The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “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 today. I am done with motor-cycling!”

  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.

  CHAPTER V

  MR. SWIFT IS ALARMED

  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 on
e 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 today. 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 today. 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!”

  CHAPTER VI

  AN INTERVIEW IN THE DARK

  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 t
he 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 be 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.