The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “The ocean! Oh, is that still below us? Is there any chance of being saved? What can be done?” Mr. Damon hesitated.

  “We must first find out how badly we are damaged,” said Tom, quietly. “We must keep our heads, and be calm, no matter what happens. I need your help, Mr. Damon.”

  This served to recall the rather excited man to his senses. He came back to the centre of the cabin, which was no easy task, for the floor of it was tilted at first one angle, and then another. He stood at Tom’s side.

  “What can I do to help you?” he asked. Mr. Fenwick was darting here and there, examining the different machines. None of them seemed to be damaged.

  “If you will look and see what has happened to our main wing planes, I will see how much gas we have left in the bag,” suggested Tom. “Then we can decide what is best to be done. We are still quite high, and it will take some time to complete our fall, as, even if everything is gone, the material of the bag will act as a sort of parachute.”

  Mr. Damon darted to a window in the rear of the cabin, where he could obtain a glimpse of the main wing planes. He gave a cry of terror and astonishment.

  “Two of the planes are gone!” he reported. “They are torn and are hanging loose.”

  “I feared as much,” retorted Tom, quietly, “The gale was too much for them.”

  “What of the lifting gas?” asked Mr. Fenwick, quickly.

  “It has nearly all flowed out of the retaining bag.”

  “Then we must make more at once. I will start the generating machine.”

  He darted toward it.

  “It will be useless,” spoke Tom, quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because there is no bag left to hold it. The silk and rubber envelope has been torn to pieces by the gale. The wind is even stronger than it was last night.”

  “Then what’s to be done?” demanded Mr. Damon, with a return of his alarmed and nervous manner. “Bless my fingernails! What’s to be done?”

  For an instant Tom did not answer. It was constantly getting lighter, though there was no sun, for it was obscured by scudding clouds. The young inventor looked critically at the various gages and indicators.

  “Is—is there any chance for us?” asked Mr. Fenwick, quietly.

  “I think so,” answered Tom, with a hopeful smile. “We have about two thousand feet to descend, for we have fallen nearly that distance since the accident.”

  “Two thousand feet to fall!” gasped Mr. Damon. “We can never do it and live!”

  “I think so,” spoke Tom.

  “Bless my gizzard! How?” fairly exploded Mr. Damon.

  “By vol-planing down!”

  “But, even if we do, we will fall into the ocean!” cried Mr. Fenwick. “We will be drowned!”

  “No,” and Tom spoke more quietly than before. “We are over a large island.” he went on, “and I propose to let the disabled airship vol-plane down to it. That is our only chance.”

  “Over an island!” cried Mr. Damon. He looked down through the floor observation window. Tom had spoken truly. At that moment they were over a large island, which had suddenly loomed up in the wild and desolate waste of the ocean. They had reached its vicinity just in time.

  Tom stepped to the steering and rudder levers, and took charge. He was going to attempt a most difficult feat—that of guiding a disabled airship back to earth in the midst of a hurricane, and landing her on an unknown island. Could he do it?

  There was but one answer. He must try. It was the only chance of saving their lives, and a slim one at best.

  Down shot the damaged Whizzer like some giant bird with broken wings, but Tom Swift was in charge, and it seemed as if the craft knew it, as she began that earthward glide.

  CHAPTER XIII

  On Earthquake Island

  Mingled feelings possessed the three adventurers within the airship. Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick had crowded to the window, as Tom spoke, to get a glimpse of the unknown island toward which they were shooting. They could see it more plainly now, from the forward casement, as well as from the one in the bottom of the craft. A long, narrow, rugged piece of land it was, in the midst of the heaving ocean, for the storm still raged and lashed the waves to foam.

  “Can you make it?” asked Mr. Damon, in a low voice.

  “I think so,” answered Tom, more cheerfully.

  “Shall I shut down the motor?” inquired the older inventor.

  “Yes, you might as well. We don’t need the propellers now, and I may be better able to make the glide without them.”

  The buzzing and purring electrical apparatus was shut down. Silence reigned in the airship, but the wind still howled outside. As Tom had hoped, the ship became a little more steady with the stopping of the big curved blades, though had the craft been undamaged they would have served to keep her on an even keel.

  With skillful hand he so tilted the elevating planes that, after a swift downward glide, the head of the Whizzer would be thrown up, so to speak, and she would sail along in a plane parallel to the island. This had the effect of checking her momentum, just as the aviator checks the downward rush of his monoplane or biplane when he is making a landing.

  Tom repeated this maneuver several times, until a glance at his barograph showed that they had but a scant sixty feet to go. There was time but for one more upward throwing of the Whizzer’s nose, and Tom held to that position as long as possible. They could now make out the topography of the island plainly, for it was much lighter. Tom saw a stretch of sandy beach, and steered for that.

  Downward shot the airship, inert and lifeless. It was not like gliding his little Butterfly to earth after a flight, but Tom hoped he could make it. They were now within ten feet of the earth, skimming forward. Tom tried another upward tilt, but the forward planes would not respond. They could get no grip on the air.

  With a crash that could have been heard some distance the Whizzer settled to the sand. It ran along a slight distance, and then, as the bicycle wheels collapsed under the pressure, the airship seemed to go together in a shapeless mass.

  At the first impact with the earth, Tom had leaped away from the steering wheel and levers, for he did not want to be crushed against them. Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick, in pursuance of a plan adopted when they found that they were falling, had piled a lot of seat cushions around them. They had also provided some as buffers for Tom, and our hero, at the instant of the crash, had thrown himself behind and upon them.

  It seemed as if the whole ship went to pieces. The top of the main cabin crashed down, as the side supports gave way, but, fortunately, there were strong main braces, and the roof did not fall completely upon our friends.

  The whole bottom of the craft was forced upward and had it not been for the protecting cushions, there might have been serious injuries for all concerned. As it was they were badly bruised and shaken up.

  After the first crash, and succeeding it an instant later, there came a second smash, followed by a slight explosion, and a shower of sparks could be seen in the engine room.

  “That’s the electrical apparatus smashing through the floor!” called Tom. “Come, let’s get out of here before the gasolene sets anything on fire. Are you all right, Mr. Damon, and you, Mr. Fenwick?”

  “Yes, I guess so,” answered the inventor. “Oh, what a terrible crash! My airship is ruined!”

  “You may be glad we are alive,” said Mr. Damon. “Bless my top knot, I feel—”

  He did not finish the sentence. At that moment a piece of wood, broken from the ceiling, where it had hung by a strip of canvas came crashing down, and hit Mr. Damon on the head.

  The eccentric man toppled over on his pile of cushions, from which he was arising when he was struck.

  “Oh, is he killed?” gasped Mr. Fenwick.

  “I hope not!” cried Tom. “We must get him out of here, at all events. There may be a fire.”

  They both sprang to Mr. Damon’s aid, and succeeded in lifting him out. There was no difficul
ty in emerging from the airship as there were big, broken gaps, on all sides of what was left of the cabin. Once in the outer air Mr. Damon revived, and opened his eyes.

  “Much hurt?” asked Tom, feeling of his friend’s head.

  “No—no, I—I guess not,” was the slow answer. “I was stunned for a moment. I’m all right now. Nothing broken, I guess,” and his hand went to his head.

  “No, nothing broken,” added Tom, cheerfully, “but you’ve got a lump there as big as an ostrich egg. Can you walk?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. Bless my stars, what a wreck!”

  Mr. Damon looked at the remains of the airship. It certainly was a wreck! The bent and twisted planes were wrapped about the afterpart, the gas bag was but a shred, the frame was splintered and twisted, and the under part, where the starting wheels were placed, resembled a lot of broken bicycles. The cabin looked like a shack that had sustained an explosion of dynamite.

  “It’s a wonder we came out alive,” said Mr. Fenwick, in a low voice.

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Tom, as he came back with a tin can full of sea water, with which to bathe Mr. Damon’s head. The lad had picked up the can from where it had rolled from the wreck, and they had landed right on the beach.

  “It doesn’t seem to blow so hard,” observed Mr. Damon, as he was tenderly sopping his head with a handkerchief wet in the salt water.

  “No, the wind is dying out, but it happened too late to do us any good,” remarked Tom, sorrowfully. “Though if it hadn’t blown us this far, we might have come to grief over the ocean, and be floundering in that, instead of on dry land.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Mr. Fenwick, who was carefully feeling of some bruises on his legs. “I wonder where we are, anyhow?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” responded Tom. “It’s an island, but which one, or where it is I don’t know. We were blown nearly two thousand miles, I judge.”

  He walked over and surveyed the wreck. Now that the excitement was over he was beginning to be aware of numerous bruises and contusions, His legs felt rather queer, and on rolling up his trousers he found there was a deep cut in the right shin, just below his knee. It was bleeding, but he bandaged it with a spare handkerchief, and walked on.

  Peering about, he saw that nearly the whole of the machinery in the engine room, including most of the electrical apparatus, had fallen bodily through the floor, and now rested on the sand.

  “That looks to be in pretty good shape.” mused Tom, “but it’s a question whether it will ever be any good to us. We can’t rebuild the airship here, that’s certain.”

  He walked about the wreck, and then returned to his friends. Mr. Damon was more like himself, and Mr. Fenwick had discovered that he had only minor bruises.

  “Bless my coffee cup!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “I declare, I feel hungry. I wonder if there’s anything left to eat in the wreck?”

  “Plenty,” spoke Tom, cheerfully. “I’ll get it out. I can eat a sandwich or too myself, and perhaps I can set up the gasolene stove, and cook something.”

  As the young inventor was returning to the wreck, he was halted halfway by a curious trembling feeling. At first he thought it was a weakness of his legs, caused by his cut, but a moment later he realized with a curious, sickening sensation that it was the ground—the island itself—that was shaking and trembling.

  The lad turned back. Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick were staring after him with fear showing on their faces.

  “What was that?” cried the inventor.

  “Bless my gizzard! Did you feel that, Tom?” cried Mr. Damon. “The whole place is shaking!”

  Indeed, there was a stronger tremor now, and it was accompanied by a low, rumbling sound, like distant thunder. The adventurers were swaying to and fro.

  Suddenly they were tossed to the ground by a swaying motion, and not far off a great crack opened in the earth. The roaring, rumbling sound increased in volume.

  “An earthquake! It’s an earthquake!” cried Tom. “We’re in the midst of an earthquake!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Night In Camp

  The rumbling and roaring continued for perhaps two minutes, during which time the castaways found it impossible to stand, for the island was shaking under their feet with a sickening motion. Off to one side there was a great fissure in the earth, and, frightened as he was, Tom looked to see if it was extending in their direction.

  If it was, or if a crack opened near them, they might be precipitated into some bottomless abyss, or into the depths of the sea. But the fissure did not increase in length or breadth, and, presently the rumbling, roaring sound subsided. The island grew quiet and the airship travelers rose to their feet.

  “Bless my very existence! What happened?” cried Mr. Damon.

  “It was an earthquake; wasn’t it, Tom?” asked Mr. Fenwick.

  “It sure was,” agreed the young inventor. “Rather a hard one, too. I hope we don’t have any more.”

  “Do you think there is any likelihood of it?” demanded Mr. Damon. “Bless my pocketbook! If I thought so I’d leave at once.”

  “Where would you go?” inquired Tom, looking out across the tumbling ocean, which had hardly had a chance to subside from the gale, ere it was again set in a turmoil by the earth-tremor.

  “That’s so—there isn’t a place to escape to,” went on the eccentric man, with something like a groan. “We are in a bad place—do you think there’ll be more quakes, Tom?”

  “It’s hard to say. I don’t know where we are, and this island may be something like Japan, subject to quakes, or it may be that this one is merely a spasmodic tremor. Perhaps the great storm which brought us here was part of the disturbance of nature which ended up with the earthquake. We may have no more.”

  “And there may be one at any time,” added Mr. Fenwick.

  “Yes,” assented Tom.

  “Then let’s get ready for it,” proposed Mr. Damon. “Let’s take all the precautions possible.”

  “There aren’t any to take,” declared Tom. “All we can do is to wait until the shocks come—if any more do come, which I hope won’t happen, and then we must do the best we can.”

  “Oh, dear me! Bless my fingernails!” cried Mr. Damon, wringing his hands. “This is worse than falling in an airship! There you do have some chance. Here you haven’t any.”

  “Oh, it may not be so bad,” Tom cried to reassure him. “This may have been the first shock in a hundred years, and there may never be another.”

  But, as he looked around on the island, he noted evidences that it was of volcanic origin, and his heart misgave him, for he knew that such islands, created suddenly by a submarine upheaval, might just as suddenly be destroyed by an earthquake, or by sinking into the ocean. It was not a pleasant thought—it was like living over a mine, that might explode at any moment. But there was no help for it.

  Tom tried to assume a cheerfulness he did not feel. He realized that, in spite of his youth, both Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick rather depended on him, for Tom was a lad of no ordinary attainments, and had a fund of scientific knowledge. He resolved to do his best to avoid making his two companions worry.

  “Let’s get it off our minds,” suggested the lad, after a while. “We were going to get something to eat. Suppose we carry out that program. My appetite wasn’t spoiled by the shock.”

  “I declare mine wasn’t either,” said Mr. Damon, “but I can’t forget it easily. It’s the first earthquake I was ever in.”

  He watched Tom as the latter advanced once more toward the wreck of the airship, and noticed that the lad limped, for his right leg had been cut when the Whizzer had fallen to earth.

  “What’s the matter, Tom; were you hurt in the quake?” asked the eccentric man.

  “No—no,” Tom hastened to assure him. “I just got a bump in the fall—that’s all. It isn’t anything. If you and Mr. Fenwick want to get out some food from the wrecked store room I’ll see if I can haul out the gasolene stove from the airship
. Perhaps we can use it to make some coffee.”

  By delving in about the wreck, Tom was able to get out the gasolene stove. It was broken, but two of the five burners were in commission, and could be used. Water, and gasolene for use in the airship, was carried in steel tanks. Some of these had been split open by the crash, but there was one cask of water left, and three of gasolene, insuring plenty of the liquid fuel. As for the water, Tom hoped to be able to find a spring on the island.

  In the meanwhile, Mr. Damon and Mr. Fenwick had been investigating the contents of the storeroom. There was a large supply of food, much larger than would have been needed, even on a two weeks’ trip in the air, and the inventor of the Whizzer hardly knew why he had put so much aboard.

  “But if we have to stay here long, it may come in handy,” observed Tom, with a grim smile.

  “Why; do you think we will be here long?” asked Mr. Damon.

  The young inventor shrugged his shoulders.

  “There is no telling,” he said. “If a passing steamer happens to see us, we may be taken off today or tomorrow. If not we may be here a week, or—” Tom did not finish. He stood in a listening attitude.

  There was a rumbling sound, and the earth seemed again to tremble. Then there came a great splash in the water at the foot of a tall, rugged cliff about a quarter of a mile away. A great piece of the precipice had fallen into the ocean.

  “I thought that was another earthquake coming,” said Mr. Damon, with an air of relief.

  “So did I,” admitted Mr. Fenwick.

  “It was probably loosened by the shock, and so fell into the sea,” spoke Tom.

  Their momentary fright over, the castaways proceeded to get their breakfast. Tom soon had water boiling on the gasolene stove, for he had rescued a tea-kettle and a coffee pot from the wreck of the kitchen of the airship. Shortly afterward, the aroma of coffee filled the air, and a little later there was mingled with it the appetizing odor of sizzling bacon and eggs, for Mr. Fenwick, who was very fond of the latter, had brought along a supply, carefully packed in sawdust carriers, so that the shock had broken only a few of them.

  “Well, I call this a fine breakfast,” exclaimed Mr. Damon, munching his bacon and eggs, and dipping into his coffee the hard pilot biscuit, which they had instead of bread. “We’re mighty lucky to be eating at all, I suppose.”