The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  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.

  CHAPTER XV

  A VAIN SEARCH

  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 flash 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, thou
gh, 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 motor-cycle 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.

  CHAPTER XVI

  BACK HOME

  “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 tonight.”

  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 motor-cycle 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 motor-cycle 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 newfangled 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.”