“Hopes!” cried a woman scornfully. “We can’t eat hopes, young man, nor yet pay the rent with it. Hopes indeed!”
But Ned had said all he cared to, and, with rather a white face, he went back inside. The one door remained open and, with a policeman on either side, a line of anxious depositors was slowly formed. Tom watched them crowding and surging forward, all eager to be first to get their cash out, lest there be not enough for all. As he watched, the young inventor was aware that some was signaling to him from the big window of the bank. He looked more closely and saw Ned Newton beckoning to him, and the young cashier was motioning Tom to go around to the rear, where a door of the bank opened on a small alley. Wondering what was wanted, Tom slowly ran his machine down the side street, and up the alley. No one paid any attention to him.
A porter admitted the lad, and he made his way to the private offices, where he knew his father and Mr. Damon would be. In the corridors he could hear the murmur of the throng and the chink of money, as the tellers paid it out.
“Well, Tom, this is bad business,” remarked Mr. Swift, as he saw his son. The lad noticed that Mr. Damon was in the telephone booth.
“Yes, Dad,” admitted Tom. “It’s a run, all right. What are you going to do?”
“The best we can. Pay out all the cash we have, and hope that before that time, the people will come to their senses. The bank is all right if they would only wait. But I’m afraid they won’t and, after we pay out all the cash we have, we’ll have to close the doors. Then there’s sure to be an unpleasant scene, and maybe some of the more hot-headed ones will advocate violence. We have given orders to the tellers to pay out as slowly as possible, so as to enable us to gain some time.”
“And all you need is money; is that it, Dad?”
“That’s it, Tom, but we have exhausted every possibility. Mr. Damon is trying a forlorn hope now, but, even if he is successful—”
Before Mr. Swift had ceased speaking, Mr. Damon fairly burst from the telephone booth. He was much excited.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” he cried.
“What?” asked Mr. Swift and Tom in the same breath.
“The cash, or, what’s just as good, the promise of it. I called up Mr. Chase, of the Clayton National Bank, and he has agreed to take the railroad securities I offered him as collateral, and let me have sixty thousand dollars on them! That will give us cash enough to weather the storm. Hurrah! We’re all right now. Bless my check book!”
“The Clayton National Bank,” remarked Mr. Swift, and his voice was hopeless. “It’s forty miles away, Mr. Damon, and no railroad around here runs anywhere near it. No one could get there and back with the cash today, in time to save us from ruin. It’s impossible! Our last chance is gone.”
“How far did you say it was, Dad?” asked Tom quickly.
“Forty miles there, over forty, I guess, and not very good roads. We would need to have the cash here before three o’clock to be of any service to us. No, it’s out of the question. The bank will have to fail!”
“No!” cried the young inventor, and his voice rang out through the room. “I’ll get the cash for you!”
“How?” gasped Mr. Damon. “You can’t get there and back in time?”
“Yes, I can!” cried Tom. “In my electric runabout! I can make it go a hundred miles an hour, if necessary! Probably I’ll have to run slow over the bad roads; but I can do it! I know I can. I’ll get the sixty thousand dollars for you!”
For a moment there was silence. Then Mr. Damon cried:
“Good! And I’ll go with you and deliver the securities to Mr. Chase. Come on, Tom Swift! Bless my collar button, but maybe we can yet save the old bank after all!”
CHAPTER XVIII
AFTER THE CASH
Tom’s proposal as a way out of the difficulty, and the prompt seconding of it by Mr. Damon, seemed to deprive the other bank officials, Mr. Swift included, of the power of speech for a few moments. Then, as there came to the room where the scene had taken place, the sound of the mob outside, clamoring for cash, Mr. Pendergast, the president, remarked in a low voice:
“It seems to be the only way. Do you think you can do it, Tom Swift?”
“I’m sure of it, as far as my electric car is concerned,” replied the young inventor. “If we get the cash I’ll have it back here on time. The runabout is all ready for a fast trip.”
“Then don’t lose any time, Tom,” advised his father. “Every minute counts.”
“Yes,” added Mr. Damon. “Come on. I’ve got the securities in my valise, and we can bring the cash back in the same satchel. Come on, Tom.”
The eccentric character caught up his valise, and started from the room. Tom followed.
“Now, my son, be careful,” advised his father. “You know the need of haste, but don’t take unnecessary risks. You’d better go out the back way, as the crowd is easily excited.”
Little more was said. Mr. Swift clasped his son’s hand in a firm pressure, and the bank president nervously bade the lad good-by. Then, slipping out of the bank, by the rear entrance, the porter closing the door after them, Tom and Mr. Damon took their places in the electric machine.
“Just imagine you’re racing for that three-thousand-dollar prize, offered by the Touring Club of America, Tom,” observed Mr. Damon, as he deposited the valise at his feet.
“I don’t have to do that,” replied the youth. “I’m trying for a bigger prize than that. I want to save the bank, and defeat the schemes of the Fogers—father and son.”
Tom turned on the power, and the machine rolled out on the main street. As it turned the corner, leaving the impatient crowd of depositors, now larger than ever, behind, Mr. Damon glanced over at the new bank, and, as he did so, he called to Tom:
“There are the Fogers now.”
The young inventor looked, and saw Andy and his father on the steps of the new institution.
At the sight of the electric car, speeding along, Andy turned and spoke to his parent. What he said seemed to impress Mr. Foger, for he started, and looked more intently at Tom and Mr. Damon. Then, as Tom watched, he saw the two excitedly conversing, and a moment later Andy ran off in the direction in which Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey lived.
“I wonder if he’s up to any tricks?” thought Tom, as he turned on more power. “Well, if he is, I’ll soon be where he can’t reach me.”
The young inventor did not dare send his car at full speed through the streets of the town, and it was not until several minutes had passed that they could go at more than the ordinary rate. But once the open country was reached Tom “opened her up full,” and the song the motor sung was one of power. The vehicle quickly gathered headway and was soon fairly whizzing along.
“If we keep this up we’ll be there and back in good time,” remarked Mr. Damon.
“Yes, but we can’t do it,” replied his companion. “The road to Clayton is a poor one, and we’ll soon be on it. Then we’ll have to go slow. But I’ll make all the time I can until then.”
So, for several miles more they crept along, at times having to reduce to almost a walking pace, because of bad roads. Mr. Damon looked at his watch almost every other minute.
“Eleven o’clock,” he remarked, as they passed a milestone, “and we’re not half way there. Bless my gizzard, but I’m afraid we won’t make it, Tom. We left about ten, and we ought to be back by two o’clock to do any good. That’s four hours, and it will take some time to transfer the securities, and get the cash. Every minute counts.”
“I know it,” answered Tom, “and I’m going to count every minute.”
With eager eyes he watched every inch of the road, to steer to the best advantage. His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles showed white with the strain, and, every now and then his right hand adjusted the speed lever or the controller handle, while his foot was on the emergency brake, ready to stop the car at the first sign of danger.
And there was danger, not infrequently, for the roa
d was up and down hill, over frail bridges, and along steep cliffs. It was no pleasure tour they were on.
When a little over half the distance had been made they came to a better road, and Tom was able to use full speed ahead. Then the electric went so fast that, had it not been for the steel wind-shield in front, Mr. Damon, at any rate, would have been short of breath.
“This is going some!” he cried to Tom. The lad nodded grimly, and shoved the controller handle over to the last notch. Then came a bad stretch and they had to slow down again. As they were about out of it there came a little flash of fire and the motor stopped.
“Bless my overshoes!” cried Mr. Damon. “What’s that; a fuse blown out?”
“No,” replied Tom, with a puzzled air. “But something has gone wrong.” Hastily he got out, and made an examination. He found it was only one of the unimportant wires which had short-circuited, and it was soon adjusted. But they had lost five precious minutes. Tom tried to make up for lost time, but came to a hill a little later, and this reduced their speed.
“Do you think we can make it before twelve?” asked Mr. Damon anxiously. “We’ve got to, if we’re to get back before three, Tom.”
“I’ll try,” was the calm answer, and Tom’s jaw was shut still more tightly. Once again came more favorable roads and pushing the car to the limit the occupants were rejoiced, a little later, as they topped a hill, to come in sight of a fairly large city.
“There’s Clayton!” cried Mr. Damon.
Ten minutes later they were rolling through the main street, and as they stopped in front of the bank, the noon whistles blew shrill and noisily.
“You did it, Tom!” cried Mr. Damon, springing out with the valise of securities. “Now be ready for the return trip. I’ll be with you as soon as possible.”
He went up the bank steps three at a time, like some boy instead of an elderly man. Tom looked after him for a second and then got down to oil up his car, and make some adjustments that had rattled loose from the rough road. Unmindful of the curious throng that gathered he crawled under the machine with his oil-can.
He had finished his work, and was back in his seat, ready to start, but Mr. Damon had not reappeared.
“It’s taking him a good while to get that cash,” thought Tom. “Maybe the securities were no good.”
But, a few minutes later, Mr. Damon came hurrying from the bank. The valise he carried seemed much heavier than when he went in.
“It’s all right, Tom,” he said. “I’ve got it. Now for the trip home, and I hope we don’t have any accidents. It took longer than I thought to check over the bonds and receipt for them. But I’ve got the cash. Now to save the bank!”
He took his place beside the young inventor, holding the valise between his knees, while Tom turned on the power and sent his car dashing down the street, and toward the road that led to Shopton.
CHAPTER XIX
STOPPED ON THE ROAD
“Did Mr. Chase make any objection to giving you the cash?” asked Tom, as he shoved the controller over another notch, and caused the motor to make a higher note in its song of speed.
“Oh, no, he was very nice about it,” replied Mr. Damon. “He said he hoped our bank would pull through. Said if we needed more cash we could have it.”
It was nearly one o’clock, and they had the worst part of the journey yet to go. Thirty miles of stiff roads lay between them and Shopton, the last five and the first five being fairly good, with, here and there, soft spots.
Up hill and down went the electric auto. At every opportunity Tom let out all the speed he could draw from the motor, but there were many times when he had to slow down. He had just made the ascent of a steep hill, and was turning into a fairly good road, skirting the edge of a steep cliff, when there came a sharp report.
“Bless my soul! That’s a fuse, I’m sure of it!” cried Mr. Damon.
“No,” announced Tom, as he quickly shut off the power. “It’s a puncture. One of the inner tubes of the tire has been pierced. I was afraid of that tube.”
“What have you got to do; put on a new tire?” asked Mr. Damon.
“No, I’m going to put on a new wheel. I carry two spare ones with tires all ready inflated. It won’t take long.”
But the process of changing wheels consumed more time than Tom anticipated for the nut was stuck, and he and Mr. Damon had to exert all their strength before they could loosen it. When the new wheel was in place ten minutes had been lost.
“Hold on now, I’m going to speed her!” cried Tom, when they were once more in their seats, and speed the machine he did. The road was rough, but despite this the lad turned on almost full power. Over the bumps they went, around curves and into rain-washed ruts careening from side to side, and throwing Mr. Damon about, as he expressed it afterward, “like a bean inside of a football.” As for the young inventor his grasp of the steering wheel, and the manner in which he could brace himself against the foot pedals, held him more firmly in place. On and on they rushed, covering mile after mile, and approaching Shopton where so much depended on their arrival.
Good and bad stretches of the road alternated, but now that Tom had seen of what mettle his car was made, he did not spare it as much as he had on the first trip. He saw that his machine would stand hard knocks, and the way the battery and motor was behaving was a joy to him. He knew that if he could make that eighty-mile run in safety he stood a good chance of winning the prize, for no harder test could have been devised.
But the race was still far from won. There was a particularly unsafe stretch of road yet to be covered, and then would come a smooth highway into Shopton.
“Ten miles more,” observed Mr Damon, snapping shut his big gold watch. “Ten miles more, and it’s a quarter of two now. We ought to be there at a quarter after, and that will be in good time, eh, Tom?”
“I think so, but I don’t know about this piece of road we’re coming to. It seems worse than when we passed over it this morning.”
As he spoke the auto began to slow up, for the wheels had struck some heavy sand, and it was necessary to reduce the current. Tom turned back the controller handle, but watched with eager eyes for a sign that the roadbed was harder, so that he could increase speed.
As the car turned around a curve, passing through a lonely stretch of country, with woods on either side of the highway, Tom glancing up, uttered a cry of astonishment.
“What’s the matter; something gone wrong?” asked his companion.
For answer Tom pointed. There, just ahead of them, was a big load of hay, and it was evident that the driver, was in no particular hurry.
“We can’t pass that without getting in over our hubs!” cried Tom. “If we turn out the side ditches are so soft that we’ll need help to pull out, and the road is so narrow for several miles that we’ll have to trail along behind that fellow.”
“Bless my check book!” cried Mr. Damon. “Are we going to lose, after all, on account of a load of hay? No, I’ll buy it from him first, at double the market price, tip it over, set fire to it, toss it in the ditch, and then we can go past!”
“Maybe that will answer,” retorted Tom, smiling grimly.
He put on a little more speed, and was soon close up behind the load of hay, ringing his electric bell as a warning.
“I say!” called Mr. Damon to the unseen driver, “can’t you turn out and let us pass?”
“Ha! Hum! Wa’al I guess not!” came the answer, in unmistakable farmer’s accents. “You automobile fellers is too gol-hanged smart, racin’ along th’ roads. I’ve got just as good a right here as you fellers have, by heck!” The driver did not show himself.
“We know that,” responded Tom, as quickly as he could, for he did not want to anger the man. “But our machine is so heavy that if we turn into the ditch I’m afraid we’ll be mired.”
“Huh! So’ll I,” was the retort from the unseen driver.. “Think I want t’ spile my load of hay?”
“But you have wide tires on
, and you wouldn’t sink in far,” answered the young inventor. “Besides, it’s very necessary that we get past. A great deal depends on our speed.”
“So it does on mine,” was the reply. “Ef I git t’ market late I’ll have t’ stay all night, an’ spend money on a hotel bill.”
“I’ll pay it! I’ll pay your bill if you’ll only pull out!” cried Mr. Damon. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars!”
He suddenly ceased speaking. From the bushes along the road sprang several ragged, masked figures. Each one, aiming his weapon at Tom, said in a low voice, that could not have been heard by the driver of the hay wagon:
“Slow up your machine, young feller! We want to speak with you, and don’t you make a loud noise, or it won’t be healthy for you!”
“Why of all the-!” began Mr. Damon, but another of the footpads leveling his weapon at the eccentric man growled:
“Dry up, if you don’t want to get shot!”
Mr. Damon subsided. Discretion was very plainly the better part of valor. Tom had shut off the current. The load of hay continued on ahead. Tom thought perhaps the driver of it might have been in collusion with the thieves, to cause the auto to slow up.
“What do you want with us?” asked the young inventor, trying to speak calmly, but finding it a hard task, with a revolver pointed at him.
“You know what we want,” exclaimed the leader, in a low voice. “We want that cash you got from the bank, and we’re going to have it! Come, now, shell out!” and he advanced toward the automobile.
CHAPTER XX
ON TIME
Close around the electric auto crowded the members of the hold-up gang. Their eyes seemed to glare through the holes in their black masks. Instantly Tom thought of the other occasion when he was halted by masked figures. Could these, by any possibility, be the same individuals? Was this a trick of Andy Foger and his cronies?
Tom tried to pierce through the disguises. Clearly the persons were men—not boys—and they wore the ragged clothes of tramps. Also, there was an air of dogged determination about them.
“Well, are you going to shell out?” asked the leader, taking a step nearer, “or will we have to take it?”
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 61
