The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “Bless my soul!” exclaimed a voice. “Tom’s hurt! How did it happen? Bless my very existence!”

  “Oh, Mr. Damon, you’re just in time!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, “Tom’s had a bad shock. Will you go for a doctor in your auto?”

  “Better than that! Let me take Tom in the car to Dr. Whiteside’s office,” proposed the eccentric man. “It will be better that way.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Mr. Swift eagerly. “Put Tom in the auto!”

  “If only it doesn’t break down,” added Mr. Damon fervently. “Bless my spark plug, but it would be just my luck!”

  But they started off all right, Mr. Swift riding in front with Mr. Damon, and Mr. Sharp supporting Tom in the tonneau. Only a little fluttering of the eyelids, and a slow, faint breathing told that Tom Swift still lived.

  Mr. Damon never guided a car better than he did his auto that day. Several speed laws were broken, but no one appeared to stop them, and, in record time they had the young inventor at the physician’s house. Fortunately Dr. Whiteside was at home, and, under his skillful treatment Tom was soon out of danger. His heart action was properly started, and then it was only a question of time. As the doctor had plenty of room it was decided to let the lad remain that night, and Tom was soon installed in a spare bedroom, with the doctor’s pretty daughter to wait on him occasionally.

  “Oh, I’m all right,” the youth insisted, when Miss Whiteside told him it was time for his medicine. “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not!” she declared. “I ought to know, for I’m going to be a nurse, some day, and help papa. Now take this or I’ll have to hold your nose, as they do the baby’s,” and she held out a spoonful of unpleasant looking mixture, extending her dainty forefinger and thumb of her other hand, as if to administer dire punishment to Tom, if he did not obey.

  “Well, I give in to superior strength,” he said with a laugh, as he noted, with approval, the laughing face of his nurse.

  Then he fell into a deep sleep, and was so much better the next morning that he could be taken home in Mr. Damon’s auto.

  “But mind, no hard work for three or four days,” insisted the physician. “I want your heart to get in shape for that big race you were telling me about. The shock was a severe strain to it.”

  Tom promised, reluctantly, and, though he did no work, his first act, on reaching home, was to go out to the shop, to inspect the battery and motor. To his surprise the motor was running for the lad had established the connection, in spite of his shock and his father and Mr. Sharp had decided to let the machinery run until he came back.

  “And look at the record it’s made!” cried Tom delightedly as he glanced at the gauge “Better than I figured on. That battery is a wonder. I’ll have the fastest electric runabout you ever saw.”

  “If the wires don’t get crossed again,” put in Mr. Sharp. “You’d better make an examination, Tom,” and, for the first time, the young inventor learned how he had been shocked.

  “Crossed wires! I should say they were crossed!” he exclaimed as he looked at the switches and copper conductors. “Somebody has been tampering with them. No wonder I was shocked!”

  “Who did it?” asked Mr. Sharp.

  Tom considered for a moment, before answering. Then he said:

  “I believe it was Addison Berg. He must have wanted to do some damage, to get even with us for getting that treasure away from him.”

  “Berg?” questioned the balloonist, and Tom told of the night he had been tripped into the brook, and exhibited the watch charm he had secured. Mr. Sharp recognized it at once. A further examination confirmed the belief that the submarine agent had sneaked into Tom’s workshop, and had altered the wires.

  “They were all right when I came out of the shop that night,” declared Tom. “I left the old connections just as I thought I had arranged them, and only added the new ones, when I went to try my battery. The old connections were crossed, but I didn’t notice it. Then when I turned on the current I got the shock. I don’t s’pose Berg thought I’d be so nearly killed. Probably he wanted to burn out my motor, and spoil it. If it was Andy Foger I could understand it, but a man like Berg—”

  “He’s probably wild with anger because his submarine got the worst of it in the race for the gold,” interrupted the balloonist. “Well, we’ll have to be on our guard, that’s all. What was the matter with Eradicate, that he didn’t see him enter the shop?”

  “Rad went to a colored dance that night,” said Tom. “I let him off. But after this I’ll have the shop guarded night and day. My motor might have been ruined, if that first charge hadn’t gone through my body instead of into the machinery.” The improper connections were soon removed and others substituted.

  It was agreed between Tom and Mr. Sharp that they would say nothing regarding Mr. Berg to Mr. Swift. The aeronaut caused cautious inquiries to be made, and learned that the agent had been discharged by the submarine firm, because of some wrong-doing in connection with the craft Wonder, and it was surmised that the agent believed Tom to be at the bottom of his troubles.

  In a few days the young inventor was himself again, and as further trials of his battery showed it to be even better than its owner hoped, arrangements were made for testing it in the car on the road.

  The runabout was nearly finished, but it lacked a coat of varnish, and some minor details, when Tom, assisted by his father, Mr Sharp and Mr. Jackson, one morning, about a week later, installed the motor and battery units. It did not take long to gear up the machinery, connect the battery and, though the car was rather a crude looking affair, Tom decided to give it a tryout.

  “Want to come along, Dad?” he asked, as he tightened up some binding posts, and looked to see that the steering wheel, starting and reverse levers worked properly, and that the side chains were well lubricated.

  “Not the first time,” replied his father. “Let’s see how it runs with you, first.”

  “Oh, I want some sort of a load in it,” went on the lad. “It won’t be a good test unless I have a couple of others besides myself. How about you, Mr. Damon?” for the old gentleman was spending a few days at the Swift homestead.

  “Bless my shoe buttons! I’ll come!” was the ready answer. “After the experience I’ve been through in the airship and submarine, nothing can scare me. Lead on, I’ll follow!”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll hang back after that; will you, Mr. Sharp?” asked the lad, with a laugh.

  “I don’t dare to, for the sake of my reputation,” was the reply, for the balloonist who had made many ascensions, and dropped thousands of feet in parachutes, was naturally a brave man.

  So he and Mr. Damon climbed into the rear seats of the odd-looking electric car, while Tom took his place at the steering wheel.

  “Are you all ready?” he asked.

  “Let her go!” fired back Mr. Sharp.

  “Bless my galvanometer, don’t go too fast on the start,” cautioned Mr. Damon, nervously.

  “I’ll not,” agreed the young inventor. “I want to get it warmed up before I try any speeding.”

  He turned on the current. There was a low, humming purr, which gradually increased to a whine, and the car moved slowly forward. It rolled along the gravel driveway to the road, Tom listening to every sound of the machinery, as a mother listens to the breathing of a child.

  “She’s moving!” he cried.

  “But not much faster than a wheelbarrow,” said his father, who sometimes teased his son.

  “Wait!” cried the youth.

  Tom turned more current into the motor. The purring and humming increased, and the car seemed to leap forward. It was in the road now, and, once assured that the steering apparatus was working well, Tom suddenly turned on much more speed.

  So quickly did the electric auto shoot forward that Mr. Damon and Mr. Sharp were jerked back against the cushions of the rear seats.

  “Here! What are you doing?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

  “I’m going to show you
a little speed,” answered Tom.

  The car was now moving rapidly, and there was a smoothness and lightness to its progress that was absent from a gasolene auto. There was no vibration from the motor. Faster and faster it ran, until it was moving at a speed scarcely less than that of Mr. Damon’s car, when it was doing its best. Of course that was not saying much, for the car owned by the odd gentleman was not a very powerful one, but it could make fast time occasionally.

  “Is this the best you can do?” asked Mr. Damon. “Not that it isn’t fast,” he hastened to add, “and I was wondering if it was your limit.”

  “Not half!” cried Tom, as he turned on a little more power. “I’m not trying for a record today. I just want to see how the battery and motor behaves.”

  “Pretty well, I should say,” commented Mr. Sharp.

  “I’m satisfied—so far,” agreed the lad.

  They were now moving along the highway at a good speed—moving almost silently, too, for the motor, save for a low hum, made no noise. So quiet was the car, in fact, that it was nearly the cause of a disaster. Tom was so interested in the performance of his latest invention, that, before he knew it, he had come up behind a farmer, driving a team of skittish horses. As the big machine went past them, giving no warning of its approach, the steeds reared up, and would have bolted, but for the prompt action of the driver.

  “Hey!” he cried, angrily, as Tom speeded past, “don’t you know you got to give warnin’ when you’re comin’ with one of them ther gol-swizzled things! By Jehossephat I’ll have th’ law on ye ef ye do thet ag’in!”

  “I forgot to ring the bell,” apologized Tom, as he sent out a peal from the gong, and then, he let out a few more amperes, and the speed increased.

  “Hold on! I guess this is fast enough!” cried Mr. Damon, as his hat blew off.

  “Fast?” answered Tom. “This is nothing to what I’ll do when I use the full power. Then I’ll—”

  He was interrupted by a sharp report, and a vivid flash of fire on a switch board near the steering wheel. The motor gave a sort of groan, and stopped, the car rolling on a little way, and then becoming stationary.

  “Bless my collar button!” ejaculated Mr. Damon.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

  “Some sort of a blow-out,” answered Tom ruefully, as he shoved the starting handle over, trying to move the car. But it would not budge. The new auto had “gone dead” on her first tryout. The young inventor was grievously disappointed.

  CHAPTER XIII

  TOWED BY A MULE

  “Bless my gizzard! Is it anything serious?” asked Mr. Damon. “Will it blow up, or anything like that?”

  “No,” replied the lad, as he leaped out of the car, and began to make an examination. Mr. Sharp assisted him.

  “The motor seems to be all right,” remarked the balloonist, as he inspected it.

  “Yes,” agreed our hero, “and the batteries have plenty of power left in them yet. The gauge shows that. I can’t understand what the trouble can be, unless—” He paused in his remark and uttered an exclamation. “I’ve found it!” he cried.

  “What?” demanded the aeronaut.

  “Some of the fuses blew out. I turned on too much current, and the fuses wouldn’t carry it. I put them in to save the motor from being burned out, but I didn’t use heavy enough ones. I see where my mistake was.”

  “But what does it mean?” inquired Mr. Damon.

  “It means that we’ve got to walk back home,” was Tom’s sorrowful answer. “The car is stalled, for I haven’t any extra fuses with me.”

  “Can’t you connect up the battery by using some extra wire?” asked Mr. Sharp. “I have some,” and he drew a coil of it from his pocket.

  “I wouldn’t dare to. It might be so heavy that it would carry more current than the motor could stand. I don’t want to burn that out. No, I guess we’ll have to walk home, or rather I will. You two can stay here until I come back with heavier fuses. I’m sorry.”

  Tom had hardly ceased speaking, when, from around the turn in the road proceeded a voice, and, at the sound of it all three started, for the voice was saying:

  “Now it ain’t no use fer yo’ to act dat-a-way, Boomerang. Yo’ all ain’t got no call t’ git contrary now, jest when I wants t’ git home t’ mah dinner. I should t’ink you’d want t’ git t’ de stable, too. But ef yo’ all ain’t mighty keerful I’ll cut down yo’ rations, dat’s what I’se goin’ to do. G’lang, now, dat’s a good feller. Ho! Ho! I knowed dat’d fetch yo’ all. When yo’ all wiggles yo’ ears dat-a-way, dat’s a suah sign yo’ all is gwine t’ move.”

  Then followed the sound of a rattletrap of a wagon approaching.

  “Eradicate! It’s Eradicate!” exclaimed Tom.

  “And his mule, Boomerang!” added Mr. Sharp. “He’s just in time!” commented Mr. Damon with a sigh of relief, as the ancient outfit, in charge of the aged colored man, came along. Eradicate had been sent to Shopton to get a load of wood for Mr. Swift, and was now returning. At the sight of the stalled auto the mule pricked up his long ears, and threw them forward.

  “Whoa dar, now, Boomerang!” cried Eradicate. “Doan’t yo’ all commence t’ gittin’ skittish. Dat machine ain’t gwine t’ hurt yo’. Why good land a’ massy! Ef ’tain’t Mistah Swift!” cried the colored man, as he caught sight of Tom. “What’s de trouble?” he asked.

  “Broke down,” answered the young inventor briefly. “You always seem to come along when I’m in trouble, Rad.”

  “Dat’s right,” assented the darkey, with a grin. “Me an’ trouble am ole acquaintances. Sometimes she hits me a clip on de haid, den, ag’in Boomerang, mah mule, gits it. He jest had his trouble. Got a stone under his shoe, an’ didn’t want t’ move. Den when I did git him started he balked on me. But I’se all right now. But I suah am sorry fo’ you. Can’t I help yo’ all, Mistah Swift?”

  “Yes, you can, Rad,” answered Tom. “Drive home as fast as you can, and ask Dad to send back with you some of those fuses he’ll find on my work bench. He knows what I want. Hurry there and hurry back.”

  Eradicate shook his head doubtfully.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to go?” asked Mr. Sharp, a trifle nettled. “We can’t get the car started until we have some new fuses..”

  “Oh, I wants t’ go all right ’nuff, Mistah Sharp,” was Eradicate’s prompt answer. “Yo’ all knows I’d do anyt’ing t’ ’blige yo’ or Mistah Swift. But hits dish yeah mule, Boomerang. I jest done promised him dat we were gwine home t’ dinnah, an’ he ’spects a manger full ob oats. Ef I got to Mistah Swift’s house wid him, I couldn’t no mo’ git him t’ come back widout his dinnah, dan yo’ all kin git dat ’ar car t’ move widout dem fusin’ t’ings yo’ all talked about.”

  “Bless my necktie!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “That’s all nonsense! You don’t suppose that mule understands what you say to him, do you? How does he know you promised him his dinner?”

  “I doan’t know how he know, Mistah Damon,” replied Eradicate, “but he do know, jest de same. I know hit would be laik pullin’ teeth an’ wuss too, t’ git Boomerang t’ start back wid dem foosd t’ings until after he’s had his dinner. Wouldn’t it, Boomerang?”

  The mule waved his long ears as if in answer.

  “Bless my soul, I believe he does understand!” cried Mr. Damon.

  “Of course he do,” put in the colored man. “I’se awful sorry. Now if it were afternoon I could bring back dem what-d’ye-call-’ems in a jiffy, ’cause Boomerang allers feels good arter he has his dinnah, but befo’ dat—” and Eradicate shook his head, as if there was no more to be said on the subject.

  “Well,” remarked Tom, sadly, “I guess there’s no help for it. We’ll have to walk home, unless you two want to wait until I can ride back with Eradicate, and come back on my motor cycle. Then I’ll have to leave the cycle here, for I can’t get it in the car.”

  “Bless my collar button!” cried Mr. Damon. “It’s
like the puzzle of the fox, the goose and the bag of corn on the banks of a stream. I guess we’d better all walk.”

  “Hold on!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp. “Is your mule good and strong, Eradicate?”

  “Strong? Why dish yeah mule could pull a house ober—dat is when he’s got a mind to. An’ he’d do most anyt’ing now, ’ca’se he’s anxious t’ git home t’ his dinnah; ain’t yo’ all, Boomerang?”

  Once more the mule waved his ears, like signal flags.

  “Then I have a proposition to make,” went on the balloonist. “Unhitch the mule from the load of wood, and hitch him to the auto. We’ve got some rope along, I noticed. Then the mule can pull us and the runabout home.”

  “Good idea!” cried Mr. Damon.

  “Dat’s de racket!” ejaculated Eradicate. “I’ll jest sequesterate dish year load ob wood side ob de road, an’ hitch Boomerang to de auto.”

  Tom said nothing for a few seconds. He gazed sadly at his auto, which he hoped would win the touring club’s prize. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

  “Towed by a mule!” he exclaimed, shaking his head, and smiling ruefully. “The fastest car in this country towed by a mule! It’s tough luck!”

  “’Tain’t half so bad as goin’ widout yo’ dinnah, Mistah Swift!” remarked Eradicate, as he began to harness the mule to the electric runabout.

  Boomerang made no objection to the transfer. He looked around once or twice as he was being made fast to the auto and, when the word was given he stepped out as if pulling home stalled cars was his regular business. Tom sat beside Eradicate on the front seat, and steered, while the colored man drove the mule, and Mr. Sharp and Mr. Damon were in the “tonneau” seats as Tom called them.

  “I hope no one sees us,” thought Tom, but he was doomed to disappointment. When nearly home he heard an auto approaching, and in it were Andy Foger, Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey. The three cronies stared at the odd sight of Boomerang ambling along, with his great ears flapping, drawing Tom’s speedy new car.

  “Ha! Ha!” laughed Andy. “So that’s the motive power he’s going to use! Look at him, fellows. I thought his new electric, that was going to beat my car, and win the prize, was to be two hundred horse power. Instead it’s one mule power! That’s rich!” and Andy’s chums joined in the laugh at poor Tom.