The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  CHAPTER XVII

  MR. SWIFT IN DESPAIR

  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 Mr. 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. “You 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. The
y 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.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  HAPPY HARRY AGAIN

  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 say 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 tonight, 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 tonight, 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 plainl
y 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.

  CHAPTER XIX

  TOM ON A HUNT

  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.”