash from a small safe he had arranged, which was fitted up with an
ingenious burglar alarm, and was on his way downstairs when he heard his father
call out:
"Here! What do you
want? Go away from that shop! No one is allowed there!" and looking from
an upper window, Tom saw his father running toward a stranger, who was just
stepping inside the shop where Mr. Swift was constructing his turbine motor.
Tom started as he saw that the stranger was the same black-mustached man whom
he had noticed in the post-office, and, later, in the restaurant at Mansburg.
STUFFING the money
which he intended to give to Mr. Damon in his pocket, Tom ran downstairs. As he
passed through the living-room, intending to see what the disturbance was
about, and, if necessary, aid his father, the owner of the broken motor-cycle
exclaimed:
"What’s the
matter? What has happened? Bless my coat-tails, but is anything wrong?"
"I don’t
know," answered Tom. "There is a stranger about the shop, and my
father never allows that. I’ll be back in a minute."
"Take your
time," advised the somewhat eccentric Mr. Damon. "I find my legs are
a bit weaker than I suspected, and I will be glad to rest a while longer. Bless
my shoelaces, but don’t hurry!"
Tom went into the rear
yard, where the shops, in a small cluster of buildings, were located. He saw
his father confronting the man with the black mustache, and Mr. Swift was
saying:
"What do you want?
I allow no people to come in here unless I or my son invites them. Did you wish
to see me?"
"Are you Mr.
Barton Swift?" asked the man.
"Yes, that is my
name."
"The inventor of
the Swift safety lamp, and the turbine motor?"
At the mention of the
motor Mr. Swift started.
"I am the inventor
of the safety lamp you mention," he said stiffly, "but I must decline
to talk about the motor. May I ask where you obtained your information
concerning it?"
"Why, I am not at
liberty to tell," went on the man. "I called to see if we could
negotiate with you for the sale of it. Parties whom I represent——"
At that moment Tom
plucked his father by the sleeve.
"Dad,"
whispered the youth, "I saw him in Mansburg. I think he is one of several
who have been inquiring in Mr. Merton’s shop about you and your patents. I
wouldn’t have anything to do with him until I found out more about him."
"Is that so?"
asked Mr. Swift quickly. Then, turning to the stranger, he said: "My son
tells me——"
But Mr. Swift got no
further, for at that moment the stranger caught sight of Tom, whom he had not
noticed before.
"Ha!"
exclaimed the man. "I have forgotten something—an important engagement—will
be back directly—will see you again, Mr. Swift—excuse the trouble I have put
you to—I am in a great hurry," and before father or son could stop him,
had they any desire to, the man turned and walked quickly from the yard.
Mr. Swift stood staring
at him, and so did Tom Then the inventor asked:
"Do you know that
man? What about him, Tom? Why did he leave so hurriedly?"
"I don’t know his
name," replied Tom, "but I am suspicious regarding him, and I think
he left because he suddenly recognized me." Thereupon he told his father
of seeing the man in the post-office, and hearing the talk of the same
individual and two companions in the restaurant.
"And so you think
they are up to some mischief, Tom?" asked the parent when the son had finished.
"Well, I wouldn’t
go quite as far as that, but I think they are interested in your patents, and
you ought to know whether you want them to be, or not."
"I most certainly
do not—especially in the turbine motor. That is my latest invention, and, I think,
will prove very valuable. But, though I have not mentioned it before, I expect
to have trouble with it. Soon after I perfected it, with the exception of some
minor details, I received word from a syndicate of rich men that I was
infringing on a motor, the patent of which they controlled.
"This surprised me
for two reasons. One was because I did not know that any one knew I had
invented the motor. I had kept the matter secret, and I am at a loss to know
how it leaked out. To prevent any further information concerning my plans
becoming public, I sent you to Mansburg to-day. But it seems that the
precaution was of little avail. Another matter of surprise was the information
that I was infringing on the patent of some one else. I had a very careful examination
made, and I found that the syndicate of rich men was wrong. I was not
infringing. In fact, though the motor they have is somewhat like mine, there is
one big difference—theirs does not work, while mine does. Their patents are
worthless."
"Then what do you
think is their object?"
"I think they want
to get control of my invention of the turbine motor, Tom. That is what has been
worrying me lately. I know these men to be unscrupulous, and, with plenty of
money, they may make trouble for me."
"But can’t you
fight them in the courts?"
"Yes, I could do
that. It is not as if I was a poor man, but I do not like lawsuits. I want to
live quietly and invent things. I dislike litigation. However, if they force it
on me I will fight!" exclaimed Mr. Swift determinedly.
"Do you think this
man was one of the crowd of financiers?" asked Tom.
"It would be hard
to say. I did not like his actions, and the fact that he sneaked in here, as if
he was trying to get possession of some of my models or plans, makes it
suspicious."
"It certainly
does," agreed Tom. "Now, if we only knew his name we could——"
He suddenly paused in
his remark and sprang forward. He picked up an envelope that had dropped where
the stranger had been standing.
"The man lost this
from his pocket, dad," said Tom eagerly. "It’s a telegram. Shall we
look at it?"
"I think we will
be justified in protecting ourselves. Is the envelope open?"
"Yes."
"Then read the
telegram"
Tom drew out a folded
yellow slip of paper. It was a short message. He read:
"’Anson Morse,
Mansburg. See Swift to-day. Make offer. If not accepted do the best you can.
Spare no effort. Don’t give plans away.’"
"Is that
all?" asked Mr. Swift.
"All except the
signature."
"Who is the
telegram signed by?"
"By Smeak &
Katch," answered Tom.
"Those rascally
lawyers!" exclaimed his father. "I was beginning to suspect this.
That is the firm which represents the syndicate of wealthy men who are trying
to get my turbine motor patents away from me. Tom, we must be on our guard! They
will wage a fierce fight against me, for they have sunk many thousands of
dollars in a worthless machine, and are desperate."
"We’ll fight ’em!"
cried Tom. "You and I, dad! We’ll show ’em that the firm of Swift &
Son is swift by name and swift by nature!"
"Good!" exclaimed
the inventor. "I’m glad you feel that way about it, Tom. But we are going
to have no easy task. Those men are rich and unscrupulous. We shall have to be
on guard constantly. Let me have that telegram. It may come in useful. Now I
must send word to Reid & Crawford, my attorneys in Washington, to be on the
lookout. Matters are coming to a curious pass."
As Mr. Swift and his
son started for the house, they met Mr. Damon coming toward them.
"Bless my very
existence!" cried the eccentric man. "I was beginning to fear
something had happened to you. I am glad that you are all right. I heard
voices, and I imagined——"
"It’s all
right," Mr. Swift reassured him. "There was a stranger about my shop,
and I never allow that. Do you feel well enough to go? If not we shall be glad
to have you remain with us. We have plenty of room."
"Oh, thank you
very much, but I must be going. I feel much better. Bless my gaiters, but I
never will trust myself in even an automobile again! I will renounce gasolene
from now on."
"That reminds
me," spoke Tom. "I have the money for the motor-cycle," and he
drew out the bills. "You are sure you will not regret your bargain, Mr.
Damon? The machine is new, and needs only slight repairs. Fifty dollars is——"
"Tut, tut, young
man! I feel as if I was getting the best of you. Bless my handkerchief! I hope
you have no bad luck with it."
"I’ll try and be
careful," promised Tom with a smile as he handed over the money. "I
am going to gear it differently and put some improvements on it. Then I will
use it instead of my bicycle."
"It would have to
be very much improved before I trusted myself on it again," declared Mr.
Damon. "Well, I appreciate what you have done for me, and if at any time I
can reciprocate the favor, I will only be too glad to do so. Bless my soul,
though, I hope I don’t have to rescue you from trying to climb a tree,"
and with a laugh, which showed that he had fully recovered from his mishap, he
shook hands with father and son and left.
"A very nice man,
Tom," commented Mr. Swift. "Somewhat odd and out of the ordinary, but
a very fine character, for all that."
"That’s what I
say," added the son. "Now, dad, you’ll see me scooting around the
country on a motor-cycle. I’ve always wanted one, and now I have a
bargain."
"Do you think you
can repair it?"
"Of course, dad. I’ve
done more difficult things than that. I’m going to take it apart now, and see
what it needs."
"Before you do
that, Tom, I wish you would take a telegram to town for me. I must wire my
lawyers at once."
"Dad looks
worried," thought Tom as he wheeled the broken motor-cycle into a machine
shop, where he did most of his work. "Well, I don’t blame him. But we’ll
get the best of those scoundrels yet!"
WHILE Mr. Swift was
writing the message he wished his son to take to the village, the young
mechanic inspected the motor-cycle he had purchased. Tom found that a few
repairs would suffice to put it in good shape, though an entire new front wheel
would be needed. The motor had not been damaged, as he ascertained by a test.
Tom rode into town on his bicycle, and as he hurried along he noticed in the
west a bank of ugly-looking clouds that indicated a shower.
"I’m in for a
wetting before I get back," he mused, and he increased his speed, reaching
the telegraph office shortly before seven o’clock.
"Think this storm
will hold off until I get home?" asked Tom.
"I’m afraid
not," answered the agent. "You’d better get a hustle on."
Tom sprinted off. It
was getting dark rapidly, and when he was about a mile from home he felt
several warm drops on his face.
"Here it
comes!" exclaimed the youth. "Now for a little more speed!"
Tom pressed harder on
the pedals, too hard, in fact, for an instant later something snapped, and the
next he knew he was flying over the handlebars of the bicycle. At the same time
there was a metallic, clinking sound.
"Chain’s
busted!" exclaimed the lad as he picked himself up out of the dust.
"Well, wouldn’t that jar you!" and he walked back to where, in the
dusk, he could dimly discern his wheel.
The chain had come off
the two sprockets and was lying to one side. Tom picked it up and ascertained
by close observation that the screw and nut holding the two joining links
together was lost.
"Nice
pickle!" he murmured. "How am I going to find it in all this dust and
darkness?" he asked himself disgustedly. "I’ll carry an extra screw
next time. No, I won’t, either. I’ll ride my motor-cycle next time. Well, I may
as well give a look around. I hate to walk, if I can fix it and ride."
Tom had not spent more
than two minutes looking about the dusty road, with the aid of matches, for the
screw, when the rain suddenly began falling in a hard shower.
"Guess there’s no
use lingering here any longer," he remarked. "I’ll push the wheel and
run for home."
He started down the
road in the storm and darkness. The highway soon became a long puddle of mud,
through which he splashed, finding it more and more difficult every minute to
push the bicycle in the thick, sticky clay.
Above the roar of the
wind and the swishing of the rain he heard another sound. It was a steady
"puff-puff," and then the darkness was cut by a glare of light.
"An
automobile," said Tom aloud. "Guess I’d better get out of the
way."
He turned to one side,
but the auto, instead of passing him when it got to the place where he was,
made a sudden stop.
"Want a
ride?" asked the chauffeur, peering out from the side curtains which
somewhat protected him from the storm. Tom saw that the car was a large,
touring one. "Can I give you a lift?" went on the driver.
"Well, I’ve got my
bicycle with me," explained the young inventor. "My chain’s broken,
and I’ve got a mile to go."
"Jump up in
back," invited the man. "Leave your wheel here; I guess it will he
safe."
"Oh, I couldn’t do
that," said Tom. "I don’t mind walking. I’m wet through now, and I
can’t get much wetter. "I’m much obliged, though."
"Well, I’m sorry,
but I can hardly take you and the bicycle, too," continued the chauffeur.
"Certainly
not," added a voice from the tonneau of the car. "We can’t have a
muddy bicycle in here. Who is that person, Simpson?"
"It’s a young
man," answered the driver.
"Is he acquainted
around here?" went on the voice from the rear of the car. "Ask him if
he is acquainted around here, Simpson."
Tom was wondering where
he had heard that voice before. He had a vague notion that it was familiar.
"Are you
acquainted around here?" obediently asked the man at the wheel.
"I live
here," replied Tom.
"Ask him if he
knows any one named Swift?" continued the voice from the tonneau, and the
driver started to repeat it.
"I heard
him," interrupted Tom. "Yes, I know a Mr. Swift"; but Tom, with
a sudden resolve, and one he could hardly explain, decided that, for the
present, he would not betray his own identity.
"Ask him if Mr.
Swift is an inventor." Once more the unseen person spoke in the voice Tom
was trying vainly to recall.
"Yes, he is an
inventor," was the youth’s answer.
"Do you know much
about him? What are his habits? Does he live near his workshops? Does he keep
many servants? Does he——"
. The unseen questioner
suddenly parted the side curtains and peered out at Tom, who stood in the muddy
road, close to the automobile. At that moment there came a bright flash of
lightning, illuminating not only Tom’s face, but that of his questioner as
well. And at the sight Tom started, no less than did the man. For Tom had
recognized him as one of the three mysterious persons in the restaurant, and as
for the man, he had also recognized Tom.
"Ah—er—um—is——
Why, it’s you, isn’t it?" cried the questioner, and he thrust his head
farther out from between the curtains. My, what a storm!" he exclaimed as
the rain increased. "So you know Mr. Swift, eh? I saw you to-day in
Mansburg, I think. I have a good memory for faces. Do you work for Mr. Swift?
If you do I may be able to——"
"I’m Tom Swift,
son of Mr. Barton Swift," said Tom as quietly as he could.
"Tom Swift! His
son!" cried the man, and he seemed much agitated. "Why, I thought—that
is, Morse said—— Simpson, hurry back to Mansburg!" and with that, taking
no more notice of Tom, the man in the auto hastily drew the curtains together.
The chauffeur threw in
the gears and swung the ponderous machine to one side. The road was wide, and
he made the turn skilfully. A moment later the car was speeding back the way it
had come, leaving Tom standing on the highway, alone in the mud and darkness,
with the rain pouring down in torrents.
TOM’S first impulse was
to run after the automobile, the red tail-light of which glowed through the
blackness like a ruby eye. Then he realized that it was going from him at such
a swift pace that it would be impossible to get near it, even if his bicycle
was in working order.
"But if I had my
motor-cycle I’d catch up to them," he murmured. "As it is, I must
hurry home and tell dad. This is another link in the queer chain that seems to
be winding around us. I wonder who that man was, and what he wanted by asking
so many personal questions about dad?"
Trundling his wheel
before him, with the chain dangling from the handle-bar, Tom splashed on
through the mud and rain. It was a lonesome, weary walk, tired as he was with
the happenings of the day, and the young inventor breathed a sigh of
thankfulness as the lights of his home shone out in the mist of the storm As he
tramped up the steps of the side porch, his wheel bumping along ahead of him, a
door was thrown open.
"Why, it’s
Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Baggert. "Whatever happened to you?" and
she hurried forward with kindly solicitude, for the housekeeper was almost a
second mother to the youth.
"Chain
broke," answered the lad laconically. "Where’s dad?"
"Out in the shop,
working at his latest invention, I expect. But are you hurt?"
"Oh, no. I fell
easily. The mud was like a feather-bed, you know, except that it isn’t so good
for the clothes," and the young inventor looked down at his splashed and
bedraggled garments.
Mr. Swift was very much
surprised when Tom told him of the happening on the road, and related the
conversation and the subsequent alarm of the man on learning Tom’s identity.
"Who do you
suppose he could have been?" asked Tom, when he had finished.
"I am pretty
certain he was one of that crowd of financiers of whom Anson Morse seems to be
a representative," said Mr. Swift. "Are you sure the man was one of
those you saw in the restaurant?"
"Positive. I had a
good look at him both times. Do you think he imagined he could come here and
get possession of some of your secrets?"
"I hardly know
what to think, Tom. But we will take every precaution. We will set the burglar
alarm wires, which I have neglected for some time, as I fancied everything
would be secure here. Then I will take my plans and the model of the turbine
motor into the house. I’ll run no chances to-night."
Mr. Swift, who was adjusting
some of the new bolts that Tom had brought home that day; began to gather up
his tools and material.
"I’ll help you,
dad," said Tom, and he began connecting the burglar alarm wires, there
being an elaborate system of them about the house, shops and grounds.
Neither Tom nor his
father slept well that night. Several times one or the other of them arose,
thinking they heard unusual noises, but it was only some disturbance caused by
the storm, and morning arrived without anything unusual having taken place. The
rain still continued, and Tom, looking from his window and seeing the downpour,
remarked:
"I’m glad of
it!"
"Why?" asked
his father, who was in the next room.
"Because I’ll have
a good excuse for staying in and working on my motor-cycle."
"But you must do
some studying," declared Mr. Swift. "I will hear you in mathematics
right after breakfast."
"All right, dad. I
guess you’ll find I have my lessons."
Tom had graduated with
honors from a local academy, and when it came to a question of going further in
his studies, he had elected to continue with his father for a tutor, instead of
going to college. Mr. Swift was a very learned man, and this arrangement was
satisfactory to him, as it allowed Tom more time at home, so he could aid his
father on the inventive work and also plan things for himself. Tom showed a
taste for mechanics, and his father wisely decided that such training as his
son needed could be given at home to better advantage than in a school or
college.
Lessons over, Tom
hurried to his own particular shop, and began taking apart the damaged
motor-cycle.
"First I’ll
straighten the handle-bars, and then I’ll fix the motor and transmission,"
he decided. "The front wheel I can buy in town, as this one would hardly
pay for repairing."
Tom was soon busy with
wrenches, hammers, pliers and screw-driver. He was in his element, and was
whistling over his task. The motor he found in good condition, but it was not
such an easy task as he had hoped to change the transmission. He had finally to
appeal to his father, in order to get the right proportion between the back and
front gears, for the motor-cycle was operated by a sprocket chain, instead of a
belt drive, as is the case with some.
Mr. Swift showed Tom
how to figure out the number of teeth needed on each sprocket, in order to get
an increase of speed, and as there was a sprocket wheel from a disused piece of
machinery available, Tom took that. He soon had it in place, and then tried the
motor. To his delight the number of revolutions of the rear wheel were
increased about fifteen per cent.
"I guess I’ll make
some speed," he announced to his father.
"But it will take
more gasolene to run the motor; don’t forget that. You know the great principle
of mechanics—that you can’t get out of a machine any more than you put into it,
nor quite as much, as a matter of fact, for considerable is lost through
friction."
"Well, then, I’ll
enlarge the gasolene tank," declared Tom. "I want to go fast when I’m
going."
He reassembled the
machine, and after several hours of work had it in shape to run, except that a
front wheel was lacking.
"I think I’ll go
to town and get one," he remarked. "The rain isn’t quite so hard
now."
In spite of his father’s
mild objections Tom went, using his bicycle, the chain of which he had quickly
repaired. He found just the front wheel needed, and that night his motor-cycle
was ready to run. But it was too dark to try it then, especially as he had no
good lantern, the one on the cycle having been smashed, and his own bicycle
light not being powerful enough. So he had to postpone his trial trip until the
next day.
He was up early the
following morning, and went out for a spin before breakfast. He came back, with
flushed cheeks and bright eyes, just as Mr. Swift and Mrs. Baggert were sitting
down to the table.
"To Reedville and
back," announced Tom proudly.
"What, a round
trip of thirty miles!" exclaimed Mr. Swift."
"That’s
what!" declared his son. "I went like a greased pig most of the way.
I had to slow up going through Mansburg, but the rest of at time I let it out
for all it was worth.
"You must be
careful," cautioned his father. "You are not an expert yet."
"No, I realize
that. Several times, when I wanted to slow up, I began to back-pedal,
forgetting that I wasn’t on my bicycle. Then I thought to shut off the power
and put on the brake. But it’s glorious fun. I’m going out again as soon as I
have something to eat. That is, unless you want me to help you, dad."
"No, not this
morning. Learn to ride the motor-cycle. It may come in handy."
Neither Tom nor his
father realized what an important part the machine was soon to play in their
lives.
Tom went out for
another spin after breakfast, and in a different direction. He wanted to see
what the machine would do on a hill, and there was a long, steep one about five
miles from home. The roads were in fine shape after the rain, and he speeded up
the incline at a rapid rate.
"It certainly does
eat up the road," the lad murmured. "I have improved this machine
considerably. Wish I could take out a patent on it."
Reaching the crest of
the slope, he started down the incline. He turned off part of the power, and
was gliding along joyously, when from a cross-road he suddenly saw turn into
the main highway a mule, drawing a ramshackle wagon, loaded with fence posts.
Beside the animal walked an old colored man.
"I hope he gets
out of the way in time," thought Tom. "He’s moving as slow as
molasses, and I’m going a bit faster than I like. Guess I’ll shut off and put
on the brakes."
The mule and wagon were
now squarely across the road. Tom was coming nearer and nearer. He turned the
handle-grip, controlling the supply of gasolene, and to his horror he found
that it was stuck. He could not stop the motor-cycle!
"Look out! Look
out!" cried Tom to the negro. "Get out of the way! I can’t stop! Let
me pass you!"
The darky looked up. He
saw the approaching machine, and he seemed to lose possession of his senses.
"Whoa,
Boomerang!" cried the negro. "Whoa! Suffin’s gwine t’ happen!"
"That’s
what!" muttered Tom desperately, as he saw that there was not room for him
to pass without going into the ditch, a proceeding that would mean an upset.
"Pull out of the way!" he yelled again.
But either the driver
could not understand, or did not appreciate the necessity. The mule stopped and
reared up. The colored man hurried to the head of the animal to quiet it.
"Whoa, Boomerang!
Jest yo’ stand still!" he said.
Tom, with a great
effort, managed to twist the grip and finally shut off the gasolene. But it was
too late. He struck the darky with the front wheel. Fortunately the youth had
managed to somewhat reduce his speed by a quick application of the brake, or
the result might have been serious. As it was, the colored man was gently
lifted away from the mule’s head and tossed into the long grass in the ditch.
Tom, by a great effort, succeeded in maintaining his seat in the saddle, and
then, bringing the machine to a stop, he leaped off and turned back.
The colored man was
sitting up, looking dazed.
"Whoa,
Boomerang!" he murmured. "Suffin’s happened!"
But the mule, who had
quieted down, only waggled his ears lazily, and Tom, ready to laugh, now that
he saw he had not committed manslaughter, hurried to where the colored man was
sitting.
"ARE you
hurt?" asked Tom as he leaned his motor-cycle against the fence and stood
beside the negro.
"Hurt?"
repeated the darky. "I’se killed, dat’s what I is! I ain’t got a whole
bone in mah body! Good landy, but I suttinly am in a awful state! Would yo’
mind tellin’ me if dat ar’ mule am still alive?"
"Of course he
is," answered Tom. "He isn’t hurt a bit. But why can’t you turn
around and look for yourself?"
"No, sah! No,
indeedy, sah!" replied the colored man. "Yo’ doan’t catch dis yeah
nigger lookin’ around!"
"Why not?"
"Why not? ’Cause I’ll
tell yo’ why not. I’m so stiff an’ I’m so nearly broke t’ pieces, dat if I turn
mah head around it suah will twist offen mah body. No, sah! No, indeedy, sah, I
ain’t gwine t’ turn ’round. But am yo’ suah dat mah mule Boomerang ain’t
hurted?"
"No, he’s not hurt
a bit, and I’m sure you are not. I didn’t strike you hard, for I had almost
stopped my machine. Try to get up. I’m positive you’ll find yourself all right.
I’m sorry it happened."
"Oh, dat’s all
right. Doan’t mind me," went on the colored man. "It was mah fault
fer gittin in de road. But dat mule Boomerang am suttinly de most outrageous
quadruped dat ever circumlocuted."
"Why do you call
him Boomerang?" asked Tom, wondering if the negro really was hurt.
"What fo’ I call
him Boomerang? Did yo’ eber see dem Australian black mans what go around wid a
circus t’row dem crooked sticks dey calls boomerangs?"
"Yes, I’ve seen
them."
"Well, Boomerang,
mah mule, am jest laik dat. He’s crooked, t’ begin wid, an’ anudder t’ing, yo’
can’t never tell when yo’ start him whar he’s gwine t’ land up. Dat’s why I
calls him Boomerang."
"I see. It’s a
very proper name. But why don’t you try to get up?’
"Does yo’ t’ink I
can?"
"Sure. Try it. By
the way, what’s your name?"
"My name? Why I
was christened Eradicate Andrew Jackson Abraham Lincoln Sampson, but folks most
ginnerally calls me Eradicate Sampson, an’ some doan’t eben go to dat length.
Dey jest calls me Rad, fo’ short."
"Eradicate,"
mused Tom. "That’s a queer name, too. Why were you called that?"
"Well, yo’ see I
eradicates de dirt. I’m a cleaner an’ a whitewasher by profession, an’ somebody
gib me dat name. Dey said it were fitten an’ proper, an’ I kept it eber sence.
Yais, sah, I’se Eradicate Sampson, at yo’ service. Yo’ ain’t got no chicken
coops yo’ wants cleaned out, has yo’? Or any stables or fences t’ whitewash? I
guarantees satisfaction."
"Well, I might find
some work for you to do," replied the young inventor, thinking this would
be as good a means as any of placating the darky; "But come, now, try and
see if you can’t stand. I don’t believe I broke any of your legs."
"I guess not. I
feels better now. Where am dat work yo’ was speakin’ ob?" and Eradicate
Sampson, now that there seemed to be a prospect of earning money, rose quickly
and easily.
"Why, you’re all
right!" exclaimed Tom, glad to find that the accident had had no serious
consequences.
"Yais, sah, I
guess I be. Whar did yo’ say, yo’ had some whitewashin’ t’ do?"
"No place in
particular, but there is always something that needs doing at our house. If you
call I’ll give you a job."
"Yais, sah, I’ll
be sure to call," and Eradicate walked back to where Boomerang was
patiently waiting.
Tom told the colored
man how to find the Swift home, and was debating with himself whether he ought
not to offer Eradicate some money as compensation for knocking him into the
air, when he noticed that the negro was tying one wheel of his wagon fast to
the body of the vehicle with a rope.
"What are you
doing that for?" asked Tom.
"Got to, t’ git
downhill wid dis load ob fence posts," was the answer. "Ef I didn’t
it would he right on to de heels ob Boomerang, an’ wheneber he feels anyt’ing
on his heels he does act wuss dan a circus mule."
"But why don’t you
use your brake? I see you have one on the wagon. Use the brake to hold back
going downhill."
"’Scuse me, Mistah
Swift, ’scuse me!" exclaimed Eradicate quickly. "But yo’ doan’t know,
dat brake. It’s wuss dan none at all. It doan’t work, fer a fact. No, indeedy,
sah. I’se got to rope de wheel."
Tom was interested at
once. He made an examination of the brake, and soon saw why it would not hold
the wheels. The foot lever was not properly connected with the brake bar. It
was a simple matter to adjust it by changing a single bolt, and this Tom did
with tools he took from the bag on his motor-cycle. The colored man looked on
in open-mouthed amazement, and even Boomerang peered lazily around, as if
taking an interest in the proceedings.
"There," said
Tom at length, as he tightened the nut. "That brake will work now, and
hold the wagon on any hill. You won’t need to rope the wheel. You didn’t have
the right leverage on it."
"’Scuse me, Mistah
Swift, but what’s dat yo’ said?" and Eradicate leaned forward to listen
deferentially.
"I said you didn’t
have the right leverage."
"No, sah, Mistah
Swift, ’scuse me, but yo’ made a slight mistake. I ain’t never had no liverage
on dis yeah wagon. It ain’t dat kind ob a wagon. I onct drove a livery rig, but
dat were some years ago. I ain’t worked fo’ de livery stable in some time now.
Dat’s why I know dere ain’t no livery on dis wagon. Yo’ll ’scuse me, but yo’ am
slightly mistaken."
"All right,"
rejoined Tom with a laugh, not thinking it worth while to explain what he meant
by the lever force of the brake rod. "Let it go at that. Livery or no
livery, your brake will work now. I guess you’re all right. Now don’t forget to
come around and do some whitewashing," and seeing that the colored man was
able to mount to the seat and start off Boomerang, who seemed to have
deep-rooted objections about moving, Tom wheeled his motor-cycle back to the road.
Eradicate Sampson drove
his wagon a short distance and then suddenly applied the brake. It stopped
short, and the mule looked around as if surprised.
"It suah do work,
Mistah Swift!" called the darky to Tom, who was waiting the result of his
little repair job. "It suah do work!"
"I’m glad of
it."
"Mah golly! But yo’
am suttinly a conjure-man when it comes t’ fixin’ wagons! Did yo’ eber work fer
a blacksmith?"
"No, not exactly.
Well, good-by, Eradicate. I’ll look for you some day next week."
With that Tom leaped on
his machine and speeded off ahead of the colored man and his rig. As he passed
the load of fence posts the youth heard Eradicate remark in awestricken tones:
"Mah golly! He
suttinly go laik de wind! An’ t’ t’ink dat I were hit by dat monstrousness
machine, an’ not hurted! Mah golly! T’ings am suttinly happenin’! G’lang,
Boomerang!"
"This machine has
more possibilities in it than I suspected," mused Tom. "But one thing
I’ve got to change, and that is the gasolene and spark controls. I don’t like
them the way they are. I want a better leverage, just as Eradicate needed on
his wagon. I’ll fix them, too, when I get home."
He rode for several
hours, until he thought it was about dinner time, and then, heading the machine
toward home, he put on all the speed possible, soon arriving where his father
was at work in the shop.
"Well, how goes
it?" asked Mr. Swift with a smile as he looked at the flushed face of his
son.
"Fine, dad! I
scooted along in great shape. Had an adventure, too."
"You didn’t meet
any more of those men, did you? The men who are trying to get my
invention?" asked Mr. Swift apprehensively.
"No, indeed, dad.
I simply had a little run-in with a chap named Eradicate Andrew Jackson Abraham
Lincoln Sampson, otherwise known as Rad Sampson, and I engaged him to do some
whitewashing for us. We do need some white washing done, don’t we, dad?"
"What’s
that?" asked Mr. Swift, thinking his son was joking.
Then Tom told of the
happening.
"Yes, I think I
can find some work for Eradicate to do," went on Mr. Swift. "There is
some dirt in the boiler shop that needs eradicating, and I think he can do it.
But dinner has been waiting some time. We’ll go in now, or Mrs. Baggert will be
out after us."
Father and son were
soon at the table, and Tom was explaining what he meant to do to improve his
motor-cycle. His father offered some suggestions regarding the placing of the
gasolene lever.
"I’d put it
here," he said, and with his pencil he began to draw a diagram on the
white table cloth.
"Oh, my goodness
me, Mr. Swift!" exclaimed Mrs. Baggert. "Whatever are you
doing?" and she sprang up in some alarm.
"What’s the
matter? Did I upset my tea?" asked the inventor innocently.
"No; but you are
soiling a clean tablecloth. Pencil-marks are so hard to get out. Take a piece
of paper, please."
"Oh, is that
all?" rejoined Mr. Swift with a smile. "Well, Tom, here is the way I
would do that," and substituting the back of an envelope for the
tablecloth, he continued the drawing.
Tom was looking over
his father’s shoulder interestedly, when Mrs. Baggert, who was taking off some
of the dinner dishes, suddenly asked:
"Are you expecting
a visitor, Mr. Swift?"
"A visitor? No.
Why?" asked the inventor quickly.
"Because I just
saw a man going in t he machine shop," went on the housekeeper.
"A man! In the
machine shop!" exclaimed Tom, rising from his chair. Mr. Swift also got
up, and the two hurried from the house. As they reached the yard they saw a man
emerging from the building where Mr. Swift was constructing his turbine motor.
The man had his back turned toward them and seemed to be sneaking around, as
though desirous of escaping observation.
"What do you
want?" called Mr. Swift.
The man turned quickly.
At the sight of Mr. Swift and Tom he made a jump to one side and got behind a
big packing-box.
"That’s
queer," spoke Tom. "I wonder what he wants?"
"I’ll soon
see," rejoined Mr. Swift, and he started on a run toward where the man was
hiding. Tom followed his father, and as the two inventors reached the box the
man sprang from behind it and down the yard to a lane that passed in back of
the Swift house. As he ran he was seen to stuff some papers in his pocket.
"My plans! He’s
stolen some of my plans!" cried Mr. Swift. "Catch him, Tom!"
Tom ran after the
stranger, whose curious actions had roused their suspicions, while Mr. Swift
entered the motor shop to ascertain whether anything had been stolen.
DOWN through the yard
Tom speeded, in and out among the buildings, looking on every side for a sight
of the bold stranger. No one was to be seen.
"He can’t be very
far ahead." thought Tom. "I ought to catch him before he gets to the
woods. If he reaches there he has a good chance of getting away."
There was a little
patch of trees just back of the inventor’s house, not much of a woods, perhaps,
but that is what they were called.
"I wonder if he
was some ordinary tramp, looking for what he could steal, or if he was one of
the gang after dad’s invention?" thought Tom as he sprinted ahead.
By this time the youth
was clear of the group of buildings and in sight of a tall, board fence, which
surrounded the Swift estate on three sides. Here and there, along the barrier,
were piled old packing-cases, so that it would be easy for a fugitive to leap
upon one of them and so get over the fence. Tom thought of this possibility in
a moment.
"I guess he got
over ahead of me," the lad exclaimed, and he peered sharply about. "I’ll
catch him on the other side!"
At that instant Tom
tripped over a plank and went down full length, making quite a racket. When he
picked himself up he was surprised to see the man he was after dart from inside
a big box and start for the fence, near a point where there were some
packing-cases piled up, making a good approach to the barrier. The fugitive had
been hiding, waiting for a chance to escape, and Tom’s fall had alarmed him.
"Here! Hold on
there! Come back)" cried the youth as he recovered his wind and leaped
forward.
But the man did not
stay. With a bound he was up on the pile of boxes, and the next moment he was
poised on top of the fence. Before leaping down on the other side, a jump at
which even a practiced athlete might well hesitate, the fleeing stranger paused
and looked back. Tom gazed at him and recognized the man in an instant. He was
the third of the mysterious trio whom the lad had seen in the Mansburg
restaurant.
"Wait a minute!
What do you want sneaking around here?" shouted Tom as he ran forward. The
man returned no answer, and an instant later disappeared from view on the other
side of the fence.
"He jumped
down!" thought Tom. "A big leap, too. Well, I’ve got to follow. This
is a queer proceeding. First one, then the second, and now the third of those
men seem determined to get something here. I wonder if this one succeeded? I’ll
soon find out."
The lad was up on the
pile of packing-cases and over the fence in almost record time. He caught a
glimpse of the fugitive running toward the woods. Then the boy leaped down,
jarring himself considerably, and took after the man.
But though Tom was a
good runner he was handicapped by the fact that the man had a start of him, and
also by the fact that the stranger had had a chance to rest while hiding for
the second time in the big box, while Tom had kept on running. So it is no
great cause for wonder that Mr. Swift’s son found himself being distanced.
Once, twice he called
on the fleeing one to halt, but the man paid no attention, and did not even
turn around. Then the youth wisely concluded to save his wind for running. He
did his best, but was chagrined to see the man reach the woods ahead of him.
"I’ve lost him
now," thought Tom. "Well, there’s no help for it."
Still he did not give
up, but kept on through the patch of trees. On the farther side was Lake
Carlopa, a broad and long sheet of water.
"If he doesn’t
know the lake’s there," thought our hero, "he may keep straight on.
The water will be sure to stop him, and I can catch him But what will I do with
him after I get him? That’s another question. I guess I’ve got a right to
demand to know what he was doing around our place, though."
But Tom need not have
worried on this score. He could hear the fugitive ahead of him, and marked his
progress by the crackling of the underbrush.
"I’m almost up to
him," exulted the young inventor. Then, at the same moment, he caught
eight of the man running, and a glimpse of the sparkling water of Lake Carlopa.
"I’ve got him! I’ve got him!" Tom almost cried aloud in his
excitement. "Unless he takes to the water and swims for it, I’ve got
him!"
But Tom did not reckon
on a very simple matter, and that was the possibility of the man having a boat
at hand. For this is just what happened. Reaching the lake shore the fugitive
with a final spurt managed to put considerable distance between himself and
Tom. Drawn up on the beach was a little motor-boat. In this, after he had
pushed it from shore, the stranger leaped. It was the work of but a second to
set the engine in motion, and as Tom reached the edge of the woods and started
across the narrow strip of sand and gravel that was between the water and the
trees, he saw the man steering his craft toward the middle of the lake.
"Well—I’ll—be—jiggered!"
exclaimed the youth. "Who would have thought he’d have a motor-boat
waiting for him? He planned this well."
There was nothing to do
but turn back. Tom had a small rowboat and a sailing skiff on the lake, but his
boathouse was some distance away, and even if he could get one of his craft
out, the motor-boat would soon distance it.
"He’s gone!"
thought the searcher regretfully.
The man in the
motor-boat did not look back. He sat in the bow, steering the little craft
right across the broadest part of Lake Carlopa.
"I wonder where he
came from, and where he’s going?" mused Tom. "That’s a boat I never
saw on this lake before. It must be a new one. Well, there’s no help for it, I’ve
got to go back and tell dad I couldn’t catch him." And with a last look at
the fugitive, who, with his boat, was becoming smaller and smaller every
minute, Tom turned and retraced his steps.
"DID you catch
him, Tom?" asked Mr. Swift eagerly when his son returned, but the inventor
needed but a glance at the lad’s despondent face to have his question answered
without words, "Never mind," he added, "there’s not much harm
done, fortunately."
"Did he get
anything? Any of your plans or models, dad?"
"No; not as far as
I can discover. My papers in the shop were not disturbed, but it looked as if
the turbine model had been moved. The only thing missing seems to be a sheet of
unimportant calculations. Luckily I had my most valuable drawings in the safe
in the house."
"Yet that man
seemed to be putting papers in his pocket, dad. Maybe he made copies of some of
your drawings."
"That’s possible,
Tom, and I admit it worries me. I can’t imagine who that man is, unless——"
"Why, he’s one of
the three men I saw in Mansburg in the restaurant," said Tom eagerly.
"Two of them tried to get information here, and now the third one comes.
He got away in a motor-boat," and Tom told how the fugitive escaped.
Mr. Swift looked
worried. It was not the first time attempts had been made to steal his inventions,
but on this occasion a desperate and well-organized plan appeared to be on
foot.
"What do you think
they are up to, dad?" asked Tom.
"I think they are
trying to get hold of my turbine motor, Tom. You know I told you that the
financiers were disappointed in the turbine motor they bought of another
inventor. It does not work. To get back the money they spent in building an
expensive plant they must have a motor that is successful. Hence their efforts
to get control of mine. I don’t know whether I told you or not, but some time
ago I refused a very good offer for certain rights in my invention. I knew it
was worth more. The offer came through Smeak & Katch, the lawyers, and when
I refused it they seemed much disappointed. I think now that this same firm,
and the financiers who have employed them, are trying by all the means in their
power to get possession of my ideas, if not the invention and model
itself."
"What can you do,
dad?"
"Well, I must
think. I certainly must take some means to protect myself. I have had trouble
before, but never any like this. I did not think those men would be so
unscrupulous."
"Do you know their
names?"
"No, only from
that telegram we found; the one which the first stranger dropped. One of them
must be Anson Morse. Who the others are I don’t know. But now I must make some
plans to foil these sharpers. I may have to call on you for help, Tom."
"And I’ll be ready
any time you call on me, dad," responded Tom, drawing himself up.
"Can I do anything for you right away?"
"No; I must think
out a plan."
"Then I am going
to change my motor-cycle a bit. I’ll put some more improvements on it."
"And I will write
some letters to my lawyers in Washington and ask their advice."
It took Tom the
remainder of that day, and part of the next, to arrange the gasolene and spark
control of his machine to his satisfaction. He had to make two small levers and
some connecting rods. This he did in his own particular machine shop, which was
fitted up with a lathe and other apparatus. The lathe was run by power coming
from a small engine, which was operated by an engineer, an elderly man to whom
Mr. Swift had given employment for many years. He was Garret Jackson, and he
kept so close to his engine and boiler-room that he was seldom seen outside of
it except when the day’s work was done.
One afternoon, a few
days after the unsuccessful chase after the fugitive had taken place, Tom went
out for a spin on his motor-cycle. He found that the machine worked much
better, and was easier to control. He rode about fifteen miles away from home,
and then returned. As he entered the yard he saw, standing on the drive, a
ramshackle old wagon, drawn by a big mule, which seemed, at the time Tom
observed him, to be asleep.
"I’ll wager that’s
Boomerang," said Tom aloud, and the mule opened its eyes, wiggled its ears
and started forward.
"Whoa dar,
Boomerang!" exclaimed a voice, and Eradicate Sampson hurried around the
corner of the house. "Dat’s jest laik yo’," went on the colored man.
"Movin’ when yo’ ain’t wanted to." Then, as he caught sight of Tom,
he exclaimed, "Why, if it ain’t young Mistah Swift! Good landy! But dat
livery brake yo’ done fixed on mah wagon suttinly am fine. Ah kin go down de
steepest hill widout ropin’ de wheel."
"Glad of it,"
replied Tom. "Did you come to do some work?"
"Yais, sah, I done
did. I found I had some time t’ spah, an’ thinks I dere might be some
whitewashin’ I could do. Yo’ see, I lib only ’bout two mile from heah."
"Well, I guess you
can do a few jobs," said Tom. "Wait here."
He hunted up his
father, and obtained permission to set Eradicate at work cleaning out a chicken
house and whitewashing it. The darky was soon at work. A little later Tom
passing saw him putting the whitewash on thick. Eradicate stopped at the sight
of Tom, and made some curious motions.
"What’s the
matter, Rad?" asked the young inventor.
"Why, de whitewash
done persist in runnin’ down de bresh handle an’ inter mah sleeve. I’m soakin’
wet from it now, an’ I has t’ stop ebery onct in a while ’case mah sleeve gits
full."
Tom saw what the
trouble was. The white fluid did run down the long brush handle in a small
rivulet. Tom had once seen a little rubber device on a window-cleaning brush
that worked well, and he decided to try it for Eradicate.
"Wait a
minute," Tom advised. "I think I can stop that for you."
The colored man was
very willing to take a rest, but it did not last long, for Tom was soon back at
the chicken coop. He had a small rubber disk, with a hole in the center, the
size of the brush handle. Slipping the disk over the wood, he pushed it about
half way along, and then, handing the brush back to the negro, told him to try
it that way.
"Did yo’ done put
a charm on mah bresh?" asked Eradicate somewhat doubtfully.
"Yes, a sort of
hoodoo charm. Try it now."
The darky dipped his
brush in the pail of whitewash, and then began to spread the disinfectant on
the sides of the coop near the top. The surplus fluid started to run down the
handle, but, meeting the piece of rubber, came no farther, and dripped off on
the ground. It did not run down the sleeve of Eradicate.
"Well, I ’clar t’
goodness! That suttinly am a mighty fine charm!" cried the colored man.
"Yo’ suah am a pert gen’men, all right. Now I kin work widout stoppin’ t’
empty mah sleeve ob lime juice ebery minute. I’se suttinly obliged t’ yo’."
"You’re welcome, I’m
sure," replied Tom. "I think some day I’ll invent a machine for
whitewashing, and then——"
"Doan’t do dat! Doan’t
do dat!" begged Eradicate earnestly. "Dis, an’ makin’ dirt disappear,
am de only perfessions I got. Doan’t go ’ventin’ no machine, Mistah
Swift."
"All right. I’ll
wait until you get rich."
"Ha, ha! Den yo’
gwine t’ wait a pow’ful long time," chuckled Eradicate as he went on with
his whitewashing.
Tom went into the
house. He found his father busy with some papers at his desk.
"Ah, it’s you, is
it, Tom?" asked the inventor, looking up. "I was just wishing you
would come in."
"What for,
dad?"
"Well, I have
quite an important mission for you. I want you to go on a journey."
"A journey?
Where?"
"To Albany. You
see, I’ve been thinking over matters, and I have been in correspondence with my
lawyers in regard to my turbine motor. I must take measures to protect myself.
You know I have not yet taken out a complete patent on the machine. I have not
done so because I did not want to put my model on exhibition in Washington. I
was afraid some of those unscrupulous men would take advantage of me. Another
point was that I had not perfected a certain device that goes on the motor.
That objection is now removed, and I am ready to send my model to Washington,
and take out the complete patent."
"But I thought you
said you wanted me to go to Albany."
"So I do. I will
explain. I have just had a letter from Reid & Crawford, my Washington
attorneys. Mr. Crawford, the junior member of the firm, will be in Albany this
week on some law business. He agrees to receive my model and some papers there,
and take them back to Washington with him. In this way they will be well
protected. You see, I have to be on my guard, and if I send the model to
Albany, instead of the national capital, I may throw the plotters off the
track, for I feel that they are watching every move I make. As soon as you or I
should start for Washington they would be on our trail. But you can go to
Albany unsuspected. Mr. Crawford will wait for you there. I want you to start
day after to-morrow."
"All right, dad. I
can start now, if you say so."
"No, there is no
special need for haste. I have some matters to arrange. You might go to the
station and inquire about trains to the State capital."
"Am I going by
train?"
"Certainly. How
else could you go?"
There was a look of
excitement in Tom’s eyes. He had a sudden idea.
"Dad," he
exclaimed, "why couldn’t I go on my motor-cycle?"
"Your
motor-cycle?"
"Yes. I could
easily make the trip on it in one day. The roads are good, and I would enjoy
it. I can carry the model back of me on the saddle. It is not very large."
"Well," said
Mr. Swift slowly, for the idea was a new one to him, "I suppose that part
would be all right. But you have not had much experience riding a motor-cycle.
Besides, you don’t know the roads."
"I can inquire.
Will you let me go, dad?"
Mr. Swift appeared to
hesitate.
"It will be
fine!" went on Tom. "I would enjoy the trip, and there’s another
thing. If we want to keep this matter secret the best plan would be to let me
go on my machine. If those men are on the watch, they will not think that I
have the model. They will think I’m just going for a pleasure jaunt."
"There’s something
in that," admitted Mr. Swift, and Tom, seeing that his father was
favorably inclined, renewed his arguments, until the inventor finally agreed.
"It will be a
great trip!" exclaimed Tom. "I’ll go all over my machine now, to see
that it’s in good shape. You get your papers and model ready, dad, and I’ll
take them to Albany for you. The motor-cycle will come in handy."
But had Tom only known
the dangers ahead of him, and the risks he was to run, he would not have
whistled so light-heartedly as he went over every nut and bolt on his machine.
Two days later, the
valuable model, having been made into a convenient package, and wrapped in water-proof
paper, was fastened back of the saddle on the motor-cycle. Tom carefully pinned
in an inside packet the papers which were to be handed to Mr. Crawford. He was
to meet the lawyer at a hotel in Albany.
"Now take care of
yourself, Tom," cautioned his father as he bade him good-by. "Don’t
try to make speed, as there is no special rush. And, above all, don’t lose
anything."
"I’ll not,
dad," and with a wave of his hand to Mr. Swift and the housekeeper, who
stood in the door to see him off, Tom jumped into the saddle, started the
machine, and then, after sufficient momentum had been attained, he turned on
the gasolene and set the spark lever. With rattles and bangs, which were
quickly subdued by the muffler, the machine gathered speed. Tom was off for
Albany.
THOUGH Tom’s father had
told him there was no necessity for any great speed, the young inventor could
not resist the opportunity for pushing his machine to the limit. The road was a
level one and in good condition, so the motorcycle fairly flew along. The day
was pleasant, a warm sun shining overhead, and it was evident that early summer
was crowding spring rather closely.
"This is
glorious!" exclaimed Tom aloud as he spun along. "I’m glad I
persuaded dad to let me take this trip. It was a great idea. Wish Ned Newton
was along, though. He’d be company for me, but, as Ned would say, there are two
good reasons why he can’t come. One is he has to work in the bank, and the
other is that he has no motor-cycle."
Tom swept past house
after house along the road, heading in the opposite direction from that in
which lay the town of Shopton and the city of Mansburg. For several miles Tom’s
route would lie through a country district. The first large town he would reach
would be Centreford. He planned to get lunch there, and he had brought a few
sandwiches with him to eat along the road in case he became hungry before he
reached the place.
"I hope the
package containing the model doesn’t jar off," mused the lad as he reached
behind to make sure that the precious bundle was safe. "Dad would be in a
bad way if that should disappear. And the papers, too." He put his hand to
his inner pocket to feel that they were secure. Coming to a little down-grade,
Tom shut off some of the power, the new levers he had arranged to control the
gasolene and spark working well.
"I think I’ll take
the old wood road and pass through Pompville," Tom decided, after covering
another mile or two. He was approaching a division in the highway. "It’s a
bit sandy," he went on, "and the going will be heavy, but it will be
a good chance to test my machine. Besides, I’ll save five miles, and, while I
don’t have to hurry, I may need time on the other end. I’d rather arrive in
Albany a little before dusk than after dark. I can deliver the model and papers
and have a good night’s sleep before starting back. So the old wood road it
will be."
The wood road, as Tom
called it, was a seldom used highway, which, originally, was laid out for just
what the name indicated, to bring wood from the forest. With the disappearance
of most of the trees the road became more used for ordinary traffic between the
towns of Pompville and Edgefield. But when the State built a new highway
connecting these two places the old road fell into disuse, though it was
several miles shorter than the new turnpike.
He turned from the main
thoroughfare, and was soon spinning along the sandy stretch, which was shaded
with trees that in some places met overhead, forming a leafy arch. It was cool
and pleasant, and Tom liked it.
"It isn’t as bad
as I thought," he remarked. "The sand is pretty thick, but this
machine of mine appears to be able to crawl through it."
Indeed, the motor-cycle
was doing remarkably well, but Tom found that he had to turn on full power, for
the big rubber wheels went deep into the soft soil. Along Tom rode, picking out
the firmest places in the road. He was so intent on this that he did not pay
much attention to what was immediately ahead of him, knowing that he was not
very likely to meet other vehicles or pedestrians. He was considerably startled
therefore when, as he went around a turn in the highway where the bushes grew
thick, right down to the edge of the road, to see a figure emerge from the
underbrush and start across the path. So quickly did the man appear that Tom
was almost upon him in an instant, and even though the young inventor shut off
the power and applied the brake, the front wheel hit the man and knocked him
down.
"What’s the matter
with you? What are you trying to do—kill me? Why don’t you ring a bell or blow
a horn when you’re coming?" The man had sprung up from the soft sand where
the wheel from the motor-cycle had sent him and faced Tom angrily. Then the
rider, who had quickly dismounted, saw that his victim was a ragged tramp.
"I’m sorry,"
began Tom. "You came out of the bushes so quickly that I didn’t have a
chance to warn you. Did I hurt you much?"
"Well, youse might
have. ’Tain’t your fault dat youse didn’t," and the tramp began to brush
the dirt from his ragged coat. Tom was instantly struck by a curious fact. The tramp
in his second remarks used language more in keeping with his character,
whereas, in his first surprise and anger, he had talked much as any other
person would. "Youse fellers ain’t got no right t’ ride dem machines like
lightnin’ along de roads," the ragged chap went on, and he still clung to
the use of words and expressions current among his fraternity. Tom wondered at
it, and then, ascribing the use of the better language to the fright caused by
being hit by the machine, the lad thought no more about it at the time. There
was occasion, however, when he attached more meaning to it.
"I’m very
sorry," went on Tom. "I’m sure I didn’t mean to. You see, I was going
quite slowly, and——"
"You call dat
slow, when youse hit me an’ knocked me down?" demanded the tramp. "I’d
oughter have youse arrested, dat’s what, an’ I would if dere was a cop
handy."
"I wasn’t going at
all fast," said Tom, a little nettled that his conciliatory words should
be so rudely received. "If I had been going full speed I’d have knocked
you fifty feet."
"It’s a good
thing. Cracky, den I’m glad dat youse wasn’t goin’ like dat," and the
tramp seemed somewhat confused. This time Tom looked at him more closely, for
the change in his language had been very plain. The fellow seemed uneasy, and
turned his face away. As he did so Tom caught a glimpse of what he was sure was
a false beard. It was altogether too well-kept a beard to be a natural one for
such a dirty tramp as this one appeared to be.
"That fellow’s
disguised!" Tom thought. "He’s playing a part. I wonder if I’d better
take chances and spring it on him that I’m on to his game?"
Then the ragged man
spoke again:
"I s’pose it was
part my fault, cully. I didn’t know dat any guy was comin’ along on one of dem
buzz-machines, or I’d been more careful. I don’t s’ pose youse meant to upset
me?" and he looked at Tom more boldly. This time his words seemed so
natural, and his beard, now that Tom took a second look at it, so much a part
of himself, that the young inventor wondered if he could have been mistaken in
his first surmise.
"Perhaps he was
once a gentleman, and has turned tramp because of hard luck," thought Tom.
"That would account for him using good language at times. Guess I’d better
keep still." Then to the tramp he said: "I’m sure I didn’t mean to
hit you. I admit I wasn’t looking where I was going, but I never expected to
meet any one on this road. I certainly didn’t expect to see a——"
He paused in some
confusion. He was about to use the term "tramp," and he hesitated,
not knowing how it would be received by his victim.
"Oh, dat’s all
right, cully. Call me a tramp—I know dat’s what youse was goin’ t’ say. I’m
used t’ it. I’ve been a hobo so many years now dat I don’t mind. De time was
when I was a decent chap, though. But I’m a tramp now. Say, youse couldn’t lend
me a quarter, could youse?"
He approached closer to
Tom, and looked quickly up and down the road. The highway was deserted, nor was
there any likelihood that any one would come along. Tom was somewhat apprehensive,
for the tramp was a burly specimen. The young inventor, however, was not so
much alarmed at the prospect of a personal encounter, as that he feared he
might be robbed, not only of his money, but the valuable papers and model he
carried. Even if the tramp was content with taking his money, it would mean
that Tom would have to go back home for more, and so postpone his trip.
So it was with no
little alarm that he watched the ragged man coming nearer to him. Then a bright
idea came into Tom’s head. He quickly shifted his position so that he brought
the heavy motor-cycle between the man and himself. He resolved, if the tramp
showed a disposition to attack him, to push the machine over on him, and this
would give Tom a chance to attack the thief to better advantage. However, the
"hobo" showed no evidence of wanting to resort to highwayman methods.
He paused a short distance from the machine, and said admiringly:
"Dat’s a pretty
shebang youse has."
"Yes, it’s very
fair," admitted Tom, who was not yet breathing easily.
"Kin youse go far
on it?"
"Two hundred miles
a day, easily."
"Fer cats’ sake!
An’ I can’t make dat ridin’ on de blind baggage; but dat’s ’cause I gits put
off so much. But say, is youse goin’ to let me have dat quarter? I need it, honest
I do. I ain’t had nuttin’ t’ eat in two days."
The man’s tone was
whining. Surely he seemed like a genuine tramp, and Tom felt a little sorry for
him. Besides, he felt that he owed him something for the unceremonious manner
in which he had knocked the fellow down. Tom reached his hand in his pocket for
some change, taking care to keep the machine between himself and the tramp.
"Are youse goin’
far on dat rig-a-ma-jig?" went on the man as he looked carefully over the
motor-cycle.
"To Albany,"
answered Tom, and the moment the words were out of his mouth he wished he could
recall them. All his suspicions regarding the tramp came back to him. But the
ragged chap appeared to attach no significance to them.
"Albany? Dat’s in
Jersey, ain’t it?" he asked.
"No, it’s in New
York," replied Tom, and then, to change the subject, he pulled out a
half-dollar and handed it to the man. As he did so Tom noticed that the tramp
had tattooed on the little finger of his left hand a blue ring.
"Dat’s de stuff!
Youse is a reg’lar millionaire, youse is!" exclaimed the tramp, and his
manner seemed in earnest. "I’ll remember youse, I will. What’s your name,
anyhow, cully?"
"Tom Swift,"
replied our hero, and again he wished he had not told. This time he was sure
the tramp started and glanced at him quickly, but perhaps it was only his
imagination.
"Tom Swift,"
repeated the man musingly, and his tones were different from the whining ones
in which he had asked for money. Then, as if recollecting the part he was
playing, he added: "I s’pose dey calls youse dat because youse rides so
quick on dat machine. But I’m certainly obliged to youse—Tom Swift, an’ I hopes
youse gits t’ Albany, in Jersey, in good time."
He turned away, and Tom
was beginning to breathe more easily when the ragged man, with a quick gesture,
reached out and grabbed hold of the motor-cycle. He gave it such a pull that it
was nearly torn from Tom’s grasp. The lad was so startled at the sudden
exhibition of vindictiveness on the part of the tramp that he did not know what
to do. Then, before he could recover himself, the tramp darted into the bushes.
"I guess Happy
Harry—dat’s me—has spoiled your ride t’ Albany!" the tramp cried. "Maybe
next time youse won’t run down poor fellers on de road," and with that,
the ragged man, shaking his fist at Tom, was lost to sight in the underbrush.
"Well, if that isn’t
a queer end up," mused Tom. "He must be crazy. I hope I don’t meet
you again, Happy Harry, or whatever your name is. Guess I’ll get out of this
neighborhood."
TOM first made sure
that the package containing the model was still safely in place back of his
saddle on the motor-cycle. Finding it there he next put his hand in his pocket
to see that he had the papers.
"They’re all
right," spoke Tom aloud. "I didn’t know but what that chap might have
worked a pickpocket game on me. I’m glad I didn’t meet him after dark. Well, it’s
a good thing it’s no worse. I wonder if he tried to get my machine away from
me? Don’t believe he’d know how to ride it if he did."
Tom wheeled his
motor-cycle to a hard side-path along the old road, and jumped into the saddle.
He worked the pedals preparatory to turning on the gasolene and spark to set
the motor in motion. As he threw forward the levers, having acquired what he
thought was the necessary momentum, he was surprised that no explosion
followed. The motor seemed "dead."
"That’s
queer," he thought, and he began to pedal more rapidly. "It always
used to start easily. "Maybe it doesn’t like this sandy road."
It was hard work
sending the heavy machine along by "leg power," and once more, when
he had acquired what he thought was sufficient speed, Tom turned on the power.
But no explosions followed, and in some alarm he jumped to the ground.
"Something’s
wrong," he said aloud. "That tramp must have damaged the machine when
he yanked it so." Tom went quickly over the different parts. It did not
take him long to discover what the trouble was. One of the wires, leading from
the batteries to the motor, which wire served to carry the current of
electricity that exploded the mixture of air and gasolene, was missing. It had
been broken off close to the battery box and the spark plug.
"That’s what Happy
Harry did!" exclaimed Tom. "He pulled that wire off when he yanked my
machine. That’s what he meant by hoping I’d get to Albany. That fellow was no
tramp. He was disguised, and up to some game. And he knows something about motor-cycles,
too, or he never would have taken that wire. I’m stalled, now, for I haven’t
got another piece. I ought to have brought some. I’ll have to push this machine
until I get to town, or else go back home."
The young inventor
looked up and down the lonely road, undecided what to do. To return home meant
that he would be delayed in getting to Albany, for he would lose a day. If he
pushed on to Pompville he might be able to get a bit of wire there.
Tom decided that was
his best plan, and plodded on through the thick sand. He had not gone more than
a quarter of a mile, every step seeming harder than the preceding one, when he
heard, from the woods close at his left hand, a gun fired. He jumped so that he
nearly let the motor-cycle fall over, for a wild idea came into his head that
the tramp had shot at him. With a quickly-beating heart the lad looked about
him.
"I wonder if that
was Happy Harry?" he mused.
There was a crackling
in the bushes and Tom, wondering what he might do to protect himself, looked
toward the place whence the noise proceeded. A moment later a hunter stepped
into view. The man carried a gun and wore a canvas suit, a belt about his waist
being filled with cartridges.
"Hello!" he
exclaimed pleasantly, Then, seeing a look of alarm on the lad’s face, he went
on: "I hope I didn’t shoot in your direction, young man; did I?"
"No—no, sir,"
replied the youthful inventor, who had hardly recovered his composure. "I
heard your gun, and I imagined——"
"Did you think you
had been shot? You must have a very vivid imagination, for I fired in the
air."
"No, I didn’t
exactly think that," replied Tom, "but I just had an encounter with
an ugly tramp, and I feared he might be using me for a target."
"Is that so. I
hadn’t noticed any tramps around here, and I’ve been in these woods nearly all
day. Did he harm you?"
"No, not me, but
my motor-cycle," and the lad explained.
"Pshaw! That’s too
bad!" exclaimed the hunter. "I wish I could supply you with a bit of
wire, but I haven’t any. I’m just walking about, trying my new gun."
"I shouldn’t think
you’d find anything to shoot this time of year," remarked Tom.
"I don’t expect
to," answered the hunter, who had introduced himself as Theodore Duncan.
"But I have just purchased a new gun, and I wanted to try it. I expect to
do considerable hunting this fall, and so I’m getting ready for it."
"Do you live near
here?"
"Well, about ten
miles away, on the other side of Lake Carlopa, but I am fond of long walks in
the woods. If you ever get to Waterford I wish you’d come and see me, Mr.
Swift. I have heard of your father."
"I will, Mr.
Duncan; but if I don’t get something to repair my machine with I’m not likely
to get anywhere right away."
"Well, I wish I
could help you, but I haven’t the least ingenuity when it comes to machinery.
Now if I could help you track down that tramp——"
"Oh, no, thank
you, I’d rather not have any thing more to do with him."
"If I caught sight
of him now," resumed the hunter, "I fancy I could make him halt, and,
perhaps, give you back the wire. I’m a pretty good shot, even if this is a new
gun. I’ve been practicing at improvised targets all day."
"No; the less I
have to do with him, the better I shall like it," answered Tom,
"though I’m much obliged to you. I’ll manage somehow until I get to
Pompville."
He started off again,
the hunter disappearing in the woods, whence the sound of his gun was again
heard.
"He’s a queer
chap," murmured Tom, "but I like him. Perhaps I may see him when I go
to Waterford, if I ever do."
Tom was destined to see
the hunter again, at no distant time, and under strange circumstances. But now
the lad’s whole attention was taken up with the difficulty in which he found
himself. Vainly musing on what object the tramp could have had in breaking off
the wire, the young inventor trudged on.
"I guess he was
one of the gang after dad’s invention," thought Tom, "and he must
have wanted to hinder me from getting to Albany, though why I can’t
imagine." With a dubious shake of his head Tom proceeded. It was hard work
pushing the heavy machine through the sand, and he was puffing before he had
gone very, far.
"I certainly am up
against it," he murmured. "But if I can get a bit of wire in
Pompville I’ll be all right. If I can’t——"
Just then Tom saw
something which caused him to utter an exclamation of delight.
"That’s the very
thing!" he cried. "Why didn’t I think of it before?"
Leaving his motor-cycle
standing against a tree Tom hurried to a fence that separated the road from a
field. The fence was a barbed-wire one, and in a moment Tom had found a broken
strand.
"Guess no one will
care if I take a piece of this," he reasoned. "It will answer until I
can get more. I’ll have it in place in a jiffy!"
It did not take long to
get his pliers from his toolbag and snip off a piece of the wire. Untwisting it
he took out the sharp barbs, and then was ready to attach it to the binding
posts of the battery box and the spark plug.
"Hold on,
though!" he exclaimed as he paused in the work. "It’s got to be
insulated, or it will vibrate against the metal of the machine and short
circuit. I have it! My handkerchief! I s’pose Mrs. Baggert will kick at tearing
up a good one, but I can’t help it."
Tom took a spare
handkerchief from the bundle in which he had a few belongings carried with the
idea of spending the night at an Albany hotel, and he was soon wrapping strips
of linen around the wire, tying them with pieces of string.
"There!" he
exclaimed at length. "That’s insulated good enough, I guess. Now to fasten
it on and start."
The young inventor, who
was quick with tools, soon had the improvised wire in place. He tested the
spark and found that it was almost as good as when the regular copper conductor
was in place. Then, having taken a spare bit of the barbed-wire along in case
of another emergency, he jumped on the motor-cycle, pedaled it until sufficient
speed was attained, and turned on the power.
"That’s the
stuff!" he cried as the welcome explosions sounded. "I guess I’ve
fooled Happy, Harry! I’ll get to Albany pretty nearly on time, anyhow. But that
tramp surely had me worried for a while."
He rode into Pompville,
and on inquiring in a plumbing shop managed to get a bit of copper wire that
answered better than did the galvanized piece from the fence. The readjustment
was quickly made, and he was on his way again. As it was getting close to noon
he stopped near a little spring outside of Pompville and ate a sandwich,
washing it down with the cold water. Then he started for Centreford.
As he was coming into
the city he heard an automobile behind him. He steered to one side of the road
to give the big car plenty of room to pass, but it did not come on as speedily
as he thought it would. He looked back and saw that it was going to stop near
him. Accordingly he shut off the power of his machine.
"Is this the road
to Centreford?" asked one of the travelers in the auto.
"Straight
ahead," answered the lad.
At the sound of his
voice one of the men in the big touring car leaned forward and whispered
something to one on the front seat. The second man nodded, and looked closely
at Tom. The youth, in turn, stared at the men. He could not distinguish their
faces, as they had on auto goggles.
"How many miles is
it?" asked the man who had whispered, and at the sound of his voice Tom
felt a vague sense that he had heard it before.
"Three,"
answered the young inventor, and once more he saw the men whisper among
themselves.
"Thanks,"
spoke the driver of the car, and he threw in the gears. As the big machine
darted ahead the goggles which one of the men wore slipped off. Tom had a
glimpse of his face.
"Anson
Morse!" he exclaimed. "If that isn’t the man who was sneaking around
dad’s motor shop he’s his twin brother! I wonder if those aren’t the men who
are after the patent model? I must be on my guard!" and Tom, watching the
car fade out of sight on the road ahead of him, slowly started his motor-cycle.
He was much puzzled and alarmed.
THE more Tom tried to
reason out the cause of the men’s actions, the more he dwelt upon his encounter
with the tramp, and the harder he endeavored to seek a solution of the queer
puzzle, the more complicated it seemed. He rode on until he saw in a valley
below him the buildings of the town of Centreford, and, with a view of them, a
new idea came into his mind.
"I’ll go get a
good dinner," he decided, "and perhaps that will help me to think
more clearly. That’s what dad always does when he’s puzzling over an
invention." He was soon seated in a restaurant, where he ate a substantial
dinner. "I’m just going to stop puzzling over this matter," he
decided. "I’ll push an to Albany and tell the lawyer, Mr. Crawford.
Perhaps he can advise me."
Once this decision was
made Tom felt better.
"That’s just what
I needed," he thought; "some one to shift the responsibility upon. I’ll
let the lawyers do the worrying. That’s what they’re paid for. Now for Albany,
and I hope I don’t have to stop, except for supper, until I get there. I’ve got
to do some night riding, but I’ve got a powerful lamp, and the roads from now
on are good."
Tom was soon on his way
again. The highway leading to Albany was a hard, macadam one, and he fairly
flew along the level stretches.
"This is making
good time," he thought. "I won’t be so very late, after all; that is,
if nothing delays me."
The young inventor
looked up into the sky. The sun, which had been shining brightly all day, was
now hidden behind a mass of hazy clouds, for which the rider was duly grateful,
as it was becoming quite warm.
"It’s more like
summer than I thought," said Tom to himself. "I shouldn’t be surprised
if we got rain to-morrow."
Another look at the sky
confirmed him in this belief, and he had not gone on many miles farther when
his opinion was suddenly changed. This was brought about by a dull rumble in
the west, and Tom noticed that a bank of low-lying clouds had formed, the
black, inky masses of vapor being whirled upward as if by some powerful blast.
"Guess my storm is
going to arrive ahead of time," he said. "I’d better look for
shelter."
With a suddenness that
characterizes summer showers, the whole sky became overcast. The thunder
increased, and the flashes of lightning became more frequent and dazzling. A
wind sprang up and blew clouds of dust in Tom’s face.
"It certainly is
going to be a thunder storm," he admitted. "I’m bound to be delayed
now, for the roads will be mucky. Well, there’s no help for it. If I get to
Albany before midnight I’ll he doing well."
A few drops of rain
splashed on his hands, and as he looked up to note the state of the sky others
fell in his face. They were big drops, and where they splashed on the road they
formed little globules of mud.
"I’ll head for
that big tree," thought Tom "It will give me some shelter. I’ll wait
there——" His words were interrupted by a deafening crash of thunder which
followed close after a blinding flash. "No tree for mine!" murmured
Tom. "I forgot that they’re dangerous in a storm. I wonder where I can
stay?"
He turned on all the
power possible and sprinted ahead. Around a curve in the road he went, leaning
over to preserve his balance, and just as the rain came pelting down in a
torrent he saw just ahead of him a white church on the lonely country road. To
one side was a long shed, where the farmers were in the habit of leaving their
teams when they came to service.
"Just the
thing!" cried the boy; "and just in time!"
He turned his
motor-cycle into the yard surrounding the church, and a moment later had come
to a stop beneath the shed. It was broad and long, furnishing a good protection
against the storm, which had now burst in all its fury.
Tom was not very wet,
and looking to see that the model, which was partly of wood, had suffered no
damage, the lad gave his attention to his machine.
"Seems to be all
right," he murmured. "I’ll just oil her up while I’m waiting. This
can’t last long; it’s raining too hard."
He busied himself over
the motor-cycle, adjusting a nut that had been rattled loose, and putting some
oil on the bearings. The rain kept up steadily, and when he had completed his
attentions to his machine Tom looked out from under the protection of the shed.
"It certainly is
coming down for keeps," he murmured. "This trip is a regular hoodoo
so far. Hope I have it better coming back."
As he looked down the
road he espied an automobile coming through the mist of rain. It was an open
car, and as he saw the three men in it huddled up under the insufficient
protection of some blankets, Tom said:
"They’d ought to
come in here. There’s lots of room. Maybe they don’t see it. I’ll call to
them."
The car was almost
opposite the shed which was dose to the roadside. Tom was about to call when
one of the men in the auto looked up. He saw the shelter and spoke to the
chauffeur. The latter was preparing to steer up into the shed when the two men
on the rear seat caught sight of Tom.
"Why, that’s the
same car that passed me a while ago," said the young inventor half aloud.
"The one that contained those men whom I suspected might be after dad’s
patent. I hope they——"
He did not finish his
sentence, for at that instant the chauffeur quickly swung the machine around
and headed it back into the road. Clearly the men were not going to take
advantage of the shelter of the shed.
"That’s mighty
strange," murmured Tom. "They certainly saw me, and as soon as they
did they turned away. Can they be afraid of me?"
He went to the edge of
the shelter and peered out. The auto had disappeared de the toad behind a veil
of rain, and, shaking his head over the strange occurrence, Tom went back to
where he had left his motor-cycle.
"Things are
getting more and more muddled," he said. "I’m sure those were the
same men, and yet——"
He shrugged his
shoulders. The puzzle was getting beyond him.
STEADILY the rain came
down, the wind driving it under the shed until Tom was hard put to find a place
where the drops would not reach him. He withdrew into a far corner, taking his
motorcycle with him, and then, sitting on a block of wood, under the rough mangers
where the horses were fed while the farmers attended church, the lad thought
over the situation. He could make little of it, and the more he tried the worse
it seemed to become. He looked out across the wet landscape.
"I wonder if this
is ever going to stop?" he mused. "It looks as if it was in for an
all-day pour, yet we ought only to have a summer shower by rights.
"But then I guess
what I think about it won’t influence the weather man a bit. I might as well
make myself comfortable, for I can’t do anything. Let’s see. If I get to
Fordham by six o’clock I ought to be able to make Albany by nine, as it’s only
forty miles. I’ll get supper in Fordham, and push on. That is, I will if the
rain stops."
That was the most
necessary matter to have happen first, and Tom arising from his seat strolled
over to the front of the shed to look out.
"I believe it is
getting lighter in the west," he told himself. "Yes, the clouds are
lifting. It’s going to clear. It’s only a summer shower, after all."
But just as he said
that there came a sudden squall of wind and rain, fiercer than any which had
preceded. Tom was driven back to his seat on the log. It was quite chilly now,
and he noticed that near where he sat there was a big opening in the rear of
the shed, where a couple of boards were off.
"This must be a
draughty place in winter," he observed. "If I could find a drier spot
I’d sit there, but this seems to be the best," and he remained there,
musing on many things. Suddenly in the midst of his thoughts he imagined he
heard the sound of an automobile approaching. "I wonder if those men are
coming back here?" he exclaimed. "If they are——"
The youth again arose,
and went to the front of the shed. He could see nothing, and came back to
escape the rain. There was no doubt but that the shower would soon be over, and
looking at his watch, Tom began to calculate when he might arrive in Albany.
He was busy trying to
figure out the best plan to pursue, and was hardly conscious of his
surroundings. Seated on the log, with his back to the opening in the shed, the
young inventor could not see a figure stealthily creeping up through the wet
grass. Nor could he see an automobile, which had come to a stop back of the
horse shelter—an automobile containing two rain-soaked men, who were anxiously
watching the one stealing through the grass.
Tom put his watch back
into his pocket and looked out into the storm. It was almost over. The sun was
trying to shine through the clouds, and only a few drops were falling. The
youth stretched with a yawn, for he was tired of sitting still. At the moment
when he raised his arms to relieve his muscles something was thrust through the
opening behind him. It was a long club, and an instant later it descended on
the lad’s head. He went down in a heap, limp and motionless.
Through the opening
leaped a man. He bent over Tom, looked anxiously at him, and then, stepping to
the place where the boards were off the shed, he motioned to the men in the
automobile. They hurried from the machine, and were soon beside their
companion.
"I knocked hi m
out, all right," observed the man who had reached through and dealt Tom
the blow with the club.
"Knocked him out!
I should say you did, Featherton!" exclaimed one who appeared better
dressed than the others. "Have you killed him?"
"No; but I wish
you wouldn’t mention my name, Mr. Appleson. I—I don’t like——"
"Nonsense,
Featherton. No one can hear us. But I’m afraid you’ve done for the chap. I didn’t
want him harmed."
"Oh, I guess
Featherton knows how to do it, Appleson," commented the third man.
"He’s had experience that way, eh, Featherton?"
"Yes, Mr. Morse;
but if you please I wish you wouldn’t mention——"
"All right,
Featherton, I know what you mean," rejoined the man addressed as Morse.
"Now let’s see if we have drawn a blank or not. I think he has with him
the very thing we want,"
"Doesn’t seem to
be about his person," observed Appleson, as he carefully felt about the
clothing of the unfortunate Tom.
"Very likely not.
It’s too bulky. But there’s his motor-cycle over there. It looks as if what we
wanted was on the back of the saddle. Jove, Featherton, but I think he’s coming
to!"
Tom stirred uneasily
and moved his arms, while a moan came from between his parted lips.
"I’ve got some
stuff that will fix him!" exclaimed the man addressed as Featherton, and
who had been operating the automobile. He took something from his pocket and
leaned over Tom. In a moment the young inventor was still again.
"Quick now, see if
it’s there," directed Morse, and Appleson hurried over to the machine.
"Here it is!"
he called. "I’ll take it to our car, and we can get away."
"Are you going to
leave him here like this?" asked Morse.
"Yes; why
not?"
"Because some one
might have seen him come in here, and also remember that we, too, came in this
direction."
"What would you
do?"
"Take him down the
road a way and leave him. We can find some shed near a farmhouse where he and
his machine will be out of sight until we get far enough away. Besides, I don’t
like to leave him so far from help, unconscious as he is."
"Oh, you’re
getting chicken-hearted," said Appleson with a sneer. "However, have
your way about it. I wonder what has become of Jake Burke? He was to meet us in
Centreford, but he did not show up."
"Oh, I shouldn’t
be surprised if he had trouble in that tramp rig he insisted on adopting. I
told him he was running a risk, but he said he had masqueraded as a tramp
before."
"So he has. He’s
pretty good at it. Now, Simpson, if you will——"
"Not Simpson! I
thought you agreed to call me Featherton," interrupted the chauffeur,
turning to Morse and Appleson.
"Oh, so we did. I
forgot that this lad met us one day, and heard me call you Simpson,"
admitted Morse. "Well, Featherton it shall be. But we haven’t much time.
It’s stopped raining, and the roads will soon be well traveled. We must get
away, and if we are to take the lad and his machine to some secluded place, we’d
better be at it. No use waiting for Burke. He can look out after himself.
Anyhow, we have the model now, and there’s no use in him hanging around Swift’s
shop, as he intended to do, waiting for a chance to sneak in after it.
Appleson, if you and Simpson—I mean Featherton—will carry young Swift, I’ll
shove his wheel along to the auto, and we can put it and him in."
The two men, first
looking through the hole in the shed to make sure they were not observed, went
out, carrying Tom, who was no light load. Morse followed them, pushing the
motor-cycle, and carrying under one arm the bundle containing the valuable
model, which he had detached.
"I think this is
the time we get ahead of Mr. Swift," murmured Morse, pulling his black
mustache, when he and his companions had reached the car in the field. "We
have just what we want now."
"Yes, but we had
hard enough work getting it," observed Appleson. "Only by luck we saw
this lad come in here, or we would have had to chase all over for him, and
maybe then we would have missed him. Hurry, Simpson—I mean Featherton. It’s
getting late, and we’ve got lots to do."
The chauffeur sprang to
his seat, Appleson taking his place beside him. The motor-cycle was tied on
behind the big touring car, and with the unconscious form of Tom in the
tonneau, beside Morse, who stroked his mustache nervously, the auto started
off. The storm had passed, and the sun was shining brightly, but Tom could not
see it.
SEVERAL hours later Tom
had a curious dream. He imagined he was wandering about in the polar regions,
and that it was very cold. He was trying to reason with himself that he could
not possibly be on an expedition searching for the North Pole, still he felt
such a keen wind blowing over his scantily-covered body that he shivered. He
shivered so hard, in fact, that he shivered himself awake, and when he tried to
pierce the darkness that enveloped him he was startled, for a moment, with the
idea that perhaps, after all, he had wandered off to some unknown country.
For it was quite dark
and cold. He was in a daze, and there was a curious smell about him—an odor
that he tried to recall. Then, all at once, it came to him what it was—chloroform.
Once his father had undergone an operation, and to deaden his pain chloroform
had been used.
"I’ve been
chloroformed!" exclaimed the young inventor, and his words sounded strange
in his ears. "That’s it. I’ve met with an accident riding my motor-cycle.
I must have hit my head, for it hurts fearful. They picked me up, carried me to
a hospital and have operated on me. I wonder if they took off an arm or leg? I
wonder what hospital I’m in? Why is it so dark and cold?"
As he asked himself
these questions his brain gradually cleared from the haze caused by the
cowardly blow, and from the chloroform that had been administered by Featherton.
Tom’s first act was to
feel first of one arm, then the other. Having satisfied himself that neither of
these members were mutilated he reached down to his legs.
"Why, they’re all
right, too," he murmured. "I wonder what they did to me? That’s certainly,
chloroform I smell, and my head feels as if some one had sat on it. I wonder——"
Quickly he put up his
hands to his head. There appeared to be nothing the matter with it, save that
there was quite a lump on the back, where the club had struck.
"I seem to be all
here," went on Tom, much mystified. "But where am I? That’s the
question. It’s a funny hospital, so cold and dark——"
Just then his hands
came in contact with the cold ground on which he was lying.
"Why, I’m
outdoors!" he exclaimed. Then in a Bash it all came back to him—how he had
gone to wait under the church shed until the rain was over.
"I fell asleep,
and now it’s night," the youth went on. "No wonder I am sore and
stiff. And that chloroform——" He could not account for that, and he
paused, puzzled once more. Then he struggled to a sitting position. His head
was strangely dizzy, but he persisted, and got to his feet. He could see
nothing, and groped around In the dark, until he thought to strike a match.
Fortunately he had a number in his pocket. As the little flame flared up Tom
started in surprise.
"This isn’t the
church shed!" he exclaimed. "It’s much smaller! I’m in a different
place! Great Scott! but what has happened to me?"
The match burned Tom’s
fingers and he dropped it. The darkness closed in once more, but Tom was used
to it by this time, and looking ahead of him he could make out that the shed
was an open one, similar to the one where he had taken shelter. He could see
the sky studded with stars, and could feel the cold night wind blowing in.
"My
motor-cycle!" he exclaimed in alarm. "The model of dad’s invention—the
papers!"
Our hero thrust his
hand into his pocket. The papers were gone! Hurriedly he lighted another match.
It took but an instant to glance rapidly about the small shed. His machine was
not in sight!
Tom felt his heart
sink. After all his precautions he had been robbed. The precious model was
gone, and it had been his proposition to take it to Albany in this manner. What
would his father say?
The lad lighted match
after match, and made a rapid tour of the shed. The motor-cycle was not to be
seen. But what puzzled Tom more than anything else was how he had been brought
from the church shed to the one where he had awakened from his stupor.
"Let me try to
think," said the boy, speaking aloud, for it seemed to help him. "The
last I remember is seeing that automobile, with those mysterious men in,
approaching. Then it disappeared in the rain. I thought I heard it again, but I
couldn’t see it. I was sitting on the log, and—and—well, that’s all I can
remember. I wonder if those men——"
The young inventor
paused. Like a flash it came to him that the men were responsible for his
predicament. They had somehow made him insensible, stolen his motor-cycle, the
papers and the model, and then brought him to this place, wherever it was. Tom
was a shrewd reasoner, and he soon evolved a theory which he afterward learned
was the correct one. He reasoned out almost every step in the crime of which he
was the victim, and at last came to the conclusion that the men had stolen up
behind the shed and attacked him.
"Now, the next
question to settle," spoke Tom, "is to learn where I am. How far did
those scoundrels carry me, and what has become of my motor-cycle?"
He walked toward the
point of the shed where he could observe the stars gleaming, and there he
lighted some more matches, hoping he might see his machine. By the gleam of the
little flame he noted that he was in a farmyard, and he was just puzzling his
brain over the question as to what city or town he might be near when he heard
a voice shouting:
"Here, what you
lightin’ them matches for? You want to set the place afire? Who be you, anyhow—a
tramp?"
It was unmistakably the
voice of a farmer, and Tom could hear footsteps approaching on the run.
"Who be you,
anyhow?" the voice repeated. "I’ll have the constable after you in a
jiffy if you’re a tramp."
"I’m not a
tramp," called Tom promptly. "I’ve met with an accident. Where am I?"
"Humph! Mighty
funny if you don’t know where you are," commented the farmer. "Jed,
bring a lantern until I take a look at who this is."
"All right,
pop," answered another voice, and a moment later Tom saw a tall man
standing in front of him.
"I’ll give you a
look at me without waiting for the lantern," said Tom quickly, and he
struck a match, holding it so that the gleam fell upon his face.
"Salt mackerel! It’s
a young feller!" exclaimed the farmer. "Who be you, anyhow, and what
you doin’ here?"
"That’s just what
I would like to know," said Tom, passing his hand over his head, which was
still paining him. "Am I near Albany? That’s where I started for this
morning."
"Albany? You’re a
good way from Albany," replied the farmer. "You’re in the village of
Dunkirk."
"How far is that
from Centreford?"
"About seventy
miles."
"As far as
that?" cried Tom. "They must have carried me a good way in their
automobile."
"Was you in that
automobile?" demanded the farmer.
"Which one?"
asked Tom quickly.
"The one that
stopped down the road just before supper. I see it, but I didn’t pay no
attention to it. If I’d ’a’ knowed you fell out, though, I’d ’a’ come to help
you."
"I didn’t fall
out, Mr.—er——" Tom paused.
"Blackford is my
name; Amos Blackford."
"Well, Mr.
Blackford, I didn’t fall out. I was drugged and brought here."
"Drugged! Salt
mackerel! But there’s been a crime committed, then. Jed, hurry up with that
lantern an’ git your deputy sheriff’s badge on. There’s been druggin’ an’ all
sorts of crimes committed. I’ve caught one of the victims. Hurry up! My son’s a
deputy sheriff," he added, by way of an explanation.
"Then I hope he
can help me catch the scoundrels who robbed me," said Tom.
"Robbed you, did they?
Hurry up, Jed. There’s been a robbery! We’ll rouse the neighborhood an’ search
for the villains. Hurry up, Jed!"
"I’d rather find
my motor-cycle, and a valuable model which was on it, than locate those
men," went on Tom. "They also took some papers from me."
Then he told how he had
started for Albany, adding his theory of how he had been attacked and carried
away in the auto. The latter part of it was borne out by the testimony of Mr.
Blackford.
"What I know about
it," said the farmer, when his son Jed had arrived on the scene with a
lantern and his badge, "is that jest about supper time I saw an automobile
stop down the road a bit, It was gittin’ dusk, an’ I saw some men git out. I
didn’t pay no attention to them, ’cause I was busy about the milkin’. The next
I knowed I seen some one strikin’ matches in my wagon shed, an’ I come out to
see what it was."
"The men must have
brought me all the way from the church shed near Centreford to here,"
declared Tom. "Then they lifted me out and put me in your shed. Maybe they
left my motorcycle also."
"I didn’t see
nothin’ like that," said the farmer. "Is that what you call one of
them two-wheeled lickity-split things that a man sits on the middle of an’ goes
like chain-lightning?"
"It is," said
Tom. "I wish you’d help me look for it."
The farmer and his son
agreed, and other lanterns having been secured, a search was made. After about
half an hour the motor-cycle was discovered in some bushes at the side of the
road, near where the automobile had stopped. But the model was missing from it,
and a careful search near where the machine had been hidden did not reveal it.
Nor did as careful a hunt as they could make in the darkness disclose any dues
to the scoundrels who had drugged and robbed Tom.
"WE’VE got to
organize a regular searchin’ party," declared Jed Blackford, after he and
his father, together with Tom and the farmer’s hired man, had searched up and
down the road by the light of lanterns. "We’ll organize a posse an’ have a
regular hunt. This is the worst crime that’s been committed in this deestrict
in many years, an’ I’m goin’ to run the scoundrels to earth."
"Don’t be talkin’
nonsense, Jed," interrupted his father. "You won’t catch them fellers
in a hundred years. They’re miles an’ miles away from here by this time in
their automobile. All you can do is to notify the sheriff. I guess we’d better
give this young man some attention. Let’s see, you said your name was Quick,
didn’t you?"
"No, but it’s very
similar," answered Tom with a smile. "It’s Swift."
"I knowed it was
something had to do with speed," went on Mr. Blackford. "Wa’al, now,
s’pose you come in the house an’ have a hot cup of tea. You look sort of
draggled out." Tom was glad enough to avail himself of the kind
invitation, and he was soon in the comfortable kitchen, relating his story,
with more detail, to the farmer and his family. Mrs. Blackford applied some
home-made remedies to the lump on the youth’s head, and it felt much better.
"I’d like to take
a look at my motor-cycle," he said, after his second cup of tea. "I
want to see if those men damaged it any. If they have I’m going to have trouble
getting back home to tell my father of my bad luck. Poor dad! He will be very
much worried when I tell him the model and his patent papers have been
stolen."
"It’s too
bad!" exclaimed Mrs. Blackford. "I wish I had hold of them
scoundrels!" and her usually gentle face bore a severe frown. "Of
course you can have your thing-a-ma-bob in to see if it’s hurt, but please don’t
start it in here. They make a terrible racket."
"No, I’ll look it
over in the woodshed," promised Tom. "If it’s all right I think I’ll
start back home at once."
"No, you can’t do
that," declared Mr. Blackford. "You’re in no condition to travel. You
might fall off an’ git hurt. It’s nearly ten o’clock now. You jest stay here
all night, an’ in the mornin’, if you feel all right, you can start off. I
couldn’t let you go to-night."
Indeed, Tom did not
feel very much like undertaking the journey, for the blow on his head had made
him dazed, and the chloroform caused a sick feeling. Mr. Blackford wheeled the
motorcycle into the woodhouse, which opened from the kitchen, and there the
youth went over the machine. He was glad to find that it had sustained no
damage. In the meanwhile Jed had gone off to tell the startling news to near-by
farmers. Quite a throng, with lanterns, went up and down the road, but all the
evidence they could find were the marks of the automobile wheels, which clues
were not very satisfactory.
"But we’ll catch
them in the mornin’," declared the deputy sheriff. "I’ll know that
automobile again if I see it. It was painted red."
"That’s the color
of a number of automobiles," said Tom with a smile. "I’m afraid you’ll
have trouble identifying it by that means. I am surprised, though, that they
did not carry my motorcycle away with them. It is a valuable machine."
"They were afraid
to," declared Jed. "It would look queer to see a machine like that in
an auto. Of course when they were going along country roads in the evening it
didn’t much matter, but when they headed for the city, as they probably did,
they knew it would attract suspicion to ’em. I know, for I’ve been a deputy
sheriff ’most a year."
"I believe you’re
right," agreed Tom. "They didn’t dare take the motor-cycle with them,
but they hid it, hoping I would not find it. I’d rather have the model and the
papers, though, than half a dozen motor-cycles."
"Maybe the police
will help you find them," said Mrs. Blackford. "Jed, you must
telephone to the police the first thing in the morning. It’s a shame the way
criminals are allowed to go on. If honest people did those things, they’d be
arrested in a minute, but it seems that scoundrels can do as they please."
"You wait; I’ll
catch ’em!" declared Jed confidently. "I’ll organize another posse in
the mornin’."
"Well, I know one
thing, and that is that the place for this young man is in bed!" exclaimed
motherly Mrs. Blackford, and she insisted on Tom retiring. He was somewhat
restless at first, and the thought of the loss of the model and the papers
preyed on his mind. Then, utterly exhausted, he sank into a heavy slumber, and
did not awaken until the sun was shining in his window the next morning. A good
breakfast made him feel somewhat better, and he was more like the resourceful
Tom Swift of old when he went to get his motor-cycle in shape for the ride back
to Shopton.
"Well, I hope you
find those criminals," said Mr. Blackford, as he watched Tom oiling the
machine. "If you’re ever out this way again, stop off and see us."
"Yes, do,"
urged Mrs. Blackford, who was getting ready to churn. Her husband looked at the
old-fashioned barrel and dasher arrangement, which she was filling with cream.
"What’s the matter
with the new churn?" he asked in some surprise.
"It’s
broken," she replied. "It’s always the way with those new-fangled
things. It works ever so much nicer than this old one, though," she went
on to Tom, "but it gets out of order easy."
"Let me look at
it," suggested the young inventor. "I know something about
machinery."
The churn, which worked
by a system of cogs and a handle, was brought from the woodshed. Tom soon saw
what the trouble was. One of the cogs had become displaced. It did not take him
five minutes, with the tools he carried on his motor-cycle, to put it back, and
the churn was ready to use.
"Well, I
declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Blackford. "You are handy at such
things!"
"Oh, it’s just a
knack," replied Tom modestly. "Now I’ll put a plug in there, and the
cog wheel won’t come loose again. The manufacturers of it ought to have done
that. I imagine lots of people have this same trouble with these churns."
"Indeed they
do," asserted Mrs. Blackford. "Sallie Armstrong has one, and it got
out of order the first week they had it. I’ll let her look at mine, and maybe
her husband can fix it."
"I’d go and do it
myself, but I want to get home," said Tom, and then he showed her how, by
inserting a small iron plug in a certain place, there would be no danger of the
cog coming loose again.
"That’s certainly
slick!" exclaimed Mr. Blackford. "Well, I wish you good luck, Mr.
Swift, and if I see those scoundrels around this neighborhood again I’ll make ’em
wish they’d let you alone."
"That’s
what," added Jed, polishing his badge with his big, red handkerchief.
Mrs. Blackford
transferred the cream to the new churn which Tom had fixed, and as he rode off
down the highway on his motor-cycle, she waved one hand to him, while with the
other she operated the handle of the apparatus.
"Now for a quick
run to Shopton to tell dad the bad news," spoke Tom to himself as he
turned on full speed and dashed away. "My trip has been a failure so
far."
TOM was thinking of
many things as his speedy machine carried him mile after mile nearer home. By
noon he was over half way on his journey, and he stopped in a small village for
his dinner.
"I think I’ll make
inquiries of the police here, to see if they caught sight of those men,"
decided Tom as he left the restaurant. "Though I am inclined to believe
they kept on to Albany, or some large city, where they have their headquarters.
They will want to make use of dad’s model as soon as possible, though what they
will do with it I don’t know." He tried to telephone to his father, but
could get no connection, as the wire was being repaired.
The police force of the
place where Tom had stopped for lunch was like the town itself—small and not of
much consequence. The chief constable, for he was not what one could call a
chief of police, had heard of the matter from the alarm sent out in all
directions from Dunkirk, where Mt. Blackford lived.
"You don’t mean to
tell me you’re the young man who was chloroformed and robbed!" exclaimed
the constable, looking at Tom as if he doubted his word.
"I’m the young
man," declared our hero. "Have you seen anything of the
thieves?"
"Not a thing,
though I’ve instructed all my men to keep a sharp lookout for a red automobile,
with three scoundrels in it. My men are to make an arrest on sight."
"How many men have
you?"
"Two," was
the rather surprising answer; "but one has to work on a farm daytimes, so
I ain’t really got but one in what you might call active service."
Tom restrained a desire
to laugh. At any rate, the aged constable meant well.
"One of my men
seen a red automobile, a little while before you come in my office," went
on the official, "but it wasn’t the one wanted, ’cause a young woman was
running it all alone. It struck me as rather curious that a woman would trust
herself all alone in one of them things; wouldn’t it you?"
"Oh, no, women and
young ladies often operate them," said Tom.
"I should think
you’d find one handier than the two-wheeled apparatus you have out there,"
went on the constable, indicating the motor-cycle, which Tom had stood up
against a tree.
"I may have one
some day," replied the young inventor. "But I guess I’ll be moving on
now. Here’s my address, in case you hear anything of those men, but I don’t
imagine you will."
"Me either.
Fellows as slick as them are won’t come back this way and run the chance of
being arrested by my men. I have two on duty nights," he went on proudly,
"besides myself, so you see we’re pretty well protected."
Tom thanked him for the
trouble he had taken, and was soon on his way again. He swept on along the
quiet country roads anxious for the time when he could consult with his father
over what would be the best course to take.
When Tom was about a
mile away from his house he saw in the road ahead of him a rickety old wagon,
and a second glance at it told him the outfit belonged to Eradicate Sampson,
for the animal drawing the vehicle was none other than the mule, Boomerang.
"But what in the
world is Rad up to?" mused Tom, for the colored man was out of the wagon
and was going up and down in the grass at the side of the highway in a curious
fashion. "I guess he’s lost something," decided Tom.
When he got nearer he
saw what Eradicate was doing. The colored man was pushing a lawn-mower slowly
to and fro in the tall, rank grass that grew beside the thoroughfare, and at
the sound of Tom’s motor-cycle the negro looked up. There was such a woe-begone
expression on his face that Tom at once stopped his machine and got off.
"What’s the
matter, Rad?" Tom asked.
"Mattah, Mistah
Swift? Why, dere’s a pow’ful lot de mattah, an’ dat’s de truff. I’se been
swindled, dat’s what I has."
"Swindled?
How?"
"Well, it’s
dis-a-way. Yo’ see dis yeah lawn-moah?"
"Yes; it doesn’t
seem to work," and Tom glanced critically at it. As Eradicate pushed it
slowly to and fro, the blades did not revolve, and the wheels slipped along on
the grass.
"No, sah, it doan’t
work, an’ dat’s how I’ve been swindled, Mistah Swift. Yo’ see, I done traded
mah ole grindstone off for dis yeah lawn-moah, an’ I got stuck."
"What, that old
grindstone that was broken in two, and that you fastened together with
concrete?" asked Tom, for he had seen the outfit with which Eradicate, in
spare times between cleaning and whitewashing, had gone about the country,
sharpening knives and scissors. "Yet don’t mean that old, broken
one?"
"Dat’s what I
mean, Mistah Swift. Why, it was all right. I mended it so dat de break wouldn’t
show, an’ it would sharpen things if yo’ run it slow. But dis yeah lawn-moah
won’t wuk slow ner fast."
"I guess it was an
even exchange, then," went on Tom. "You didn’t get bitten any worse
than the other fellow did."
"Yo’ doan’t s’pose
yo’ kin fix dis yeah moah so’s I kin use it, does yo’, Mistah Swift?"
asked Eradicate, not bothering to go into the ethics of the matter. "I
reckon now with summah comin’ on I kin make mo’ with a lawn-moah than I kin
with a grindstone—dat is, ef I kin git it to wuk. I jest got it a while ago an’
decided to try it, but it won’t cut no grass."
"I haven’t much
time," said Tom, "for I’m anxious to get home, but I’ll take a look
at it."
Tom leaned his
motor-cycle against the fence. He could no more pass a bit of broken machinery,
which he thought he could mend, than some men and boys can pass by a baseball
game without stopping to watch it, no matter how pressed they are for time. It
was Tom’s hobby, and he delighted in nothing so much as tinkering with
machines, from lawn-mowers to steam engines.
Tom took hold of the
handle, which Eradicate gladly relinquished to him, and his trained touch told
him at once what was the trouble.
"Some one has had
the wheels off and put them on wrong, Rad," he said. "The ratchet and
pawl are reversed. This mower would work backwards, if that were
possible."
"Am dat so, Mistah
Swift?"
"That’s it. All I
have to do is to take off the wheels and reverse the pawl."
"I—I didn’t know
mah lawn-moah was named Paul," said the colored man. "Is it writ on
it anywhere?"
"No, it’s not the
kind of Paul you mean," said Tom with a laugh. "It’s spelled
differently. A pawl is a sort of catch that fits into a ratchet wheel and
pushes it around, or it may be used as a catch to prevent the backward motion
of a windlass or the wheel on a derrick. I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy for
you."
Tom worked rapidly.
With a monkey-wrench he removed the two big wheels of the lawn-mower and
reversed the pawl in the cogs. In five minutes he had replaced the wheels, and
the machine, except for needed sharpening, did good work.
"There you are,
Rad!" exclaimed Tom at length.
"Yo’ suah am a
wonder at inventin’!" cried the colored man gratefully. "I’ll cut yo’
grass all summah fo’ yo’ to pay fo’ this, Mistah Swift."
"Oh, that’s too
much. I didn’t do a great deal, Rad."
"Well, yo’ saved
me from bein’ swindled, Mistah Swift, an’ I suah does ’preciate dat."
"How about the
fellow you traded the cracked grindstone to, Rad?"
"Oh, well, ef he
done run it slow it won’t fly apart, an’ he’ll do dat, anyhow, fo’ he suah am a
lazy coon. I guess we am about even there, Mistah Swift."
"All right,"
spoke Tom with a laugh. "Sharpen it up, Rad, and start in to cut grass. It
will soon be summer," and Tom, leaping upon his motor-cycle, was off like
a shot.
He found his father in
his library, reading a book on scientific matters. Mr. Swift looked up in
surprise at seeing his son.
"What! Back so
soon?" he asked. "You did make a flying trip. Did you give the model
and papers to Mr. Crawford?"
"No, dad, I was
robbed yesterday. Those scoundrels got ahead of us, after all. They have your
model. I tried to telephone to you, but the wires were down, or
something."
"What!" cried
Mr. Swift. "Oh, Tom! That’s too bad! I will lose ten thousand dollars if I
can’t get that model and those papers back!" and with a despairing gesture
Mr. Swift rose and began to pace the floor.
TOM watched his father
anxiously. The young inventor knew the loss had been a heavy one, and he blamed
himself for not having been more careful.
"Tell me all about
it, Tom," said Mr. Swift at length. "Are you sure the model and
papers are gone? How did it happen?"
Then Tom related what
had befallen him.
"Oh, that’s too
bad!" cried Mr. Swift. "Are you much hurt, Tom? Shall I send for the
doctor?" For the time being his anxiety over his son was greater than that
concerning his loss.
"No, indeed, dad.
I’m all right now. I got a bad blow on the head, but Mrs. Blackford fixed me
up. I’m awfully sorry——"
"There, there! Now
don’t say another word," interrupted Mr. Swift. "It wasn’t your
fault. It might have happened to me. I dare my it would, for those scoundrels
seemed very determined. They are desperate, and will stop at nothing to make
good the loss they sustained on the patent motor they exploited. Now they will
probably try to make use of my model and papers."
"Do you think they’ll
do that, dad?"
"Yes. They will
either make a motor exactly like mine, or construct one so nearly similar that
it will answer their purpose. I will have no redress against them, as my patent
is not fully granted yet. Mr. Crawford was to attend to that."
"Can’t you do
anything to stop them, dad? File an injunction, or something like that?"
"I don’t know. I
must see Mr. Crawford at once. I wonder if he could come here? He might be able
to advise me. I have had very little experience with legal difficulties. My
specialty is in other lines of work. But I must do something. Every moment is
valuable. I wonder who the men were?"
"I’m sure one of
them was the same man who came here that night—the man with the black mustache,
who dropped the telegram," said Tom. "I had a pretty good look at him
as the auto passed me, and I’m sure it was he. Of course I didn’t see who it
was that struck me down, but I imagine it was some one of the same gang."
"Very likely.
Well, Tom, I must do something. I suppose I might telegraph to Mr. Crawford— he
will be expecting you in Albany——" Mr. Swift paused musingly. "No, I
have it!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I’ll go to Albany myself."
"Go to Albany,
dad?"
"Yes; I must
explain everything to the lawyers and then he can advise me what to do.
Fortunately I have some papers, duplicates of those you took, which I can show
him. Of course the originals will be necessary before I can prove my claim. The
loss of the model is the most severe, however. Without that I can do little.
But I will have Mr. Crawford take whatever steps are possible. I’ll take the
night train, Tom. I’ll have to leave you to look after matters here, and I
needn’t caution you to be on your guard, though, having got what they were
after, I fancy those financiers, or their tools, will not bother us
again."
"Very likely not,"
agreed Tom, "but I will keep my eyes open, just the same. Oh, but that
reminds me, dad. Did you see anything of a tramp around here while I was
away?"
"A tramp? No; but
you had better ask Mrs. Baggert. She usually attends to them. She’s so
kind-hearted that she frequently gives them a good meal."
The housekeeper, when
consulted, said that no tramps had applied in the last few days.
"Why do you ask,
Tom?" inquired his father
"Because I had an
experience with one, and I believe he was a member of the same gang who robbed
me." And thereupon Tom told of his encounter with Happy Harry, and how the
latter had broken the wire on the motor-cycle.
"You had a narrow
escape," commented Mr. Swift. "If I had known the dangers involved I
would never have allowed you to take the model to Albany."
"Well, I didn’t
take it there, after all," said Tom with a grim smile, for he could
appreciate a joke.
"I must hurry and
pack my valise," went on Mr. Swift. "Mrs. Baggert, we will have an
early supper, and I will start at once for Albany."
"I wish I could go
with you, dad, to make up for the trouble I caused," spoke Tom.
"Tut, tut! Don’t
talk that way," advised his father kindly. "I will be glad of the
trip. It will ease my mind to be doing something."
Tom felt rather
lonesome after his father had left, but he laid out a plan of action for
himself that he thought would keep him occupied until his father returned. In
the first place he made a tour of the house and various machine shops to see
that doors and windows were securely fastened.
"What’s the
matter? Do you expect burglars, Master Tom?" asked Garret Jackson, the
aged engineer.
"Well, Garret, you
never can tell," replied the young inventor, as he told of his experience
and the necessity for Mr. Swift going to Albany. "Some of those
scoundrels, finding how easy it was to rob me, may try it again, and get some
at dad’s other valuable models. I’m taking no chances."
"That’s right, Master
Tom. I’ll keep steam up in the boiler to-night, though we don’t really need it,
as your father told me you would probably not run any machinery when he was
gone. But with a good head of steam up, and a hose handy, I can give any
burglars a hot reception. I almost wish they’d come, so I could get square with
them."
"I don’t, Garret.
Well, I guess everything is in good shape. If you hear anything unusual, or the
alarm goes off during the night, call me."
"I will, Master
Tom," and the old engineer, who had a living-room in a shack adjoining the
boiler-room, locked the door after Tom left.
The young inventor
spent the early evening in attaching a new wire to his motor-cycle to replace
the one he had purchased while on his disastrous trip. The temporary one was
not just the proper thing, though it answered well enough. Then, having done
some work on a new boat propeller he was contemplating patenting, Tom felt that
it was time to go to bed, as he was tired. He made a second round of the house,
looking to doors and windows, until Mrs. Baggert exclaimed:
"Oh, Tom, do stop!
You make me nervous, going around that way. I’m sure I shan’t sleep a wink
to-night, thinking of burglars and tramps."
Tom laughingly
desisted, and went up to his room. He sat up a few minutes, writing a letter to
a girl of his acquaintance, for, in spite of the fact that the young inventor
was very busy with his own and his father’s work, he found time for lighter
pleasures. Then, as his eyes seemed determined to close of their own accord, if
he did not let them, he tumbled into bed.
Tom fancied it was
nearly morning when he suddenly awoke with a start. He heard a noise, and at
first he could not locate it. Then his trained ear traced it to the
dining-room.
"Why, Mrs. Baggert
must be getting breakfast, and is rattling the dishes," he thought.
"But why is she up so early?"
It was quite dark in
Tom’s room, save for a little gleam from the crescent moon, and by the light of
this Tom arose and looked at his watch.
"Two o’clock,"
he whispered. "That can’t be Mrs. Baggert, unless she’s sick, and got up
to take some medicine."
He listened intently.
Below, in the dining-room, he could hear stealthy movements.
"Mrs. Baggert
would never move around like that," he decided. "She’s too heavy. I
wonder—it’s a burglar—one of the gang has gotten in!" he exclaimed in
tense tones. "I’m going to catch him at it!"
Hurriedly he slipped on
some clothes, and then, having softly turned on the electric light in his room,
he took from a corner a small rifle, which he made sure was loaded. Then,
having taken a small electric flashlight, of the kind used by police men, and
sometimes by burglars, he started on tiptoe toward the lower floor.
As Tom softly descended
the stairs he could more plainly hear the movements of the intruder. He made
out now that the burglar was in Mr. Swift’s study, which opened from the
dining-room.
"He’s after dad’s
papers!" thought Tom. "I wonder which one this is?"
The youth had often
gone hunting in the woods, and he knew how to approach cautiously. Thus he was
able to reach the door of the dining-room without being detected. He had no
need to flash his light, for the intruder was doing that so frequently with one
he carried that Tom could see him perfectly. The fellow was working at the safe
in which Mr. Swift kept his more valuable papers.
Softly, very softly Tom
brought his rifle to bear on the back of the thief. Then, holding the weapon
with one hand, for it was very light, Tom extended the electric flash, so that the
glare would be thrown on the intruder and would leave his own person in the
black shadows. Pressing the spring which caused the lantern to throw out a
powerful glow, Tom focused the rays on the kneeling man.
"That will be
about all!" the youth exclaimed in as steady a voice as he could manage.
The burglar turned like
a flash, and Tom had a glimpse of his face. It was the tramp—Happy Harry—whom
he had encountered on the lonely road.
TOM held his rifle in
readiness, though he only intended it as a means of intimidation, and would not
have fired at the burglar except to save his own life. But the sight of the
weapon was enough for the tramp. He crouched motionless. His own light had gone
out, but by the gleam of the electric he carried Tom could see that the man had
in his hand some tool with which he had been endeavoring to force the safe.
"I guess you’ve
got me!" exclaimed the intruder, and there was in his tones no trace of
the tramp dialect.
"It looks like
it," agreed Tom grimly. "Are you a tramp now, or in some other
disguise?"
"Can’t you
see?" asked the fellow sullenly, and then Tom did notice that the man
still had on his tramp make-up.
"What do you
want?" asked Tom.
"Hard to
tell." replied the burglar calmly. "I hadn’t got the safe open before
you came down and disturbed me. I’m after money, naturally."
"No, you’re
not!" exclaimed Tom.
"What’s
that?" and the man seemed surprised.
"No, you’re
not!" went on Tom, and he held his rifle in readiness. "You’re after
the patent papers and the model of the turbine motor. But it’s gone. Your
confederates got it away from me. They probably haven’t told you yet, and you’re
still on the hunt for it. You’ll not get it, but I’ve got you."
"So I see,"
admitted Happy Harry, and he spoke with some culture. "If you don’t
mind," he went on, "would you just as soon move that gun a little? It’s
pointing right at my head, and it might go off."
"It is going off—very
soon!" exclaimed Tom grimly, and the tramp started in alarm. "Oh, I’m
not going to shoot you," continued the young inventor. "I’m going to
fire this as an alarm, and the engineer will come in here and tie you up. Then
I’m going to hand you over to the police. This rifle is a repeater, and I am a
pretty good shot. I’m going to fire once now, to summon assistance, and if you
try to get away I’ll be ready to fire a second time, and that won’t be so
comfortable for you. I’ve caught you, and I’m going to hold on to you until I
get that model and those papers back."
"Oh, you are,
eh?" asked the burglar calmly. "Well, all I’ve got to say is that you
have grit. Go ahead. I’m caught good and proper. I was foolish to come in here,
but I thought I’d take a chance."
"Who are you,
anyhow? Who are the men working with you to defraud my father of his
rights?" asked Tom somewhat bitterly.
"I’ll never tell
you," answered the burglar. "I was hired to do certain work, and that’s
all there is to it. I’m not going to peach on my pals."
"We’ll see about
that!" burst out Tom. Then he noticed that a dining-room window behind
where the burglar was kneeling was open. Doubtless the intruder had entered
that way, and intended to escape in the same manner.
"I’m going to
shoot," announced Tom, and, aiming his rifle at the open window, where the
bullet would do no damage, he pressed the trigger. He noticed that the burglar
was crouching low down on the floor, but Tom thought nothing of this at the
time. He imagined that Happy Harry—or whatever his name was—might be afraid of
getting hit.
There was a flash of
fire and a deafening report as Tom fired. The cloud of smoke obscured his
vision for a moment, and as the echoes died away Tom could hear Mrs. Baggert
screaming in her room.
"It’s all
right!" cried the young inventor reassuringly. "No one is hurt, Mrs.
Baggert!" Then he flashed his light on the spot where the burglar had
crouched. As the smoke rolled away Tom peered in vain for a sight of the
intruder.
Happy Harry was gone!
Holding his rifle in
readiness, in case he should be attacked from some unexpected quarter, Tom
strode forward. He flashed his light in every direction. There was no doubt
about it. The intruder had fled. Taking advantage of the noise when the gun was
fired, and under cover of the smoke, the burglar had leaped from the open
window. Tom guessed as much. He hurried to the easement and peered out, at the
same time noticing the cut wire of the burglar alarm. It was quite dark, and he
fancied he could hear the noise of some one running rapidly. Aiming his rifle
into the air, he fired again, at the same time crying out:
"Hold on!"
"All right, Master
Tom, I’m coming!" called the voice of the engineer from his shack.
"Are you hurt? Is Mrs. Baggert murdered? I hear her screaming."
"That’s pretty
good evidence that she isn’t murdered," said Tom with a grim smile.
"Are you
hurt?" again called Mr. Jackson.
"No, I’m all
right," answered Tom. "Did you see any one running away as you came
up?"
"No, Master Tom, I
didn’t. What happened?"
"A burglar got in,
and I had him cornered, but he got away when I fired to arouse you."
By this time the
engineer was at the stoop, on which the window opened. Tom unlocked a side door
and admitted Mr. Jackson, and then, the incandescent light having been turned
on, the two looked around the apartment. Nothing in it had been disturbed, and the
safe had not been opened.
"I heard him just
in time," commented Tom, telling the engineer what had happened. "I
wish I had thought to get between him and the window. Then he couldn’t have
gotten away."
"He might have
injured you, though," said Mr. Jackson. "We’ll go outside now, and
look——"
"Is any one
killed? Are you both murdered?" cried Mrs. Baggert at the dining-room
door. "If any one is killed I’m not coming in there. I can’t hear the
sight of blood."
"No one is
hurt," declared Tom with a laugh. "Come on in, Mrs. Baggert,"
and the housekeeper entered, her hair all done up in curl papers.
"Oh, my goodness
me!" she exclaimed. "When I heard that cannon go off I was sure the
house was coming down. How is it some one wasn’t killed?"
"That wasn’t a
cannon; it was only my little rifle," said Tom, and then he told again,
for the benefit of the housekeeper, the story of what had happened.
"We’d better hurry
and look around the premises," suggested Mr. Jackson. "Maybe he is
hiding, and will come back, or perhaps he has some confederates on the
watch."
"Not much danger
of that," declared Tom. "Happy Harry is far enough away from here
now, and so are his confederates, if he had any, which I doubt. Still, it will
do no harm to take a look around."
A search resulted in
nothing, however, and the Swift household had soon settled down again, though
no one slept soundly during the remainder of the night.
In the morning Tom sent
word of what had happened to the police of Shopton. Some officers came out to
the house, but, beyond looking wisely at the window by which the burglar had
entered and at some footprints in the garden, they could do nothing. Tom wanted
to go off on his motorcycle on a tour of the surrounding neighborhood to see if
he could get any clues, but he did not think it would be wise in the absence of
his father. He thought it would be better to remain at home, in case any
further efforts were made to get possession of valuable models or papers.
"There’s not much
likelihood of that, though," said Tom to the old engineer. "Those
fellows have what they want, and are not going to bother us again. I would like
to get that model back for dad, though. If they file it and take out a patent,
even if he can prove that it is his, it will mean a long lawsuit and he may be
defrauded of his rights, after all Possession is nine points of the law, and
part of the tenth, too, I guess."
So Tom remained at home
and busied himself as well as he could over some new machines he was
constructing. He got a telegram from his father that afternoon, stating that
Mr. Swift had safely arrived in Albany, and would return the following day.
"Did you have any
luck, dad?" asked the young inventor, when his father, tired and worn from
the unaccustomed traveling, reached home in the evening.
"Not much,
Tom," was the reply. "Mr. Crawford has gone back to Washington, and
he is going to do what he can to prevent those men taking advantage of
me."
"Did you get any
trace of the thieves? Does Mr. Crawford think he can?"
"No to both
questions. His idea is that the men will remain in hiding for a while, and
then, when the matter has quieted down, they will proceed to get a patent on
the motor that I invented."
"But, in the
meanwhile, can’t you make another model and get a patent yourself?"
"No; there are
certain legal difficulties in the way. Besides, those men have the original
papers I need. As for the model, it will take me nearly a year to build a new
one that will work properly, as it is very complicated. I am afraid, Tom, that
all my labor on the turbine motor is thrown away. Those scoundrels will reap
the benefit of it."
"Oh, I hope not,
dad! I’m sure those fellows will be caught. Now that you are back home again, I’m
going out on a hunt on my own account. I don’t put much faith in the police. It
was through me, dad, that you lost your model and the papers, and I’ll get them
back!"
"No, you must not
think it was your fault, Tom," said his father. "You could not help
it, though I appreciate your desire to recover the missing model."
"And I’ll do it,
too, dad. I’ll start to-morrow, and I’ll make a complete circuit of the country
for a hundred miles around. I can easily do it on my motor-cycle. If I can’t
get on the trail of the three men who robbed me, maybe I can find Happy
Harry."
"I doubt it, my
son. Still, you may try. Now I must write to Mr. Crawford and tell him about
the attempted burglary while I was away. It may give him a clue to work on. I’m
afraid you ran quite a risk, Tom."
"I didn’t think
about that, dad. I only wish I had managed to keep that rascal a
prisoner."
The next day Tom
started off on a hunt. He planned to be gone overnight, as he intended to go
first to Dunkirk, where Mr. Blackford lived, and begin his search from there.
THE farmer’s family,
including the son who was a deputy sheriff, was glad to see Tom. Jed said he
had "been on the job" ever since the mysterious robbery of Tom had
taken place, but though he had seen many red automobiles he had no trace of the
three men.
From Dunkirk Tom went
back over the route he had taken in going from Pompville to Centreford, and
made some inquiries in the neighborhood of the church shed, where he had taken
shelter. The locality was sparsely settled, however, and no one could give any
clues to the robbers.
The young inventor next
made a trip over the lonely, sandy road, where he had met with the tramp, Happy
Harry. But there were even fewer houses near that stretch than around the
church, so he got no satisfaction there. Tom spent the night at a country inn,
and resumed his search the next morning, but with no results. The men had
apparently completely disappeared, leaving no traces behind them.
"I may as well go
home," thought Tom, as he was riding his motor-cycle along a pleasant
country road. "Dad may be worried, and perhaps something has turned up in
Shopton that will aid me. If there isn’t, I’m going to start out again in a few
days in another direction."
There was no news in
Shopton, however. Town found his father scarcely able to work, so worried was
he over the loss of his most important invention.
Two weeks passed, the
young machinist taking trips of several days’ duration to different points near
his home, in the hope of dis covering something. But he was unsuccessful, and,
in the meanwhile, no reassuring word was received from the lawyers in
Washington. Mr. Crawford wrote that no move had yet been made by the thieves to
take out patent papers, and while this, in a sense, was some aid to Mr. Swift,
still he could not proceed on his own account to protect his new motor. All
that could be done was to await the first movement on the part of the
scoundrels.
"I think I’ll try
a new plan to-morrow, dad," announced Tom one night, when he and his
father had talked over again, for perhaps the twentieth time, the happenings of
the last few weeks.
"What is it,
Tom?" asked the inventor.
"Well, I think I’ll
take a week’s trip on my machine. I’ll visit all the small towns around here,
but, instead of asking in houses for news of the tramp or his confederates, I’ll
go to the police and constables. I’ll ask if they have arrested any tramps
recently, and, if they have, I’ll ask them to let me see the ’hobo’
prisoners."
"What good will
that do?"
"I’ll tell you. I
have an idea that though the burglar who got in here may not be a regular
tramp, yet he disguises himself like one at times, and may be known to other
tramps. If I can get on the trail of Happy Harry, as he calls himself, I may
locate the other men. Tramps would be very likely to remember such a peculiar
chap as Happy Harry, and they will tell me where they had last seen him. Then I
will have a starting point."
"Well, that may be
a good plan," assented Mr. Swift. "At any rate it will do no harm to
try. A tramp locked up in a country police station will very likely be willing
to talk. Go ahead with that scheme, Tom, but don’t get into any danger. How
long will you be away?"
"I don’t know. A
week, perhaps; maybe longer. I’ll take plenty of money with me, and stop at
country hotels overnight."
Tom lost no time in
putting his plan into execution. He packed some clothes in a grip, which he
attached to the rear of his motor-cycle, and then having said good-by to his
father, started off. The first three days he met with no success. He located
several tramps in country lock-ups, where they had been sent for begging or
loitering, but none of them knew Happy Harry or had ever heard of a tramp
answering his description.
"He ain’t one of
us, youse can make up your mind to dat," said one "hobo" whom
Tom interviewed. "No real knight of de highway goes around in a disguise.
We leaves dat for de story-book detectives. I’m de real article, I am, an’ I
don’t know Happy Harry. But, fer dat matter, any of us is happy enough in de
summer time, if we don’t strike a burgh like dis, where dey jugs you fer
panhandlin’."
In general, Tom found
the tramp willing enough to answer his questions, though some were sullen, and
returned only surly growls to his inquiries.
"I guess I’ll have
to give it up and go back home," he decided one night. But there was a
small town, not many miles from Shopton, which he had not yet visited, and he
resolved to try there before returning. Accordingly, the next morning found him
inquiring of the police authorities in Meadton. But no tramps had been arrested
in the last month, and no one had seen anything of a tramp like Happy Harry or
three mysterious men in an automobile.
Tom was beginning to
despair. Riding along a silent road, that passed through a strip of woods, he
was trying to think of some new line of procedure, when the silence of the
highway, that, hitherto, had resounded only with the muffled explosions of his
machine, was broken by several exclamations.
"Now, Boomerang,
yo’ might jest as well start now as later," Tom heard a voice saying—a
voice he recognized well. "Yo’ hab got t’ do dis yeah wuk, an’ dere ain’t
no gittin’ out ob it. Dis yeah wood am got to be sawed, an’ yo’ hab got to saw
it. But it am jest laik yo’ to go back on yo’ ole friend Eradicate in dis yeah
fashion. I neber could tell what yo’ were gwine t’ do next, an’ I cain’t now. G’lang,
now, won’t yo’? Let’s git dis yeah sawmill started."
Tom shut off the power
and leaped from his wheel. From the woods at his left came the protesting
"hee-haw" of a mule.
"Boomerang and
Eradicate Sampson!" exclaimed the young inventor. "What can they be
doing here?"
He leaned his
motor-cycle against the fence and advanced toward where he had heard the voice
of the colored man. In a little clearing he saw him. Eradicate was presiding
over a portable sawmill, worked by a treadmill, on the incline of which was the
mule, its ears laid back, and an unmistakable expression of anger on its face.
"Why, Rad, what
are you doing?" cried Tom.
"Good land o’
massy! Ef it ain’t young Mistah Swift!" cried the darky. "Howdy,
Mistah Swift! Howdy! I’m jest tryin’ t’ saw some wood, t’ make a livin’, but
Boomerang he doan’t seem t’ want t’ lib," and with that Eradicate looked
reproachfully at the animal.
"What seems to be
the trouble, and how did you come to own this sawmill?" asked Tom.
"I’ll tell yo’,
Mistah Swift, I’ll tell yo’," spoke Eradicate. "Sit right yeah on dis
log, an’ I’ll explanation it to yo’."
"The last time I
saw you, you were preparing to go into the grass-cutting business," went
on Tom.
"Yais, sah! Dat’s
right. So I was. Yo’ has got a memory, yo’ suah has. But it am dis yeah way.
Grass ain’t growin’ quick enough, an’ so I traded off dat lawn-moah an’ bought
dis yeah mill. But now it won’t go, an’ I suah am in trouble," and once
more Eradicate Sampson looked indignantly at Boomerang.
"TELL me all about
it," urged Tom sympathetically, for he had a friendly feeling toward the
aged darky.
"Well," began
Eradicate, "I suah thought I were gwine to make money cuttin’ grass, ’specially
after yo’ done fixed mah moah. But ’peared laik nobody wanted any grass cut. I
trabeled all ober, an’ I couldn’t git no jobs. Now me an’ Boomerang has to eat,
no mattah ef he is contrary, so I had t’ look fo’ some new wuk. I traded dat
lawn-moah off fo’ a cross-cut saw, but dat was such hard wuk dat I gib it up.
Den I got a chance to buy dis yeah outfit cheap, an’ I bought it"
Eradicate then went on
to tell how he had purchased the portable sawmill from a man who had no further
use for it, and how he had managed to transport it from a distant village to
the spot where Tom had met him. There he had secured permission to work a piece
of woodland on shares, sawing up the smaller trees into cord wood. He had
started in well enough, cutting down considerable timber, for the colored man
was a willing worker, but when he tried to start his mill he met with trouble.
"I counted on
Boomerang helpin’ me," he said to Tom. "All he has to do is walk on
dat tread mill, an’ keep goin’. Dat makes de saw go ’round, an’ I saws de wood.
But de trouble am dat I can’t git Boomerang to move. I done tried ebery means I
knows on, an’ he won’t go. I talked kind to him, an’ I talked harsh. I done
beat him wif a club, an’ I rub his ears soft laik, an’ he allers did laik dat,
but he won’t go. I fed him on carrots an’ I gib him sugar, an’ I eben starve
him, but he won’t go. Heah I been tryin’ fo’ three days now t’ git him started,
an’ not a stick hab I sawed. De man what I’m wukin’ wif on shares he git mad,
an’ he say ef I doan’t saw wood pretty soon he gwine t’ git annuder mill heah.
Now I axes yo’ fair, Mistah Swift, ain’t I got lots ob trouble?"
"You certainly
seem to have," agreed Tom "But why is Boomerang so obstinate? Usually
on a treadmill a horse or a mule has to work whether they like it or not. If
they don’t keep moving the platform slides out from under them, and they come
up against the back bar."
"Dat’s what done
happened to Boomerang," declared Eradicate. "He done back up against
de bar, an’ dere he stay."
Tom went over and
looked at the mill. The outfit was an old one, and had seen much service, but
the trained eye of the young inventor saw that it could still be used effectively.
Boomerang watched Tom, as though aware that something unusual was about to
happen.
"Heah I done gone
an’ ’vested mah money in dis yeah mill," complained Eradicate, "an’ I
ain’t sawed up a single stick. Ef I wasn’t so kind-hearted I’d chastise dat mule
wuss dan I has, dat’s what I would."
Tom said nothing. He
was stooping down, looking at the gearing that connected the tread mill with
the shaft which revolved the saw. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation,
"Rad, have you
been monkeying with this machinery?" he asked.
"Me? Good land,
Mistah Swift, no, sah! I wouldn’t tech it. It’s jest as I got it from de man I
bought it oh. It worked when he had it, but he used a hoss. It’s all due to de
contrariness ob Boomerang, an’ if I——"
"No, it isn’t the
mule’s fault at all!" exclaimed Tom. "The mill is out of gear, and
tread is locked; that’s all. The man you bought it of probably did it so you
could haul it along the road. I’ll have it fixed for you in a few minutes. Wait
until I get some tools."
From the bag on his
motor-cycle Tom got his implements. He first unlocked the treadmill, so that
the inclined platform, on which the animal slowly walked, could revolve. No
sooner had he done this than Boomerang, feeling the slats under his hoofs
moving away, started forward. With a rattle the treadmill slid around.
"Good land o’
massy! It’s goin’!" cried Eradicate delightedly. "It suah am goin’!"
he added as he saw the mule, with nimble feet, send the revolving, endless
string of slats around and around. "But de saw doan’t move, Mistah Swift.
Yo’ am pretty smart at fixin’ it as much as yo’ has, but I reckon it’s too
busted t’ eber saw any wood. I’se got bad luck, dat’s what I has."
"Nonsense!"
exclaimed Tom. "The sawmill will be going in a moment. All I have to do is
to throw it into gear. See here, Rad. When you want the saw to go you just
throw this handle forward. That makes the gears mesh."
"What’s dat ’bout
mush?" asked Eradicate.
"Mesh—not mush. I
mean it makes the cogs fit together. See," and Tom pressed the lever. In
an instant, with a musical whirr, the saw began revolving.
"Hurrah! Dere it
goes! Golly! see de saw move!" cried the delighted colored man. He seized
a stick of wood, and in a trice it was sawed through.
"Whoop!"
yelled Eradicate. "I’m sabed now! Bless yo’, Mistah Swift, yo’ suttinly am
a wondah!"
"Now I’ll show you
how it works," went on Tom. "When you want to stop Boomerang, you
just pull this handle. That locks the tread, and he can’t move it," and,
suiting the action to his words, Tom stopped the mill. "Then," he
went on, "when you want him to move, you pull the handle this way,"
and he showed the darky how to do it. In a moment the mule was moving again.
Then Tom illustrated how to throw the saw in and out of gear, and in a few minutes
the sawmill was in full operation, with a most energetic colored man feeding in
logs to be cut up into stove lengths.
"You ought to have
an assistant, Rad," said Tom, after he had watched the work for a while.
"You could get more done then, and move on to some other wood-patch."
"Dat’s right,
Mistah Swift, so I had. But I ’done tried, an’ couldn’t git any. I ast seberal
colored men, but dey’d radder whitewash an’ clean chicken coops. I guess I’ll
hab t’ go it alone. I ast a white man yisterday ef he wouldn’t like t’ pitch in
an’ help, but he said he didn’t like to wuk. He was a tramp, an’ he had de
nerve to ask me fer money—me, a hard-wukin’ coon."
"You didn’t give
it to him, I hope."
"No, indeedy, but
he come so close to me dat I was askeered he might take it from me, so I kept
hold ob a club. He suah was a bad-lookin’ tramp, an’ he kept laffin" all
de while, like he was happy."
"What’s
that?" cried Tom, struck by the words of the colored man. "Did he
have a thick, brown beard?"
"Dat’s what he
had," answered Eradicate, pausing in the midst of his work. "He suah
were a funny sort ob tramp. His hands done looked laik he neber wuked, an’ he
had a funny blue ring one finger, only it wasn’t a reg’lar ring, yo’ know. It
was pushed right inter his skin, laik a man I seen at de circus once, all
cobered wid funny figgers."
Tom leaped to his feet.
"Which finger was
the blue ring tattooed on?" he asked, and he waited anxiously for the
answer.
"Let me see, it
were on de right—no, it were on de little finger ob de left hand."
"Are you sure,
Rad?"
"Suah, Mistah
Swift. I took ’tic’lar notice, ’cause he carried a stick in dat same
hand."
"It must be my man—Happy
Harry!" exclaimed Tom half aloud. "Which way did he go, Rad, after he
left you?"
"He went up de
lake shore," replied the colored man. "He asked me if I knowed ob an
ole big house up dere, what nobody libed in, an’ I said I did. Den he left, an’
I were glad ob it."
"Which house did
you mean, Rad?"
"Why, dat ole mansion
what General Harkness used t’ lib in befo’ de wah. Dere ain’t nobody libed in
it fo’ some years now, an’ it’s deserted. Maybe a lot ob tramps stays in it, an’
dat’s where dis man were goin’."
"Maybe,"
assented Tom, who was all excitement now. "Just where is this old house,
Rad?"
"Away up at de
head ob Lake Carlopa. I uster wuk dere befo’ de wah, but it’s been a good many
years since quality folks libed dere. Why, did yo’ want t’ see dat man, Mistah
Swift?"
"Yes, Rad, I did,
and very badly, too. I think he is the very person I want. But don’t say
anything about it. I’m going to take a trip up to that strange mansion. Maybe I’ll
get on the trail of Happy Harry and the men who robbed me. I’m much obliged to
you, Rad, for this information. It’s a good clue, I think. Strange that you
should meet the very tramp I’ve been searching for."
"Well, I suah am
obliged to yo’, Mistah Swift, fo’ fixin’ mah sawmill."
"That’s all right.
What you told me more than pays for what I did, Rad. Well, I’m going home now
to tell dad, and then I’m going to start out. Yesterday, you said it was, you
saw Happy Harry? Well, I’ll get right after him," and leaving a somewhat
surprised, but very much delighted, colored man behind him, Tom mounted his
motor-cycle and started for home at a fast pace.
"DAD, I’ve got a
clue!" exclaimed Tom, hurrying into the house late that afternoon,
following a quick trip from where he had met Eradicate with his sawmill.
"A good clue, and I’m going to start early in the morning to run it
down."
"Wait a minute,
now, Tom," cautioned his father slowly. "You know what happens when
you get excited. Nothing good was ever done in a hurry."
"Well, I can’t
help being excited, dad. I think I’m on the trail of those scoundrels. I almost
wish I could start to-night."
"Suppose you tell
me all about it," and Mr. Swift laid aside a scientific book he was
reading.
Whereupon Tom told of
his meeting with the colored man, and what Eradicate had said about the tramp.
"But he may not be
the same Happy Harry you are looking for," interposed Mr. Swift.
"Tramps who don’t like to work, and who have a jolly disposition, also
those who ask for money and have designs tattooed on their hands, are very
common."
"Oh, but I’m sure
this is the same one," declared Tom. "He wants to stay in this
neighborhood until he locates his confederates. That’s why he’s hanging around.
Now I have an idea that the deserted mansion, where Eradicate used to work, and
which once housed General Harkness and his family, is the rendezvous of this
gang of thieves."
"You are taking a
great deal for granted, Tom."
"I don’t think so,
dad. I’ve got to assume something, and maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.
At any rate, I’m going to try, if you’ll let me."
"What do you mean
to do?"
"I want to go to
that deserted mansion and see what I can find. If I locate the thieves, well——"
"You may run into
danger."
"Then you admit I
may be on the right track, dad?"
"Not at all,"
and Mr. Swift smiled at the quick manner in which Tom turned the tables on him.
"I admit there may be a band of tramps in that house. Very likely there is—almost
any deserted place would be attractive to them. But they may not be the ones
you seek. In fact, I hardly see how they can be. The men who stole my model and
patent papers are wealthy. They would not be very likely to stay in deserted
houses."
"Perhaps some of
the scoundrels whom they hired might, and through them I can get on the track
of the principals."
"Well, there is
something in that," admitted Mr. Swift.
"Then may I go,
dad?"
"I suppose so. We
must leave nothing untried to get back the stolen model and papers. But I don’t
want you to run any risks. If you would only take some one with you. There’s
your chum, Ned Newton. Perhaps he would go."
"No, I’d rather
work it alone, dad. I’ll be careful. Besides, Ned could not get away from the
bank. I may have to be gone a week, and he has no motor-cycle. I can manage all
right."
Tom was off bright and
early. He had carefully laid his plans, and had decided that he would not go
direct to Pineford, which was the nearest village to the old Harkness mansion.
"If those fellows
are in hiding they will probably keep watch on who comes to the village,"
thought Tom. "The arrival of some one on a motor-cycle will be sure to be
reported to them, and they may skip out. I’ve got to come up from another
direction, so I think I’ll circle around, and reach the mansion from the
stretch of woods on the north."
He had inquired from
Eradicate as to the lay of the land, and had a good general idea of it. He knew
there was a patch of woodland on one side of the mansion, while the other sides
were open.
"I may not be able
to ride through the woods," mused Tom, "but I’ll take my machine as
close as I can, and walk the rest of the way. Once I discover whether or not
the gang is in the place, I’ll know what to do."
To follow out the plan
he had laid down for himself meant that Tom must take a roundabout way. It
would necessitate being a whole day on the road, before he would be near the
head of Lake Carlopa, where the Harkness house was located. The lake was a
large one, and Tom had never been to the upper end.
When he was within a
few miles of Pineford, Tom took a road that branched off and went around it.
Stopping at night in a lonely farmhouse, he pushed on the next morning, hoping
to get to the woods that night. But a puncture to one of the tires delayed him,
and after that was repaired he discovered something wrong with his batteries.
He had to go five miles out of his way to get new cells, and it was dusk when
he came to the stretch of woods which he knew lay between him and the old
mansion.
"I don’t fancy
starting in there at night," said Tom to himself. "Guess I’d better
stay somewhere around here until morning, and then venture in. But the question
is where to stay?"
The country was
deserted, and for a mile or more he had seen no houses. He kept on for some
distance farther, the dusk falling rapidly, and when he was about to turn back
to retrace his way to the last farmhouse he had passed, he saw a slab shanty at
the side of the road.
"That’s better
than nothing, provided they’ll take me in for the night," murmured Tom.
"I’m going to ask, anyhow."
He found the shanty to
be inhabited by an old man who made a living burning charcoal The place was not
very attractive, but Tom did not mind that, and finding the charcoal-burner a
kindly old fellow, soon made a bargain with him to remain all night.
Tom slept soundly, in
spite of his strange surroundings, and after a simple breakfast in the morning
inquired of the old man the best way of penetrating the forest.
"You’d best strike
right along the old wood road," said the charcoal-burner. "That leads
right to the lake, and I think will take you where you want to go. The old
mansion is not far from the lake shore."
"Near the lake,
eh?" mused Tom as he started off, after thanking the old fellow. "Now
I wonder if I’d better try to get to it from the water or the land side?"
He found it impossible
to ride fast on the old wood road, and when he judged he was so close to the
lake that the noise of his motor-cycle might be heard, he shut off the power,
and walked along, pushing it. It was hard traveling, and he felt weary, but he
kept on, and about noon was rewarded by a sight of something glittering through
the trees.
"That’s the
lake!" Tom exclaimed, half aloud. "I’m almost there."
A little later, having
hidden his motor-cycle in a clump of bushes, he made his way through the
underbrush and stood on the shore of Lake Carlopa. Cautiously Tom looked about
him. It was getting well on in the afternoon, and the sun was striking across
the broad sheet of water. Tom glanced up along the shore. Something amid a
clump of trees caught his eyes. It was the chimney of a house. The young
inventor walked a little distance along the lake shore. Suddenly he saw,
looming up in the forest, a large building. It needed but a glance to show that
it was falling into ruins, and had no signs of life about it. Nor, for that
matter, was there any life in the forest around him, or on the lake that
stretched out before him.
"I wonder if that
can be the place?" whispered Tom, for, somehow, the silence of the place
was getting on his nerves. "It must be it," he went on. "It’s
just as Rad described it."
He stood looking at it,
the sun striking full on the mysterious mansion, hidden there amid the trees.
Suddenly, as Tom looked, he heard the "put-put" of a motor-boat. He
turned to one side, and saw, putting out from a little dock that he had not
noticed before, a small craft. It contained one man, and no sooner had the
young inventor caught a glimpse of him than he cried out:
"That’s the man
who jumped over our fence and escaped!"
Then, before the
occupant of the boat could catch sight of him, Tom turned and fled back into
the bushes, out of view.
TOM was so excited that
he hardly knew what to do. His first thought was to keep out of sight of the
man in the boat, for the young inventor did not want the criminals to suspect
that he was on their trail. To that end he ran back until he knew he could not
be seen from the lake. There he paused and peered through the bushes. He caught
a glimpse of the man in the motor-boat. The craft was making fast time across
the water.
"He didn’t see
me," murmured Tom. "Lucky I saw him first. Now what had I better do?"
It was a hard question
to answer. If he only had some one with whom to consult he would have felt
better, but he knew he had to rely on himself. Tom was a resourceful lad, and
he had often before been obliged to depend on his wits. But this time very much
was at stake, and a false move might ruin everything.
"This is certainly
the house," went on Tom, "and that man in the boat is one of the
fellows who helped rob me. Now the next thing to do is to find out if the
others of the gang are in the old mansion, and, if they are, to see if dad’s
model and papers are there. Then the next thing to do will he to get our things
away, and I fancy I’ll have no easy job."
Well might Tom think
this, for the men with whom he had to deal were desperate characters, who had
already dared much to accomplish their ends, and who would do more before they
would suffer defeat. Still, they under-estimated the pluck of the lad who was
pitted against them.
"I might as well
proceed on a certain plan, and have some system about this affair,"
reasoned the lad. "Dad is a great believer in system, so I’ll lay out a
plan and see how nearly I can follow it. Let’s see—what is the first thing to
do?"
Tom considered a
moment, going over the whole situation in his mind. Then he went on, talking to
himself alone there in the woods:
"It seems to me
the first thing to do is to find out if the men are in the house. To do that I’ve
got to get closer and look in through a window. Now, how to get closer?"
He considered that
problem from all sides.
"It will hardly do
to approach from the lake shore," he reasoned. "for if they have a
motor-boat and a dock, there must be a path from the house to the water. If
there is a path people are likely to walk up or down it at any minute. The man
in the boat might come back unexpectedly and catch me. No, I can’t risk
approaching from the lake shore. I’ve got to work my way up to the house by
going through the woods. That much is settled. Now to approach the house, and
when I get within seeing distance I’ll settle the next point. One thing at a
time is a good rule, as dad used to say. Poor dad! I do hope I can get his
model and papers back fo r him."
Tom, who had been
sitting on a log under a bush, staring at the lake, arose. He was feeling
rather weak and faint, and was at a loss to account for it, until he remembered
that he had had no dinner.
"And I’m not
likely to get any," he remarked. "I’m not going to eat until I see
who’s in that house. Maybe I won’t then, and where supper is coming from I don’t
know. But this is too important to be considered in the same breath with a
meal. Here goes."
Cautiously Tom made his
way forward, taking care not to make too much disturbance in the bushes. He had
been on hunting trips, and knew the value of silence in the woods. He had no
paths to follow, but he had noted the position of the sun, and though that
luminary was now sinking lower and lower in the west, he could see the gleam of
it through the trees, and knew in which direction from it lay the deserted mansion.
Tom moved slowly, and
stopped every now and then to listen. All the sounds he heard were those made
by the creatures of the woods—birds, squirrels and rabbits. He went forward for
half an hour, though in that time he did not cover much ground, and he was just
beginning to think that the house must be near at hand when through a fringe of
bushes he saw the old mansion. It stood in the midst of what had once been a
fine park, but which was now overgrown with weeds and tangled briars. The paths
that led to the house were almost out of sight, and the once beautiful home was
partly in ruins.
"I guess I can
sneak up there and take a look in one of the windows," thought the young
inventor. He was about to advance, when he suddenly stopped. He heard some one
or some thing coming around the corner of the mansion. A moment later a man
came into view, and Tom easily recognized him as one of those who had been in
the automobile. The heart of the young inventor beat so hard that he was afraid
the man would hear it, and Tom crouched down in the bushes to keep out of
sight. The man evidently did not suspect the presence of a stranger, for,
though he cast sharp glances into the tangled undergrowth that fringed the
house like a hedge, he did not seek to investigate further. He walked slowly
on, making a circuit of the grounds. Tom remained hidden for several minutes,
and was about to proceed again, when the man reappeared. Then Tom saw the
reason for it.
"He’s on
guard!" the lad said to himself. "He’s doing sentry duty. I can’t
approach the house when he’s there."
For an instant Tom felt
a bitter disappointment. He had hoped to be able to carry out his plan as he
had mapped it. Now he would have to make a change.
"I’ll have to wait
until night," he thought. "Then I can sneak up and look in. The guard
won’t see me after dark. But it’s going to be no fun to stay here, without
anything to eat. Still, I’ve got to do it."
He remained where he
was in the bushes. Several times, before the sun set, the man doing sentry duty
made the circuit of the house, and Tom noted that occasionally he was gone for
a long period. He reasoned that the man had gone into the mansion to confer
with his confederates.
"If I only knew
what was going on in there," thought Tom. "Maybe, after all, the men
haven’t got the model and papers here. Yet, if they haven’t, why are they
staying in the old house? I must get a look in and see what’s going on. Lucky
there are no shades to the windows. I wish it would get dark."
It seemed that the sun
would never go down and give place to dusk, but finally Tom, crouching in his
hiding place, saw the shadows grow longer and longer, and finally the twilight
of the woods gave place to a density that was hard to penetrate. Tom waited
some time to see if the guard kept up the circuit, but with the approach of
night the man seemed to have gone into the house. Tom saw a light gleam out
from the lonely mansion. It came from a window on the ground floor.
"There’s my
chance!" exclaimed the lad, and, crawling from his hiding place, he
advanced cautiously toward it.
Tom went forward only a
few feet at a time, pausing almost every other step to listen. He heard no
sounds, and was reassured. Nearer and nearer he came to the old house. The
gleam of the light fell upon his face, and fearful that some one might be
looking from the window, he shifted his course, so as to come up from one side.
Slowly, very slowly he advanced, until he was right under the window. Then he
found that it was too high up to admit of his looking in. He felt about until
he had a stone to stand on.
Softly he drew himself
up inch by inch. He could hear the murmur of voices in the room. Now the top of
his head was on a level with the sill. A few more inches and his eyes could
take in the room and the occupants. He was scarcely breathing. Up, up he raised
himself until he could look into the apartment, and the sight which met his
eyes nearly caused him to lose his hold and topple backward.
For grouped around a
table in a big room were the three men whom he had seen in the automobile. But
what attracted his attention more than the sight of the men was an object on
the table. It was the stolen model! The men were inspecting it, and operating
it, as he could see. One of the trio had a bundle of papers in his hand, and
Tom was sure they were the ones stolen from him. But there could be no doubt
about the model of the turbine motor. There it was in plain sight. He had
tracked the thieves to their hiding place.
Then, as he watched,
Tom saw one of the men produce from under the table a box, into which the model
was placed. The papers were next put in, and a cover was nailed on. Then the
men appeared to consult among themselves.
By their gestures Tom
concluded that they were debating where to hide the box. One man pointed toward
the lake, and another toward the forest. Tom was edging himself up farther, in
order to see better, and, if possible, catch their words, when his foot
slipped, and he made a slight noise. Instantly the men turned toward the window,
but Tom had stooped down out of sight, just in time.
A moment later,
however, he heard some one approaching through the woods behind him, and a
voice called out:
"What are you
doing? Get away from there!"
Rapid footsteps
sounded, and Tom, in a panic, turned and fled, with an unknown pursuer after
him.
TOM rushed on through
the woods. The lighted room into which he had been looking had temporarily
blinded him when it came to plunging into the darkness again, and he could not
see where he was going. He crashed full-tilt into a tree, and was thrown
backward. Bruised and cut, he picked himself up and rushed off in another
direction. Fortunately he struck into some sort of a path, probably one made by
cows, and then, as his eyes recovered their faculties, he could dimly
distinguish the trees on either side of him and avoid them.
His heart, that was
beating fiercely, calmed down after his first fright, and when he had run on
for several minutes he stopped.
"That—that must—have
been—the—the man—from the boat," panted our hero, whispering to himself.
"He came back and saw me. I wonder if he’s after me yet?"
Tom listened. The only
sound he could hear was the trill and chirp of the insects of the woods. The
pursuit, which had lasted only a few minutes, was over. But it might be resumed
at any moment. Tom was not safe yet, he thought, and he kept on.
"I wonder where I
am? I wonder where my motor-cycle is? I wonder what I had better do?" he
asked himself.
Three big questions,
and no way of settling them; Tom pulled himself up sharply.
"I’ve got to think
this thing out," he resumed. "They can’t find me in these woods
to-night, that’s sure, unless they get dogs, and they’re not likely to do that.
So I’m safe that far. But that’s about all that is in my favor. I won’t dare to
go back to the house, even if I could find it in this blackness, which is
doubtful. It wouldn’t be safe, for they’ll be on guard now. It looks as though
I was up against it. I’m afraid they may imagine the police are after them, and
go away. If they do, and take the model and papers with them, I’ll have an
awful job to locate them again, and probably I won’t be able to. That’s the
worst of it. Here I have everything right under my hands, and I can’t do a
thing. If I only had some one to help me; some one to leave on guard while I
went for the police. I’m one against three—no, four, for the man in the boat is
back. Let’s see what can I do?"
Then a sudden plan came
to him.
"The lake
shore!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "I’ll go down there and keep watch.
If they escape they’ll probably go in the boat, for they wouldn’t venture
through the woods at night. That’s it. I’ll watch on shore, and if they do have
in the boat——" He paused again, undecided. "Why, if they do," he
finished, "I’ll sing out, and make such a row that they’ll think the whole
countryside is after them. That may drive them back, or they may drop the box
containing the papers and model, and cut for it. If they do I’ll be all right.
I don’t care about capturing them, if I can get dad’s model back."
He felt more like
himself, now that he had mapped out another plan.
"The first thing
to do is to locate the lake," reasoned Tom. "Let’s see; I ran in a
straight line away from the house—that is, as nearly straight as I could. Now
if I turn around and go straight hack, bearing off a little to the left, I
ought to come to the water. I’ll do it."
But it was not so easy
as Tom imagined, and several times he found himself in the midst of almost
impenetrable bushes. He kept on, however, and soon had the satisfaction of
emerging from the woods out on the shore of the lake. Then, having gotten his
bearings as well as he could in the darkness, he moved down until he was near
the deserted house. The light was still showing from the window, and Tom judged
by this that the men had not taken fright and fled.
"I suppose I could
sneak down and set the motor-boat adrift," he argued. "That would
prevent them leaving by way of the lake, anyhow. That’s what I’ll do! I’ll cut
off one means of escape. I’ll set the boat adrift!"
Very cautiously he
advanced toward where he had seen the small craft put out. He was on his guard,
for he feared the men would be on the watch, but he reached the dock in safety,
and was loosening the rope that tied the boat to the little wharf when another
thought came to him.
"Why set this boat
adrift?" he reasoned. "It is too good a boat to treat that way, and,
besides, it will make a good place for me to spend the rest of the night. I’ve
got to stay around here until morning, and then I’ll see if I can’t get help. I’ll
just appropriate this boat for my own use. They have dad’s model, and I’ll take
their boat."
Softly he got into the
craft, and with an oar which was kept in it to propel it in case the engine
gave out, he poled it along the shore of the lake until he was some distance
away from the dock.
That afternoon he had
seen a secluded place along the shore, a spot where overhanging bushes made a
good hiding place, and for this he headed the craft. A little later it was
completely out of sight, and Tom stretched out on the cushioned seats, pulling
a tarpaulin over him. There he prepared to spend the rest of the night.
"They can’t get
away except through the woods now, which I don’t believe they’ll do," he
thought, "and this is better for me than staying out under a tree. I’m
glad I thought of it."
The youth, naturally,
did not pass a very comfortable night, though his bed was not a half bad one.
He fell into uneasy dozes, only to arouse, thinking the men in the old mansion
were trying to escape. Then he would sit up and listen, but he could hear
nothing. It seemed as if morning would never come, but at length the stars
began to fade, and the sky seemed overcast with a filmy, white veil. Tom sat
up, rubbed his smarting eyes, and stretched his cramped limbs.
"Oh, for a hot cup
of coffee!" he exclaimed. "But not for mine, until I land these chaps
where they belong. Now the question is, how can I get help to capture
them?"
His hunger was
forgotten in this. He stepped from the boat to a secluded spot on the shore.
The craft, he noted, was well hidden.
"I’ve got to go
back to where I left my motorcycle, jump on that, and ride for aid," he
reasoned. "Maybe I can get the charcoal-burner to go for me, while I come
back and stand guard. I guess that would be the best plan. I certainly ought to
be on hand, for there is no telling when these fellows will skip out with the
model, if they haven’t gone already. I hate to leave, yet I’ve got to. It’s the
only way. I wish I’d done as dad suggested, and brought help. But it’s too late
for that. Well, I’m off."
Tom took a last look at
the motor-boat, which was a fine one. He wished it was his. Then he struck
through the woods. He had his bearings now, and was soon at the place where he
had left his machine. It had not been disturbed. He caught a glimpse of the old
mansion on his way out of the woods. There appeared to be no one stirring about
it.
"I hope my birds
haven’t flown!" he exclaimed, and the thought gave him such uneasiness
that he put it from him. Pushing his heavy machine ahead of him until he came
to a good road, he mounted it, and was soon at the charcoal-burner’s shack.
There came no answer to his knock, and Tom pushed open the door. The old man
was not in. Tom could not send him for help.
"My luck seems to
be against me!" he murmured. "But I can get something to eat here,
anyhow. I’m almost starved!"
He found the kitchen
utensils, and made some coffee, also frying some bacon and eggs. Then, feeling
much refreshed, and having left on the table some money to pay for the inroad
he had made on the victuals, he started to go outside.
As our hero stepped to
the door he was greeted by a savage growl that made him start in alarm.
"A dog!" he
mused. "I didn’t know there was one around."
He looked outside and
there, to his dismay, saw a big, savage-appearing bulldog standing close to
where he had left his motor-cycle. The animal had been sniffing suspiciously at
the machine.
"Good dog!"
called Tom. "Come here!"
But the bulldog did not
come. Instead the beast stood still, showed his teeth to Tom and growled in a
low tone.
"Wonder if the
owner can be near?" mused the young inventor. "That dog won’t let me
get my machine, I am afraid."
Tom spoke to the animal
again and again the dog growled and showed his teeth. He next made a move as if
to leap into the house, and Tom quickly stepped back and banged shut the door.
"Well, if this isn’t
the worst yet!" cried the youth to himself. "Here, just at the time I
want to be off, I must be held up by such a brute as that outside. Wonder how
long he’ll keep me a prisoner?"
Tom went to a window
and peered out. No person had appeared and the lad rightly surmised that the
bulldog had come to the cottage alone. The beast appeared to be hungry, and
this gave Tom a sudden idea.
"Maybe if I feed
him, he’ll forget that I am around and give me a chance to get away," he
reasoned. "Guess I had better try that dodge on him."
Tom looked around the
cottage and at last found the remains of a chicken dinner the owner had left
behind. He picked up some of the bones and called the bulldog. The animal came
up rather suspiciously. Tom threw him one bone, which he proceeded to crunch up
vigorously.
"He’s hungry right
enough," mused Tom. "I guess he’d like to sample my leg. But he’s not
going to do it—not if I can help it."
At the back of the
cottage was a little shed, the door to which stood open. Tom threw a bone near
to the door of this shed and then managed to throw another bone inside the
place. The bulldog found the first bone and then disappeared after the second.
"Now is my time, I
guess," the young inventor told himself, and watching his chance, he ran
from the cottage toward his motor-cycle. He made no noise and quickly shoved
the machine into the roadway. Just as he turned on the power the bulldog came
out of the shed, barking furiously.
"You’ve missed
it!" said Tom grimly as the machine started, and quickly the cottage and
the bulldog were left behind. The road was rough for a short distance and he
had to pay strict attention to what he was doing.
"I’ve got to ride
to the nearest village," he said. "It’s a long distance, and, in the
meanwhile, the men may escape. But I can’t do anything else. I dare not tackle
them alone, and there is no telling when the charcoal-burner may come back. I’ve
got to make speed, that’s all."
Out on the main road
the lad sent his machine ahead at a fast pace. He was fairly humming along
when, suddenly, from around a curve in the highway he heard the
"honk-honk" of an automobile horn. For an instant his heart failed
him.
"I wonder if those
are the thieves? Maybe they have left the house, and are in their auto!"
he whispered as he slowed down his machine.
The automobile appeared
to have halted. As Tom came nearer the turn he heard voices. At the sound of
one he started. The voice exclaimed:
"Bless my
spectacles! What’s wrong now? I thought that when I got this automobile I would
enjoy life, but it’s as bad as my motor-cycle was for going wrong! Bless my
very existence, but has anything happened?"
"Mr. Damon!"
exclaimed Tom, for he recognized the eccentric individual of whom he had
obtained the motor-cycle.
The next moment Tom was
in sight of a big touring car, containing, not only Mr. Damon, whom Tom
recognized at once, but three other gentlemen.
"Oh, Mr.
Damon," cried Tom, "will you help me capture a gang of thieves? They
are in a deserted mansion in the woods, and they have one of my father’s patent
models! Will you help me, Mr. Damon?"
"Why, bless my
top-knots" exclaimed the odd gentleman. "If it isn’t Tom Swift, the
young inventor! Bless my very happiness! There’s my motor-cycle, too! Help you?
Why, of course we will. Bless my shoe-leather! Of course we’ll help you!"
TOM’s story was soon
told, and Mr. Damon quickly explained to his friends in the automobile how he
had first made the acquaintance of the young inventor.
"But how does it
happen that you are trusting yourself in a car like this?" asked Tom.
"I thought you were done with gasolene machines, Mr. Damon."
"I thought so,
too, Tom, but, bless my batteries, my doctor insisted that I must get out in
the open air. I’m too stout to walk, and I can’t run. The only solution was in
an automobile, for I never would dream of a motor-cycle. I wonder that one of
mine hasn’t run away with you and killed you. But there! My automobile is
nearly as bad. We went along very nicely yesterday, and now, just when I have a
party of friends out, something goes wrong. Bless my liver! I do seem to have
the worst luck!"
Tom lost no time in
looking for the trouble. He found it in the ignition, and soon had it fixed.
Then a sort of council of war was held.
"Do you think
those scoundrels are there yet?" asked Mr. Damon.
"I hope so,"
answered Tom.
"So do I,"
went on the odd character. "Bless my soul, but I want a chance to pummel
them. Come, gentlemen, let’s be moving. Will you ride with us, Tom Swift, or on
that dangerous motor-cycle?"
"I think I’ll
stick to my machine, Mr. Damon. I can easily keep up with you."
"Very well. Then
we’ll get along. We’ll proceed until we get close to the old mansion, and then
some of us will go down to the lake shore, and the rest of us will surround the
house. We’ll catch the villains red-handed, and I hope we bag that tramp among
them."
"I hardly think he
is there," said Tom.
In a short time the
auto and the motor-cycle had carried the respective riders to the road through
the woods. There the machines were left, and the party proceeded on foot. Tom
had a revolver with him, and one member of Mr. Damon’s party also had a small
one, more to scare dogs than for any other purpose. Tom gave his weapon to one
of the men, and cut a stout stick for himself, an example followed by those who
had no firearms.
"A club for
mine!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "The less I have to do with machinery the
better I like it. Now, Tom Swift is just the other way around," he explained
to his friends.
Cautiously they
approached the house, and when within seeing distance of it they paused for a
consultation. There seemed to be no one stirring about the old mansion, and Tom
was fearful lest the men had left. But this could not be determined until they
came closer. Two of Mr. Damon’s friends elected to go down to the shore of the
lake and prevent any escape in that direction, while the others, including Tom,
were to approach from the wood side. When the two who were to form the water
attacking party were ready, one of them was to fire his revolver as a signal.
Then Tom, Mr. Damon and the others would rush in.
The young inventor, Mr.
Damon, and his friend, whom he addressed as Mr. Benson, went as close to the
house as they considered prudent. Then, screening themselves in the bushes,
they waited. They conversed in whispers, Tom giving more details of his
experience with the patent thieves.
Suddenly the silence of
the woods was broken by some one advancing through the underbrush.
"Bless my gaiters,
some one is coming!" exclaimed Mr. Damon in a hoarse whisper. "Can
that be Munson or Dwight coming back?" He referred to his two friends who
had gone to the lake.
"Or perhaps the
fellows are escaping," suggested Mr. Benson. "Suppose we take a
look."
At that moment the
person approaching, whoever he was, began to sing. Tom started.
"I’ll wager that’s
Happy Harry, the tramp!" he exclaimed. "I know his voice."
Cautiously Tom peered
over the screen of bushes.
"Who is it?"
asked Mr. Damon.
"It’s Happy
Harry!" said Tom. "We’ll get them all, now. He’s going up to the
house."
They watched the tramp.
All unconscious of the eyes of the men and boy in the bushes, he kept on.
Presently the door of the house opened, and a man came out. Tom recognized him
as Anson Morse—the person who had dropped the telegram.
"Say, Burke,"
called the man at the door, "have you taken the motor-boat?"
"Motor-boat?
No," answered the tramp. "I just came here. I’ve had a hard time—nearly
got caught in Swift’s house the other night by that cub of a boy. Is the boat
gone?"
"Yes. Appleson
came back in it last night and saw some one looking in the window, but we
thought it was only a farmer and chased him away. This morning the boat’s gone.
I thought maybe you had taken it for a joke."
"Not a bit of it!
Something’s wrong!" exclaimed Happy Harry. "We’d better light out. I
think the police are after us. That young Swift is too sharp for my liking. We’d
better skip. I don’t believe that was a farmer who looked in the window. Tell
the others, get the stuff, and we’d leave this locality."
"They’re here
still," whispered Tom. "That’s good!"
"I wonder if
Munson and Dwight are at the lake yet?" asked Mr. Damon. "They ought
to be——"
At that instant a
pistol shot rang out. The tramp, after a hasty glance around, started on the
run for the house. The man in the doorway sprang out. Soon two others joined
him.
"Who fired that
shot?" cried Morse.
"Come on,
Tom!" cried Mr. Damon, grabbing up his club and springing from the bushes.
"Our friends have arrived!" The young inventor and Mr. Benson
followed him.
No sooner had they come
into the open space in front of the house than they were seen. At the same
instant, from the rear, in the direction of the lake, came Mr. Munson and Mr.
Dwight.
"We’re
caught!" cried Happy Harry.
He made a dash far the
house, just as a man, carrying a box, rushed out.
"There it is! The
model and papers are in that box!" cried Tom. "Don’t let them get
away with it!"
The criminals were
taken by surprise. With leveled weapons the attacking party closed in on them.
Mr. Damon raised his club threateningly.
"Surrender!
Surrender!" he cried. "We have you! Bless my stars, but you’re
captured! Surrender!"
"It certainly
looks so," admitted Anson Morse. "I guess they have us, boys."
The man with the box
made a sudden dash toward the woods, but Tom was watching him. In an instant he
sprang at him, and landed on the fellow’s back. The two went down in a heap,
and when Tom arose he had possession of the precious box.
"I have it! I have
it!" he cried. "I’ve got dad’s model back!"
The man who had had
possession of the box quickly arose, and, before any one could stop him, darte
d into the bushes.
"After him! Catch
him! Bless my hat-band, stop him!" shouted Mr. Damon.
Instinctively his
friends turned to pursue the fugitive, forgetting, for the instant, the other
criminals. The men were quick to take advantage of this, and in a moment had
disappeared in the dense woods. Nor could any trace be found of the one with
whom Tom had struggled.
"Pshaw! They got
away from us!" cried Mr. Damon regretfully. "Let’s see if we can’t
catch them. Come on, we’ll organize a posse and run them down." He was
eager for the chase, but his companions dissuaded him. Tom had what he wanted,
and he knew that his father would prefer not to prosecute the men. The lad
opened the box, and saw that the model and papers were safe.
"Let those fellows
go," advised the young inventor, and Mr. Damon reluctantly agreed to this.
"I guess we’ve seen the last of them," added the youth, but he and
Mr. Swift had not, for the criminals made further trouble, which will be told
of in the second volume of this series, to be called "Tom Swift and His
Motor-Boat; or, The Rivals of Lake Carlopa." In that our hero will be met
in adventures even more thrilling than those already related, and Andy Foger,
who so nearly ran Tom down in the automobile, will have a part in them.
"Now," said
Mr. Damon, after it had been ascertained that no one was injured, and that the
box contained all of value that had been stolen, "I suppose you are
anxious to get back home, Tom, aren’t you? Will you let me take you in my car?
Bless my spark plug, but I’d like to have you along in case of another
accident!"
The lad politely
declined, however, and, with the valuable model and papers safe on his
motorcycle, he started for Shopton. Arriving at the first village after leaving
the woods, Tom telephoned the good news to his father, and that afternoon was
safely at home, to the delight of Mr. Swift and Mrs. Baggert.
The inventor lost no
time in fully protecting his invention by patents. As for the unprincipled men
who made an effort to secure it, they had so covered up their tracks that there
was no way of prosecuting them, nor could any action be held against Smeak
& Katch, the unscrupulous lawyers.
"Well,"
remarked Mr. Swift to Tom, a few nights after the recovery of the model,
"your motor-cycle certainly did us good service. Had it not been for it I
might never have gotten back my invention."
"Yes, it did come
in handy," agreed the young inventor. "There’s that motor-boat, too.
I wish I had it. I don’t believe those fellows will ever come back for it. I
turned it over to the county authorities, and they take charge of it for a
while. I certainly had some queer adventures since I got this machine from Mr.
Damon," concluded Tom. I think my readers will agree with him.
THE END