“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 postoffice 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.
CHAPTER III
IN A SMASH-UP
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 postoffice —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 anything 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.
CHAPTER IV
TOM AND A MOTOR-CYCLE
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 today, 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.
&
nbsp; “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 motor-cycle 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 me.”
“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.
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 2
