“Well, there’s no use discussing that,” went on Tom. “What I came here to find out, and I don’t mind telling you, is whether or not you are building a monoplane to compete against me, and building it on a model invented by me; and what’s more, Andy Foger, I intend to find this out, too!”
Tom started toward the big shed, which loomed up in the moonlight.
“Stand back!” cried Andy, getting in Tom’s way. “I can build any kind of an aeroplane I like, and you can’t stop me!”
“We’ll see about that,” declared the young inventor, as he kept on. “I’m not going to allow my plans to be stolen, and a monoplane made after them, and do nothing about it.”
“You keep away!” snarled Andy, and he grabbed Tom by the shoulder and struck him a blow in the chest. He must have been very much excited, or otherwise he never would have come to hostilities this way with Tom, whom he well knew could easily beat him.
The blow, together with the many things he had suffered at Andy’s hands, was too much for our hero. He drew back his fist, and a moment later Andy Foger was stretched out on the grass. He lay there for a moment, and then rose up slowly to his knees, his face distorted with rage.
“You—you hit me!” he snarled.
“Not until you hit first,” said Tom calmly.
“Bless my punching bag! That’s so!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.
“You’ll suffer for this!” whined Andy, getting to his feet, but taking care to retreat from Tom, who stood ready for him. “I’ll get square with you for this! Jake, come on, and we’ll get our guns!”
Andy turned and hurried back toward the shed, followed by the evil-looking man, who had apparently been undecided whether to attack Mr. Damon or Tom. Now the bully and his companion were in full retreat.
“We’ll get our guns, and then we’ll see whether they’ll want to stay where they’re not wanted!” went on Andy, threateningly.
“Bless my powderhorn! What had we better do?” asked Mr. Damon.
“I guess we’d better go back,” said Tom calmly. “Not that I’m afraid of Andy. His talk about guns is all bluff; but I don’t want to get into any more of a row, and he is just ugly and reckless enough to make trouble. I’m afraid we can’t learn what we came to find out, though I’m more convinced than ever that Andy is using my plans to make his aeroplane.”
“But what can you do?”
“I’ll see Mr. Sharp, and send a protest to the aviation committee. I’ll refuse to enter if Andy flies in a model of my Humming-Bird, and I’ll try to prevent him from using it after he gets it on the ground. That is all I can do, it seems, lacking positive information. Come on, Mr. Damon. Let’s get back to our hotel, and we’ll start for home in the morning.”
“I have a plan,” whispered the odd man.
“What is it?” asked Tom, narrowly watching for the reappearance of Andy and the man.
“I’ll stay here until they come, then I’ll pretend to run away. They’ll chase after me, and get all excited, and you can go up and look in the shed windows. Then you can join me later. How’s that?”
“Too risky. They might fire at you by mistake. No. We’ll both go. I’ve found out more than enough to confirm my suspicions.”
They turned out of the lot which contained the shed, and walked toward the road, just as Andy and his crony came back.
“Huh! You’d better go!” taunted the bully.
Tom had a bitter feeling in his heart. It seemed as if he was defeated, and he did not like to retreat before Andy.
“You’d better not come back here again, either,” went on Andy.
Tom and Mr. Damon did not reply, but kept on in silence. They returned to Shopton the next day.
“Well,” remarked Tom, when he had gone out to look at his Humming-Bird, “I know one thing. Andy Foger may build a machine something like this, but I don’t believe he can put in all the improvements I have, and certainly he can’t equal that engine; eh, dad?”
“I hope not, Tom,” replied his father, who seemed to be much improved in health.
“When are you going to try for speed?” asked Mr. Damon.
“Tomorrow, if I can get it tuned up enough,” replied Tom, “and I think I can. Yes, we’ll have the great test tomorrow, and then I’ll know whether I really have a chance for that ten thousand dollars.”
Never before had Tom been so exacting in his requirements of his air craft as when, the next day, the Humming-Bird was wheeled out to the flight ground, and gotten ready for the test. The young inventor went over every bolt, brace, stay, guy wire and upright. He examined every square inch of the wings, the tips, planes and rudders. The levers, the steering wheel, the automatic equilibrium attachments and the balancing weights were looked at again and again.
As for the engine, had it been a delicate watch, Tom could not have scrutinized each valve, wheel, cam and spur gear more carefully. Then the gasoline tank was filled, the magneto was looked after, the oil reservoirs were cleaned out and freshly filled, and finally the lad remarked:
“Well, I guess I’m ready. Come along, Mr. Damon.”
“Am I going with you in the test?”
“Surely. I’ve been counting on you. If you’re to be with me in the race, you want to get a sample of what we can do. Take your place. Mr. Jackson, are you ready to time us?”
“All ready, Tom.”
“And, dad, do you feel well enough to check back Mr. Jackson’s results? I don’t want any errors.”
“Oh, yes, Tom. I can do it.”
“Very well, then. Now this is my plan. I’m going to mount upward on an easy slant, and put her through a few stunts first, to warm up, and see that everything is all right. Then, when I give the signal, by dropping this small white ball, that means I’m ready for you to start to time me. Then I’ll begin to try for the record. I’ll go about the course in a big ellipse, and—well, we’ll see what happens.”
While Mr. Damon was in his seat the young inventor started the propeller, and noted the thrust developed. It was satisfactory, as measured on the scale, and then Tom took his place.
“Let her go!” he cried to Mr. Jackson and Eradicate, after he had listened to the song of the motor for a moment. The Humming-Bird flew across the course, and a moment later mounted into the air.
Tom quickly took her up to about two thousand feet, and there, finding the conditions to his liking, he began a few evolutions designed to severely test the craft’s stability, and to learn whether the engine was working properly.
“How about it?” asked Mr. Damon anxiously.
“All right!” shouted Tom in his ear, for the motor was making a great racket. “I guess we’ll make the trial next time we come around. Get ready to drop the signal ball.”
Tom slowly brought the aeroplane around in a graceful curve. He sighted down, and saw the first tall white pole that marked the beginning of the course.
“Drop!” he called to Mr. Damon.
The white rubber ball went to the earth like a shot. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Swift saw it, and started their timing-watches. Tom opened the throttle and advanced the spark. The great test was on!
The Humming-Bird trembled and throbbed with the awful speed of the motor, like a thing alive. She seemed to rush forward as an eagle dropping down from a dizzy height upon some hapless prey.
“Faster yet!” murmured Tom. “We must go faster yet!”
The motor was warming up. Streaks of fire came from it. The exhaust of the explosions was a continuous roar. Faster and faster flew the frail craft.
Around and around the air course she circled. The wind appeared to be rushing beneath the planes and rudders with the velocity of a hurricane. Had it not been for the face protectors they wore, Tom and Mr. Damon could not have breathed. For ten minutes this fearful speed was kept up. Then Tom, knowing he had run the motor to the limit, slowed it down. Next he shut it off completely, and prepared to volplane back to earth. The silence after the terrific racket was almost startling. For a moment
neither of the aviators spoke. Then Mr. Damon said:
“Do you think you did it, Tom?”
“I don’t know. We’ll soon find out. They’ll have the record.” And he motioned toward the earth, which they were rapidly nearing.
CHAPTER Fifteen
A NOISE IN THE NIGHT
“Well, did I make it? Make any kind of a record?” asked Tom eagerly, as he brought the trim little craft to a stop, after it had rolled along the ground on the bicycle wheels.
“What do you think you did?” asked Mr. Jackson, who had been busy figuring on a slip of paper.
“Did I get her up to ninety miles an hour?” inquired Tom eagerly. “If I did, I know when the motor wears down a bit smoother that I can make her hit a hundred in the race, easily. Did I touch ninety, Mr. Jackson?”
“Better than that, Tom! Better than that!” cried his father.
“Yes,” joined in Mr. Jackson. “Allowing for the difference in our watches, Tom, your father and I figure that you did the course at the rate of one hundred and twelve miles an hour!”
“One hundred and twelve!” gasped the young inventor, hardly able to believe it.
“I made it a hundred and fifteen,” said Mr. Swift, who was almost as pleased as was his son, “and Mr. Jackson made it one hundred and eleven; so we split the difference, so to speak. You certainly have a sky racer, Tom, my boy!”
“And I’ll need it, too, dad, if I’m to compete with Andy Foger, who may have a machine almost like mine.”
“But I thought you were going to object to him if he has,” said Mr. Damon, who had hardly recovered from the speedy flight through space.
“Well, I was just providing for a contingency, in case my protest was overruled,” remarked Tom. “But I’m glad the Humming-Bird did so well on her first trial. I know she’ll do better the more I run her. Now we’ll get her back in her ‘nest,’ and I’ll look her over, when she cools down, and see if anything has worked loose.”
But the trim little craft needed only slight adjustments after her tryout, for Tom had built her to stand up under a terrific strain.
“We’ll soon be in shape for the big race,” he announced, “and when I bring home that ten thousand dollars I’m going to abandon this sky-scraping business, except for occasional trips.”
“What will you do to occupy your mind?” asked Mr. Damon.
“Oh, I’m going to travel,” announced Tom. “Then there’s my new electric rifle, which I have not perfected yet. I’ll work on that after I win the big race.”
For several days after the first real trial of his sky racer Tom was busy going over the Humming-Bird, making slight changes here and there. He was the sort of a lad who was satisfied with nothing short of the best, and though neither his father nor Mr. Jackson could see where there was room for improvement, Tom was so exacting that he sat up for several nights to perfect such little details as a better grip for the steering-lever, a quicker way of making the automatic equilibriumizer take its position, or an improved transmitter for the wireless apparatus.
That was a part of his monoplane of which Tom was justly proud, for though many aeroplanes today are equipped with the sending device, few can receive wireless messages in mid-air. But Tom had seen the advantage of this while making a trip in the ill-fated Red Cloud to the cave of the diamond makers, and he determined to have his new craft thus provided against emergencies. The wireless outfit of the Humming-Bird was a marvel of compactness.
Thus the days passed, with Tom very busy; so busy, in fact, that he hardly had time to call on Miss Nestor. As for Andy Foger, he heard no more from him, and the bully was not seen around Shopton. Tom concluded that he was at his uncle’s place, working on his racing craft.
The young inventor sent a formal protest to the aviation committee, to be used in the event of Andy entering a craft which infringed on the Humming-Bird, and received word from Mr. Sharp that the interests of the young inventor would be protected. This satisfied Tom.
Still, at times, he could not help wondering how the first plans had so mysteriously disappeared, and he would have given a good deal to know just how Andy got possession of them, and how he knew enough to use them.
“He, or some one whom he hired, must have gotten into our house mighty quickly that day,” mused Tom, “and then skipped out while dad fell into a little doze. It was a mighty queer thing, but it’s lucky it was no worse.”
The time was approaching for the big aviation meet. Tom’s craft was in readiness, and had been given several other trials, developing more speed each time. Additional locks were put on the doors of the shed, and more burglar-alarm wires were strung, so that it was almost a physical impossibility to get into the Humming-Bird’s “nest” without arousing some one in the Swift household.
“And if they do, I guess we’ll be ready for them,” said Tom grimly. He had been unable to find out who it was that had attempted once before to damage the monoplane, but he suspected it was the ill-favored man who was working with Andy.
As for Mr. Swift, at times he seemed quite well, and again he required the services of a physician.
“You will have to be very careful of your father, Tom,” said Dr. Gladby. “Any sudden shock or excitement may aggravate his malady, and in that case a serious operation will be necessary.”
“Oh, we’ll take good care of him,” said the lad; but he could not help worrying, though he tried not to let his father see the strain which he was under.
It was some days after this, and lacking about a week until the meet was to open, when a peculiar thing happened. Tom had given his Humming-Bird a tryout one day, and had then begun to make arrangements for taking it apart and shipping it to Eagle Park. For he would not fly to the meet in it, for fear of some accident. So big cases had been provided.
“I’ll take it apart in the morning,” decided Tom, as he went to his room, after seeing to the burglar alarm, “and ship her off. Then Mr. Damon and I will go there, set her up, and get ready to win the race.”
Tom had opened all the windows in his room, for it was very warm. In fact it was so warm that sleep was almost out of the question, and he got up to sit near the windows in the hope of feeling a breeze.
There it was more comfortable, and he was just dozing off, and beginning to think of getting back into bed, when he was aware of a peculiar sound in the air overhead.
“I wonder if that’s a heavy wind starting up?” he mused. “Good luck, if it is! We need it.” The noise increased, sounding more and more like wind, but Tom, looking out into the night, saw the leaves of the trees barely moving.
“If that’s a breeze, it’s taking its own time getting here,” he went on.
The sound came nearer, and then Tom knew that it was not the noise of the wind in the trees. It was more like a roaring and rumbling.
“Can it be distant thunder?” Tom asked himself. “There is no sign of a storm.” Once more he looked from the window. The night was calm and clear—the trees as still as if they were painted.
The sound was even more plain now, and Tom, who had sharp ears, at once decided that it was just over the house—directly overhead. An instant later he knew what it was.
“The motor of an aeroplane, or a dirigible balloon!” he exclaimed. “Some one is flying overhead!”
For an instant he feared lest the shed had been broken into, and his Humming-Bird taken, but a glance toward the place seemed to show that it was all right.
Then Tom hastily made his way to where a flight of stairs led to a little enclosed observatory on the roof.
“I’m going to see what sort of a craft it is making that noise,” he said.
As he opened the trap door, and stepped out into the little observatory the sound was so plain as to startle him. He looked up quickly, and, directly overhead he saw a curious sight.
For, flying so low as to almost brush the lightning rod on the chimney of the Swift home, was a small aeroplane, and, as Tom looked up, he saw in a light that gleamed fro
m it, two figures looking down on him.
CHAPTER Sixteen
A MYSTERIOUS FIRE
For a few moments Tom did not know what to think. Not that the sight of aeroplanes in flight were any novelty to him, but to see one flying over his house in the dead of night was a little out of the ordinary. Then, as he realized that night-flights were becoming more common, Tom tried to make out the details of the craft.
“I wish I had brought the night glasses with me,” he said aloud.
“Here they are,” spoke a voice at his side, and so suddenly that Tom was startled. He looked down, and saw Mr. Jackson standing beside him.
“Did you hear the noise, too?” the lad asked the engineer.
“Yes. It woke me up. Then I heard you moving around, and I heard you come up here. I thought maybe it was a flight of meteors you’d come to see, and I knew the glasses would be handy, so I stopped for them. Take a look, Tom. It’s an aeroplane; isn’t it?”
“Yes, and not moving very fast, either. They seem to be circling around here.”
The young inventor was peering through the binoculars, and, as soon as he had the mysterious craft in focus, he cried:
“Look, Mr. Jackson, it’s a new kind of monoplane. I never saw one like it before. I wonder who could have invented that? It’s something like a Santos-Dumont and a Bleriot, with some features of Cornu’s Helicopter. That’s a queer machine.”
“It certainly is,” agreed the engineer, who was now sighting through the glasses. In spite of the darkness the binoculars brought out the peculiarities of the aeroplane with considerable distinctness.
“Can you make out who are in it?” asked Tom.
“No,” answered Mr. Jackson. “You try.”
But Tom had no better luck. There were two persons in the odd machine, which was slowly flying along, moving in a great circle, with the Swift house for its center.
“I wonder why they’re hanging around here?” asked Tom, suspiciously.
“Perhaps they want to talk to you,” suggested Mr. Jackson. “They may be fellow inventors—perhaps one of them is that Philadelphia man who had the Whizzer.”
“No,” replied the lad. “He would have sent me word if he intended calling on me. Those are strangers, I think. There they are, coming back again.”
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 109
