“Some one’s hurt—shot” cried the youth aloud.
He turned the boat in toward the bank. As he shut off the power from the motor he heard the cry again:
“Help! Help! Help!”
“I must go ashore!” he exclaimed. “Probably some one is badly wounded by a gun.”
He paused for a moment as the fear came to him that it might be some of the patent thieves. Then, dismissing that idea as the Arrow’s prow touched the gravel, Tom sprang out, drew the boat up a little way, fastened the rope to a tree and hurried off into the dripping woods in the direction of the voice that was calling for aid.
CHAPTER XI
A QUICK RUN
“Where are you?” cried Tom. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”
Uttering these words after he had hurried into the woods a short distance, the young inventor paused for an answer. At first he could hear nothing but the drip of water from the branches of the trees; then, as he listened intently, he became aware of a groan not far away.
“Where are you?” cried the lad again. “I’ve come to help you. Where are you?”
He had lost what little fear he had had at first, that it might be one of the unscrupulous gang, and came to the conclusion that he might safely offer to help.
Once more the groan sounded and it was followed by a faint voice speaking:
“Here I am, under the big oak tree. Oh, whoever you are, help me quickly! I’m bleeding to death!”
With the sound of the voice to guide him, Tom swung around. The appeal had come from the left and, looking in that direction, he saw, through the mist, a large oak tree. Leaping over the underbrush toward it he caught sight of the wounded man at its foot. Beside him lay a gun and there was a wound in the man’s right arm.
“Who shot you?” cried Tom, hurrying to the side of the man. “Was it some of those patent thieves?” Then, realizing that a stranger would know nothing of the men who had stolen the model, Tom prepared to change the form of his question. But, before he had an opportunity to do this, the man, whose eyes were closed, opened them, and, as he got a better sight of his face, Tom uttered a cry.
“Why, it’s Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed the lad. He had recognized the rich hunter, whom he had first met in the woods that spring shortly after Happy Harry, the tramp, had disabled Tom’s motor-cycle. “Mr. Duncan,” the young inventor repeated, “how did you get shot?”
“Is that you, Tom Swift?” asked the gunner. “Help me, please. I must stop this bleeding in my arm. I’ll tell you about it afterward. Wind something around it tight—your handkerchief will do.”
The man sighed weakly and his eyes closed again. The lad saw the blood spurting from an ugly wound.
“I must make a tourniquet,” the youth exclaimed. “That will check the bleeding until I can get him to a doctor.”
With Tom to think was to act. He took out his knife and cut off Mr. Duncan’s sleeves below the injury, slashing through coat and shirts. Then he saw that part of a charge of shot had torn away some of the large muscular development of the upper arm. The hunter seemed to have fainted and the youth worked quickly. Tying his handkerchief above the wound and inserting a small stone under the cloth, so that the pebble would press on the main artery, Tom put a stick in the handkerchief and began to twist it. This had the effect of tightening the linen around the arm, and in a few seconds the lad was glad to see that the blood had stopped spurting out with every beat of the heart. Giving the tourniquet a few more twists to completely stop the flow of blood, Tom fastened the stick-lever in place by a bit of string.
“That’s—that’s better,” murmured Mr. Duncan. “Now if you can go for a doctor—” He had to pause for breath.
“I’ll not leave you here alone while I go for a doctor,” declared Tom. “I have my motor-boat on the lake. Do you think I could get you down to it and take you home?”
“Perhaps—maybe. I’ll be stronger in a moment, now that the bleeding has stopped. But not—not home—frighten my wife. Take me to the sanitarium if you can—sanitarium up the lake, a few miles from here.”
The unfortunate man, who had tried to sit upright, had to lean back against the tree again. Tom understood what he meant in spite of the broken sentences. Mr. Duncan did not want to be taken home in the condition he was then in, for fear of alarming his wife. He wanted to be taken to the sanitarium, and Tom knew where this was, a well-known resort for the treatment of various diseases and surgical cases. It was about five miles away and on the opposite shore of the lake.
“Water—a drink!” murmured Mr. Duncan.
Seeing that his patient would be all right, for a few minutes at least, Tom hurried to his motor-boat, got a cup and, filling it with water from a jug he carried, he hastened with it to the hunter. The fluid revived the man wonderfully and now that the bleeding had almost completely stopped, Mr. Duncan was much stronger.
“Do you think you can get to the boat, if I help you?” asked Tom.
“Yes, I believe so. To think of meeting you again, and under such circumstances! It is providential.”
“Did someone shoot you?” inquired Tom, who could not get out of his head the notion of the men who had once assaulted him.
“No, I shot myself,” answered Mr. Duncan as he got to his feet with Tom’s help. “I was out with my gun, practicing just as I was that day when I met you in the woods. I stooped down to crawl under a bush and the weapon went off, the muzzle being close against my arm. I can’t understand how it happened. I fell down and called for help. Then I guess I must have fainted, but I came to when I heard you talking to me. I shouldn’t have come out today as it is so wet, but I had some new shot shells I wished to try in order to test them before the hunting season. But if I can get to the sanitarium, I will be well taken care of. I know one of the doctors there.”
With Tom leading him and acting as a sort of support, the journey to the motor-boat was slowly made. Making as comfortable a bed as possible out of the seat cushions, Tom assisted Mr. Duncan to it, and then starting the engine he sent his boat out from shore at half speed, as the fog was still thick and he did not want to run upon a rock.
“Do you know where the sanitarium is?” asked the wounded hunter.
“About,” answered Tom a little doubtfully, “but I’m afraid it’s going to be hard to locate it in this fog.”
“There’s a compass in my coat pocket,” said Mr. Duncan. “Take it out and I’ll tell you how to steer. You ought to carry a compass if you’re going to be a sailor.”
Tom was beginning to think so himself and wondered that he had not thought of it before. He found the one the hunter had, and placing it on the seat near him, he carefully listened to the wounded man’s directions. Tom easily comprehended and soon had the boat headed in the proper direction. After that it was comparatively easy to keep on the right course, even in the fog.
But there was another danger, however, and this was that he might run into another boat. True, there were not many on Lake Carlopa, but there were some, and one of the few motor-boats might be out in spite of the bad weather.
“Guess I’ll not run at full speed,” decided Tom. “I wouldn’t like to crash into the Red Streak. We’d both sink.”
So he did not run his motor at the limit and sat at the steering-wheel, peering ahead into the fog for the first sight of another craft.
He turned to look at Mr. Duncan and was alarmed at the pallor of his face. The man’s eyes were closed and he was breathing in a peculiar manner.
“Mr. Duncan,” cried Tom, “are you worse?”
There was no answer. Leaving the helm for a moment, Tom bent over the injured hunter. A glance showed him what had happened. The tourniquet had slipped and the wound was bleeding again. Tom quickly shut off the motor, so that he might give his whole attention to the work of tightening the handkerchief. But something seemed to be wrong. No matter how tightly he twisted the stick the blood did not stop flowing. The lad was frightened. In a short time the man would bleed t
o death.
“I’ve got to get him to the sanitarium in record time!” exclaimed Tom. “Fog or no fog, I’ve got to run at full speed! I’ve got to chance it!”
Making the bandage as tight as he could and fastening it in place, the young inventor sprang to the motor and set it in motion. Then he went to the wheel. In a few minutes the Arrow was speeding through the water as it had never done before, except when it had raced the Red Streak. “If I hit anything—good-by!” thought Tom grimly. His hands were tense on the rim of the steering-wheel and he was ready in an instant to reverse the motor as he sat there straining his eyes to see through the curtain of mist that hung over the lake. Now and then he glanced at the compass, to keep on the right course, and from time to time he looked at Mr. Duncan. The hunter was still unconscious.
How Tom accomplished that trip he hardly remembered afterward. Through the fog he shot, expecting any moment to crash into some other boat. He did pass a rowing craft in which sat a lone fisherman. The lad was upon him in an instant, but a turn of the wheel sent the Arrow safely past, and the startled fisherman, whose frail craft was set to rocking violently by the swell from the motor-boat, sent an objecting cry through the fog after Tom. But the youth did not reply. On and on he raced, getting the last atom of power from his motor.
He feared Mr. Duncan would be dead when he arrived, but when he saw the dock of the sanitarium looming up out of the mist and shut off the power to slowly run up to it, he placed his hand on the wounded man’s heart and found it still beating.
“He’s alive, anyhow,” thought the youth, and then his craft bumped up against the bulkhead and a man in the boathouse on the dock was sent on the run for a physician.
Mr. Duncan was quickly taken up to the sanitarium on a stretcher and Tom followed.
“You must have made a record run,” observed one of the physicians a little while afterward, when Tom was telling of his trip while waiting in the office to hear the report on the hunter’s condition.
“I guess I did,” muttered the young inventor “only I didn’t think so at the time. It seemed as if we were only crawling along.”
CHAPTER XII
SUSPICIOUS CHARACTERS
Under the skill of the physicians at the lake sanitarium Mr. Duncan’s wound was quickly attended to and the bleeding, which Tom had partly checked, was completely stopped. Some medicines having been administered, the hunter regained a little of his strength, and, about an hour after he had been brought to the resort, he was able to see Tom, who, at his request, was admitted to his room. The young inventor found Mr. Duncan propped up in bed, with his injured arm bandaged.
“Is the injury a bad one?” asked Tom, entering softly.
“Not as bad as I feared,” replied the hunter, while a trained nurse placed a chair for the lad at the bedside. “If it had not been for you, though, I’m afraid to think of what might have happened.”
“I am glad I chanced to be going past when you called,” replied the lad.
“Well, you can imagine how thankful I am,” resumed Mr. Duncan. “I’ll thank you more properly at another time. I hope I didn’t delay you on your trip.”
“It’s not of much consequence,” responded the youth. “I was only going to see that everything was all right at our house,” and he explained about his father being at the hotel and mentioned his worriment. “I will go on now unless I can do something more for you,” resumed Tom. “I will probably stay at our house all night tonight instead of trying to get back to Sandport.”
“I’d like to send word to my wife about what has happened,” said the hunter. “If it would not be too much out of your way, I’d appreciate it if you could stop at my home in Waterford and tell her, so she will not be alarmed at my absence.”
“I’ll do it,” replied our hero. “There is no special need of my hurrying. I have brought your gun and compass up from the boat. They are down in the office.”
“Will you do me a favor?” asked Mr. Duncan quickly.
“Of course.”
“Then please accept that gun and compass with my compliments. They are both of excellent make, and I don’t think I shall use that gun this season. My wife would be superstitious about it. As for the compass, you’ll need one in this fog, and I can recommend mine as being accurate.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of taking them,” expostulated Tom, but his eyes sparkled in anticipation, for he had been wishing for a gun such as Mr. Duncan owned. He also needed a compass.
“If you don’t take them I shall feel very much offended,” the hunter said, “and the nurse here will tell you that sick persons ought to be humored. Hadn’t they?” and he appealed to the pretty young woman, who was smiling at Tom.
“That’s perfectly true,” she said, showing her white, even teeth. “I think, Mr. Swift, I shall have to order you to take them.”
“All right,” agreed Tom, “only it’s too much for what I did.”
“It isn’t half enough,” remarked Mr. Duncan solemnly. “Just explain matters to my wife, if you will, and tell her the doctor says I can be out in about a week. But I’m not going hunting or practicing shots again.”
A little later Tom, with the compass before him to guide him on his course through the fog, was speeding his boat toward Waterford. Now and then he glanced at the fine shotgun which he had so unexpectedly acquired.
“This will come in dandy this fall!” he exclaimed. “I’ll go hunting quail and partridge as well as wild ducks. This compass is just what I need, too.”
Mrs. Duncan was at first very much alarmed when Tom started to tell her of the accident, but she soon calmed down as the lad went more into details and stated how comparatively out of danger her husband now was. The hunter’s wife insisted that Tom remain to dinner, and as he had made up his mind he would have to devote two days instead of one to the trip to his house, he consented.
The fog lifted that afternoon, and Tom, rejoicing in the sunlight, which drove away the storm clouds, speeded up the Arrow until she was skimming over the lake like a shaft from a bow.
“This is something like,” he exclaimed. “I’ll soon be at home, find everything all right and telephone to dad. Then I’ll sleep in my own room and start back in the morning.”
When Tom was within a few miles of his own boathouse he heard behind him the “put-put” of a motor craft. Turning, he saw the Red Streak fairly flying along at some distance from him.
“Andy certainly is getting the speed out of her now,” he remarked. “He’d beat me if we were racing, but the trouble with his boat and engine is that he can’t always depend on it. I guess he doesn’t understand how to run it. I wonder if he’ll offer to race now?”
But the red-haired owner of the auto boat evidently did not intend to offer Tom a race. The Red Streak went on down the lake, passing the Arrow about half a mile away. Then the young inventor saw that Andy had two other lads in the boat with him.
“Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey, I guess,” he murmured. “Well, they’re a trio pretty much alike. The farther off they are the better I like it.”
Tom once more gave his attention to his own boat. He was going at a fair speed, but not the limit, and he counted on reaching home in about a half hour. Suddenly, when he was just congratulating himself on the smooth-running qualities of his motor, which had not missed an explosion, the machinery stopped.
“Hello!” exclaimed the young inventor in some alarm. “What’s up now?”
He quickly shut off the gasoline and went back to the motor. Now there are so many things that may happen to a gasoline engine that it would be difficult to name them all offhand, and Tom, who had not had very much experience, was at a loss to find what had stopped his machinery. He tried the spark and found that by touching the wire to the top of the cylinder, when the proper connection was, made, that he had a hot, “fat one.” The compression seemed all right and the supply pipe from the gasoline tank was in perfect order. Still the motor would not go. No explosion resulted when he
turned the flywheel over, not even when he primed the cylinder by putting a little gasoline in through the cocks on the cylinder heads.
“That’s funny,” he remarked to himself as he rested from his labors and contemplated the “dead” motor. “First time it has gone back on me.” The boat was drifting down the lake, and, at the sound of another motor craft approaching, Tom looked up. He saw the Red Streak, containing Andy Foger and his cronies. They had observed the young inventor’s plight.
“Want a tow?” sneered Andy.
“What’ll you take for your second-hand boat that won’t run?” asked Pete Bailey.
“Better get out of the way or you might be run down,” added Sam Snedecker.
Tom was too angry and chagrined to reply, and the Red Streak swept on.
“I’ll make her go, if it takes all night!” declared Tom energetically. Once more he tried to start the motor. It coughed and sighed, as if in protest, but would not explode. Then Tom cried: “The spark plug! That’s where the trouble is, I’ll wager. Why didn’t I think of it before?”
It was the work of but a minute to unscrew the spark plugs from the tops of the cylinders. He found that both had such accumulations of carbon on them that no spark could ever have reached the mixture of gasoline and air.
“I’ll put new ones in,” he decided, for he carried a few spare plugs for emergencies. Inside of five minutes, with the new plugs in place, the motor was running better than before.
“Now for home!” cried Tom, “and if I meet Andy Foger I’ll race him this time.”
But the Red Streak was not in sight, and, a little later, Tom had run the Arrow into the boathouse, locked the door and was on his way up to the mansion.
“I suppose Mrs. Baggert and Garret will be surprised to see me,” he remarked. “Maybe they’ll think we don’t trust them, by coming back in this fashion to see that everything is safe. But then, I suppose, dad is naturally nervous about some of his valuable machinery and inventions. I think I’ll find everything all right, though.”
As Tom went up the main path and swung off to a side one, which was a short cut to the house, he saw in the dusk, for it was now early evening, a movement in the bushes that lined the walk.
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 19
