“Don’t do that!” cried Tom, knowing at once that it could not be Ned, who never meddled with the machinery.
A blinding flash and a loud report followed, and Tom saw some one leap from his car, and try to run away. But the figure stumbled, and, a moment later the young inventor was upon him, grappling with him.
“Here! Let me go!” cried a voice, and Tom uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Andy Foger!” he cried. “I’ve caught you! You tried to damage my car!”
“Yes, and I’m hurt, too!” whined Andy. “My father will sue you for damages if I die.”
“No danger of that; you’re too mean,” murmured Tom, as he maintained a tight grip on the bully.
“You let me go!” demanded Andy, squirming to get away.
“Wait until I see what damage you’ve done,” retorted the young inventor. “The worst, though, would be the blowing out of a fuse, for I had the gear disconnected. You wait a minute now. Maybe it’s you who’ll have to pay damages.”
“You let me go!” fairly screamed Andy, and he aimed a blow at Tom. It caught our hero on the chest and Tom’s fighting blood was up in an instant. He drew back his left hand, and delivered a blow that landed fairly on Andy’s right eye. The bully staggered and went down in the dust.
“There!” cried Tom, righteously angry. “That will teach you not to try to damage my car, and then hit me into the bargain! Now clear out, before I give you some more!”
Whining and blubbering Andy arose to his feet.
“You just wait. I’ll get square with you for this,” he threatened.
“You can accept part of that as pay for what you did in the tar and feathering game,” added Tom. Then, as Andy moved in front of one of the electric side lamps on the car, Tom uttered a whistle of surprise. For both of Andy’s eyes were bruised and swollen, though Tom had only hit him once.
“Look at me!” cried the bully, more squint-eyed than ever. “Look at me! You hit me in one eye, and that explosion hit me in the other! My father will sue you for this.”
As he hurried off down the road Tom understood. Andy coming along, had seen Tom’s car standing there, and, thinking to do some mischief, had climbed in, and turned on the power. Perhaps he hoped it would run into the roadside ditch and be smashed. But as the gear was out, turning on the electric current had a different effect. As the bully pulled the handle over too quickly, throwing almost the entire force of the battery into the wires at once, the load was too heavy for them. A safety fuse blew out, causing the flare and the explosion, and a piece of the soft lead-like metal had hit the red-haired lad in the eye. Tom’s fist had completed the work on the other optic, and for several days thereafter Andy Foger remained in seclusion. When he did go out there were many embarrassing questions put to him, as to when he had had the fight. Andy didn’t care to answer. As for Tom, it did not take long to put a new fuse in his car, and he greatly enjoyed his ride with Miss Nestor that night.
CHAPTER XVI
TROUBLE AT THE BANK
Coming in rather late from his trip to Mansburg, and thinking of some things he and Miss Nestor had talked about, Tom was rather surprised, on reaching the house, to see a light in his father’s particular room, where the aged inventor did his reading and his planning of new devices.
“Dad’s up rather late,” said Tom to himself. “I wonder if he’s studying over some new machine.”
The lad ran his auto into the temporary garage he had built for it, and connected the wires of a burglar alarm he had arranged, to give warning in case any of his enemies should seek to damage the car.
Tom encountered Garret Jackson, the aged inventor who was going his rounds, seeing that everything was all right about the various shops.
“Anybody with my father, Garret?” asked the lad. “I see he’s still up.”
“Yes,” was the rather unexpected reply. “Mr. Damon is with him. They’ve been in your father’s room all the evening—ever since you went away in the car.”
“Anything the matter?” inquired the young inventor, a bit anxious, as he thought of the Happy Harry gang.
“Well, I don’t know,” and the engineer seemed puzzled. “They called me in once to know if everything was all right outside, and to inquire if you were back. I saw, then, that they were busy figuring over something, but I didn’t take much notice. Only I heard Mr. Damon say: ‘There’s going to be trouble if we can’t realize on those bonds,’ and then I came away.”
“Is that all he said?” asked Tom.
“No, he said ‘Bless my buttons,’ or something like that; but he blesses so many things I didn’t pay much attention.”
“That’s right,” agreed the lad. “But I wonder what the trouble is about? I must go see.”
As he passed along the hall, out of which his father’s combined study and library opened, the aged inventor came to the door.
“Is that you, Tom?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Come in here, if you haven’t anything else to do. Mr. Damon is here.”
Tom needed but a single glance at the faces of his father and Mr. Damon to see that something was troubling the two. The table in front of them was littered with papers covered with rows of figures.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.
“Well, I suppose I ought not to let it bother me, but it does,” replied his father.
“Something wrong with your patents, Dad? Has the crowd of bad men been bothering you again?”
“No, it isn’t that. It’s trouble at the bank, Tom.”
“Has it been robbed again?” asked the lad quickly. “If it has I can prove an alibi,” and he smiled at the recollection of the time he and Mr. Damon had been accused of looting the vault, as told in “Tom Swift and His Airship.”
“No, it hasn’t been robbed in just that way,” put in Mr. Damon. “But, bless my shoe laces, it’s almost as bad! You see, Tom, since Mr. Foger started the new bank he’s done his best to cripple the one in which your father and I are interested. I may say we are very vitally interested in it, for, since the withdrawal of Foger and his associates, your father and I have been elected directors.”
“I didn’t know that,” remarked the lad.
“No, I didn’t tell you, because you were so busy on your electric car,” rejoined Mr. Swift. “But Mr. Damon and I, being both large depositors, were asked to assume office, and, as I was not very busy on patent affairs, I consented.”
“But what is the trouble?” inquired Tom.
“I’m coming to it,” resumed Mr. Damon. “Bless my check book, I’m coming to it! You see we have lost several good customers, by reason of Foger opening the new bank. That wouldn’t have mattered so much, as between your father and myself, and one or two others, we have enough capital to carry on the business of the bank. But there is a more serious matter. We hold a number of very good securities, but they are of a class hard to realize cash for, on short notice. In other words they are not active bonds, though they are issued by reliable concerns. Then, too, the bank has lost considerable money by not doing as much business as it formerly did. In short we don’t know just what to do, Tom, and your father and I were discussing it, when you came in.”
“Do you need more money?” asked Tom. “I have some, that is my share from the submarine treasure, and some I have allowed to accumulate as royalties from my patents. It’s about ten thousand dollars, and you’re welcome to it.”
“Thank you, Tom,” spoke his father. “We may use your cash, but we’ll need a great deal more than that.”
“But why?” asked the lad. “I don’t understand. If you have good bonds, can’t you dispose of them, and get the money?”
“We could, Tom, yes, if we had time,” replied Mr. Damon. “But to throw the bonds on the market at short notice would mean that we would not get a good price for them. We would lose considerable.”
“But why do it in a hurry?”
“Because there is need of hurry,” respo
nded Mr. Swift.
“That’s it,” joined in Mr. Damon. “We have to have cash in a hurry, Tom, to meet pressing demands, and we don’t just see our way clear to get it. I am trying to raise it on some private securities I own, but I can’t get an answer within several days. Meanwhile the bank may fail, because of lack of funds. Of course no one would lose anything, ultimately, as we could go into the hands of a receiver, and, eventually pay dollar for dollar. Your father and I, and some of the other directors, might lose a little, but the depositors would not. But your father and I don’t like the idea of failing. It’s something I’ve never done, and I’m too old to start in now, bless my cash ledger if I’m not!”
“And for the sake of my reputation in this community I don’t want to see the bank close its doors,” added Mr. Swift. “It would give Foger too good a chance to crow over us.”
“And you need cash in a hurry,” went on Tom. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars at least,” replied Mr. Damon.
“And if you don’t get it?”
The eccentric man shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” remarked Mr. Swift musingly, “I don’t see that we need worry you about it, Tom. Perhaps—”
Mr. Swift was interrupted by a ring at the front door. The three looked at each other. It was late for a caller, and Mrs. Baggert had gone to bed.
“I’ll answer it,” volunteered Tom. He switched on the electric light in the hall, and opened the door. He was confronted by Mr. Pendergast, the president of the bank.
“Is your father in?” asked Mr. Pendergast, and he seemed to be much agitated.
“Yes, he is,” replied the lad. “Come this way, please.”
“I want to see him on important business,” went on the president, as he followed the young inventor. “I’m afraid I have bad news for him and Mr. Damon. Bad news, Tom, bad news,” and the aged banker’s voice trembled. Tom, with a chill of apprehension seeming to clutch his heart, threw open the library door.
CHAPTER XVII
A RUN ON THE BANK
“Why, Mr. Pendergast!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, rising quickly as Tom ushered in the aged president. “Whatever is the matter? You here at this hour? Bless my trial balance! Is anything wrong?
“I’m afraid there is,” answered the bank head. “I have just received word which made it necessary for me to see you both at once. I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Damon.”
He sank wearily into a chair which Tom placed for him, and Mr. Swift asked:
“Have you been able to raise any cash, Mr. Pendergast?”
“No, I am sorry to say I have not, but I did not come here to tell you that. I have bad news for you. As soon as we open our doors in the morning, there will be a run on the bank.”
“A run on the bank?” repeated Mr. Swift.
“The moment we begin business in the morning,” went on Mr. Pendergast.
“Bless my soul, then don’t begin business!” cried Mr. Damon.
“We must,” insisted Mr. Pendergast. “To keep the doors closed would be a confession at once that we have failed. No, it is better to open them, and stand the run as long as we can. When we have exhausted our cash—” he paused.
“Well?” asked Mr. Damon.
“Then we’ll fail—that’s all.”
“But we mustn’t let the bank fail!” cried Mr. Swift. “I am willing to put some of my personal fortune into the bank capital in order to save it. So is my son here.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Tom heartily. “All I’ve got. I’m not going to let Andy Foger get ahead of us; nor his father either.”
“I’ll help to the limit of my ability,” added Mr. Damon.
“I appreciate all that,” continued the president. “But the unfortunate part of it is that we need cash. You gentlemen, like myself, probably, have your money tied up in stocks and bonds. It is hard to get cash quickly, and we must have cash as soon as we open in the morning, to pay the depositors who will come flocking to the doors. We must prepare for a run on the bank.”
“How do you know there will be a run?” asked the young inventor.
“I received word this evening, just before I came here,” replied Mr. Pendergast. “A poor widow, who has a small amount in the bank, called on me and said she had been advised to withdraw all her cash. She said she preferred to see me about it first, as she did not like to lose her interest. She said a number of her acquaintances, some of whom are quite heavy depositors, had also been warned that the bank was unsound, and that they ought to take out their savings and deposits at once.”
“Did she say who had thus warned her?” inquired Mr. Swift.
“She did,” was the reply, “and that shows me that there is a conspiracy on foot to ruin our bank. She stated that Mr. Foger had told her our institution was unsound.”
“Mr. Foger!” cried Mr. Damon. “So this is one of his tricks to bolster up his new bank! He hopes the people who withdraw their money from our bank will deposit with him. I see his game. He’s a scoundrel, and if it’s possible I’m going to sue him for damages after this thing is over.”
“Did he warn the others?” inquired the aged inventor.
“Not all of them,” answered the president. “Some received letters from a man signing himself Addison Berg, warning them that our bank, was likely to fail any day.”
“Addison Berg!” exclaimed Tom. “That must have been the important business he had with Mr. Foger, the day I showed him the watch charm! They were plotting the ruin of our bank then,” and he told his father about his disastrous pursuit of the submarine agent.
“Very likely Foger is working with Berg,” admitted Mr. Damon. “We will attend to them later. The question is, what can we do to save the bank?”
“Get cash, and plenty of it,” advised Mr. Pendergast. “Suppose we go over the whole situation again?” and they fell to talking stocks: bonds, securities, mortgages and interest, until the youth, interested as he was in the situation, could follow it no longer.
“Better go to bed, Tom,” advised his father. “You can’t help us any, and we have many details to go over.”
The lad reluctantly consented, and he was soon dreaming that he was in his electric auto, trying to pull up a thousand pound lump of gold from the bottom of the sea. He awoke to find the bedclothes in a lump on his chest, and, removing them, fell into a deep slumber.
When the young inventor awoke the next morning, Mrs. Baggert told him that his father and Mr. Damon had risen nearly an hour before, had partaken of a hearty breakfast, and departed.
“They told me to tell you they were at the bank,” said the housekeeper.
“Did Mr. Pendergast stay all night?” inquired Tom.
“I heard some one go away about two o’clock this morning,” replied the housekeeper. “I don’t know who it was.”
“They must have had a long session,” thought Tom, as he began on his bacon, eggs and coffee. “I’ll take a run down to the bank in my electric in a little while.”
The car was still in rather crude shape, outwardly, but the mechanism was now almost perfect. Tom charged the batteries well before starting put.
The youth had no sooner come in sight of the old Shopton bank, to distinguish it from the Second National, which Mr. Foger had started, than he was aware that something unusual had occurred. There was quite a crowd about it, and more persons were constantly arriving to swell the throng.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, of one of the few police officers of which Shopton boasted, though the lad did not need to be told.
“Run on the bank,” was the brief answer. “It’s failed.”
Tom felt a pang of disappointment. Somehow, he had hoped that his father and his friends might have been able to stave off ruin. As he approached nearer Tom was made aware that the crowd was in an ugly mood.
“Why don’t they open the doors and give us our money?” cried one excited woman. “It’s ours! I worked hard for mine, an’ now they want to keep it
from us. I wish I’d put it in the new bank.”
“Yes, that’s the best place,” added another. “That Mr. Foger has lots of money.”
“I can see the hand of Andy’s father, and that of Mr. Berg, at work here,” thought Tom, “They have spread rumors of the bank’s trouble, and hope to profit by it. I wish I could find a way to beat them at their own game.”
As the minutes passed, and the bank was not opened, the ugly temper of the crowd increased. The few police could do nothing with the mob, and several, bolder than the rest, advocated battering down the doors. Some went up the steps and began to pound on the portals. Tom looked for a sight of his father or Mr. Damon, but could not see either.
It was not the regular hour for opening the bank, but when the police reminded the people of this they only laughed.
“I guess they ain’t going to open anyhow!” shouted a man. “They’ve got our money, and they’re going to keep it. What difference is an hour, anyway?”
“Yes, if they have the money, why don’t they open, and not wait until ten o’clock?” cried another. “I’ve got a hundred and five dollars in there, and I want it!”
More excited persons were arriving every minute. The crowd surged this way, and that. Many looked anxiously at the clock in the tower of the town hall. The gilded hands pointed to a few minutes of ten. Would the bank open its doors when the hour boomed out? Many were anxiously asking this question.
Tom sat in his electric car, near the front of the bank. The interest of the crowd, which under ordinary circumstances would have been centered in the queer vehicle, was not drawn toward it. The people were all thinking of their money.
Suddenly one of the two doors of the bank slowly opened. There was a yell from the crowd, and a rush to get in. But the police managed to hold the leaders back, and then Tom saw that it was Ned Newton, who stood in the partly-opened portal. He held up his hand to indicate silence, and a hush fell over the mob.
“The bank is open for business,” Ned announced, “but there must be no rush. The building is not large enough to accommodate you all. If you form a line, you will be admitted in turn. The bank hopes to pay you all.”
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 60
