The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “He can’t get here, Tom.”

  “Can’t get here! Why not?”

  “Because the railroad bridge has collapsed, and there is no way to come. He can’t make any other connections to get here in time—in time to do your father any good, Tom. He has just sent me a telegram to that effect. Dr. Hendrix can’t get here, and…” Dr. Gladby paused.

  “Do you mean that my father may die if the operation is not performed?” asked Tom, in a low voice.

  “Yes,” was the answer.

  “But can’t Dr. Hendrix drive here in an auto?” asked the lad. “Surely there must be some way of getting over the river, even if the railroad bridge is down. Can’t he cross in a boat and drive here?”

  “He wouldn’t be in time, Tom. Don’t you understand, Dr. Hendrix must be here within four hours, if he is to save your father’s life. He never could do it by driving or by coming on some other road, or in an auto. He can’t make the proper connections. There is no way.”

  “Yes, there is!” cried Tom, suddenly. “I know a way!”

  “How?” asked Dr. Gladby, thrilled by Tom’s ringing tones. “How can you do it, Tom?”

  “I’ll go for Dr. Hendrix in my Humming-Bird.”

  “Going for him would do no good. He must be brought here.”

  “And so he shall be!” cried Tom. “I’ll bring him here in my sky racer—if he has the nerve to stand the journey, and I think he has! I’ll bring Dr. Hendrix here!” and Tom hurried away to prepare for the thrilling trip.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A NERVY SPECIALIST

  There was little time to lose. Every moment of delay meant so much less chance for the recovery of Mr. Swift. Even now the periods of consciousness were becoming shorter and farther apart. He seemed to be sinking.

  Tom resolutely refused to think of the possibility of death, as he went in to bid his parent good-by before starting off on his trip through the air. Mr. Swift barely knew his son, and, with tears in his eyes, though he bravely tried to keep them back, the young inventor went out into the yard.

  There stood the Humming-Bird, with Mr. Jackson, Mr. Damon and Eradicate working over her, to get her in perfect trim for the race before her—a race with death.

  Fortunately there was little to be done to get the speedy craft ready. Tom had accomplished most of what was necessary, while waiting for word from Dr. Hendrix. Now about all that needed to be done was to see that there was plenty of gasoline and oil in the reservoirs.

  “I’ll give you a note to Dr. Hendrix,” said Mr. Gladby, as Tom was fastening on his faceguard. “I—I trust you won’t be disappointed, Tom. I hope he will consent to return with you.”

  “He’s got to come,” said the young inventor, simply, as if that was all there was to it.

  “Do you think you can make the trip in time?” asked Mr. Damon. “It is a little less than a hundred miles in an airline, but you have to go and go back. Can the aeroplane do it?”

  “I’d be ashamed of her if she couldn’t,” said Tom, with a grim tightening of his lips. “She’s just got to do it; that’s all! But I know she will,” and he patted the big propeller and the motor’s shining cylinders as though the machine was a thing alive, like a horse or a dog, who could understand him.

  He climbed to his seat, the other one holding a bag of sand to maintain a good balance.

  “Start her,” ordered Tom, and Mr. Jackson twisted the propeller. The motor caught at once, and the air throbbed with the noise of the explosions. Tom listened to the tune of the machinery. It sang true.

  “Two thousand pounds thrust!” called the engineer, as he looked at the scale.

  “Let her go!” cried Tom, whose voice was hardly heard above the roar. The trim little aeroplane scudded over the ground, gathering speed at every revolution of the wheels. Then with a spring like that of some great bird launching itself in flight, she left the earth, and took to the air. Tom was off on his trip.

  Those left behind sent up a cautious cheer, for they did not want to disturb Mr. Swift. They waved their hands to the young inventor, and he waved his in reply. Then he settled down for one of the swiftest flights he had ever undertaken.

  Tom ascended until he struck a favorable current of air. There was a little wind blowing in the direction he wished to take, and that aided him. But even against a powerful head-wind the Humming-Bird could make progress.

  The young inventor saw the ground slipping backward beneath him. Carefully he watched the various indicators, and listened intently to the sound of the cylinders’ explosions. They came rapidly and regularly. The motor was working well.

  Tom glanced at the barograph. It registered two thousand feet, and he decided to keep at about that height, as it gave him a good view, and he could see to steer, for a route had been hastily mapped out for him by his friends.

  Over cities, towns, villages, scattered farmhouses; across stretches of forest; over rivers, above big stretches of open country he flew. Often he could see eager crowds below, gazing up at him. But he paid no heed. He was looking for a sight of a certain broad river, which was near Kirkville. Then he knew he would be close to his goal.

  He had speeded up the motor to the limit, and there was nothing to do now, save to manage the planes, wing tips and rudders, and to see that the gasoline and oil were properly fed to the machine.

  Faster and faster went the Humming-Bird, but Tom’s thoughts were even faster. He was thinking of many things—of his father—of what he would do if Mr. Swift died—of the mysterious airship—of the stolen plans—of the fire in the shed—of the great race—and of Andy Foger.

  He took little note of time, and when, in less than an hour he sighted the river that told him he was near to Kirkville, he was rather startled.

  “You certainly did come right along, Humming-Bird!” he murmured proudly.

  He descended several hundred feet, and, as he passed over the town, the people of which grew wildly excited, he looked about for the house of the noted specialist. He knew how to pick it out, for Dr. Gladby had described it to him, and Tom was glad to see, as he came within view of the residence, that it was surrounded by a large yard.

  “I can land almost at his door,” he said, and he did, volplaning to earth with an ease born of long practice.

  To say that Dr. Hendrix was astonished when Tom dropped in on him in this manner, would not be exactly true. The specialist was not in the habit of receiving calls from youths in aeroplanes, but the fact was, that Dr. Hendrix was so absorbed in his work, and thought so constantly about it, that it took a great deal to startle him out of his usual calm.

  “And so you came for me in your aeroplane?” he asked of Tom, as he gazed at the trim little craft. It is doubtful if he really saw it, however, as Dr. Hendrix was just then thinking of an operation he had performed a few hours before. “I’m sorry you had your trip for nothing,” he went on. “I’d like very much to come to your father, but didn’t you get my telegram, telling about the broken bridge? There is no way for me to get to Shopton in time.”

  “Yes, there is!” cried Tom, eagerly.

  “How?”

  “The same way I came—in the aeroplane! Dr. Hendrix you must go back with me! It’s the only way to save my father’s life. Come with me in the Humming-Bird. It’s perfectly safe. I can make the trip in less than an hour. I can carry you and your instruments. Will you come? Won’t you come to save my father’s life?” Tom was fairly pleading now.

  “A trip in an aeroplane,” mused Dr. Hendrix “I’ve never taken such a thing. I—”

  “Don’t be afraid, there’s really no danger,” said Tom.

  The physician seemed to reach a sudden conclusion. His eyes brightened. He walked over and looked at the little Humming-Bird. For the time being he forgot about his operations.

  “I’ll go with you!” he suddenly cried. “I’ll go with you, Tom Swift! If you’ve got the nerve, so have I! and if my science and skill can save your father’s life, he’ll live to be an ol
d man! Wait until I get my bag and I’ll be with you!”

  Tom’s heart gave a bound of hope. CHAPTER TWENTY

  JUST IN TIME

  While Dr. Hendrix was in his office, getting ready to make the thrilling trip through the air with Tom, the young inventor spent a few minutes going over his monoplane. The wonderful little craft had made her first big flight in excellent time, though Tom knew she could do better the farther she was flown. Not a stay had started, not a guy wire was loose. The motor had not overheated, and every bearing was as cool as though it had not taken part in thousands of revolutions.

  “Oh, I can depend on you!” murmured Tom, as he looked to see that the propeller was tight on the shaft. He gave the bearing a slight adjustment to make sure of it.

  He was at this when the specialist reappeared. Dr. Hendrix, after his first show of excitement, when he had made his decision to accompany Tom, had resumed his usual calm demeanor. Once again he was the grave surgeon, with his mind on the case before him.

  “Well, is my auto ready?” he asked absentmindedly. Then, as he saw the little aeroplane, and Tom standing waiting beside it, he added: “Oh, I forgot for the moment that I was to make a trip through the air, instead of in my car. Well, Mr. Swift, are we all ready?”

  “All ready,” replied the young inventor. “We’re going to make fast time, Dr. Hendrix. You’d better put this on,” and Tom extended a face protector.

  “What’s it for?” The physician looked curiously at it.

  “To keep the air from cutting your cheeks and lips. We are going to travel a hundred miles an hour this trip.”

  “A hundred miles an hour!” Dr. Hendrix spoke as though he would like to back out.

  “Maybe more, if I can manage it,” went on Tom, calmly, as he proceeded to remove the bag of sand from the place where the surgeon was to sit. Then he looked to the various equilibrium arrangements and the control levers. He was so cool about it, taking it all for granted, as if rising and flying through the air at a speed rivaling that of the fastest birds, was a matter of no moment, that Dr. Hendrix was impressed by the calm demeanor of the young inventor.

  “Very well,” said the surgeon with a shrug of his shoulders, “I guess I’m game, Tom Swift.”

  The doctor took the seat Tom pointed out to him, with his bag of instruments on his knees. He put on the face protector, and had, at the suggestion of our hero, donned a heavy coat.

  “For it’s cold in the upper regions,” said Tom.

  Several servants in the physician’s household had gathered to see him depart in this novel fashion, and the chauffeur of the auto, in which the specialist usually made his calls, was also there.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” said the chauffeur to the young inventor. “I was at an aviation meet once, and I know how it’s done.”

  “Good,” exclaimed Tom. “Then you can hold the machine, and shove when I give the word.”

  Tom started the propeller himself, and quickly jumped into his seat. The chauffeur held back the Humming-Bird until the young aviator had speeded up the motor.

  “Let go!” cried the youthful inventor, and the man gave the little craft a shove. Across the rather uneven ground of the doctor’s yard it ran, straight for a big iron barrier.

  “Look out! We’ll be into the fence!” shouted the surgeon. “We’ll be killed!” He seemed about to leap off.

  “Sit still!” cried Tom, and at that instant he tilted the elevation planes, and the craft shot upward, going over the fence like a circus horse taking a seven-barred gate.

  “Oh!” exclaimed the physician in a curious voice. They were off on their trip to save the life of Mr. Swift.

  What the sensations of the celebrated specialist were, Tom never learned. If he was afraid, his fright quickly gave place to wonder, and the wonder soon changed to delight as the machine rose higher and higher, acquired more speed, and soared in the air over the country that spread out in all directions from Kirkville.

  “Magnificent! Magnificent!” murmured the doctor, and then Tom knew that the surgeon was in the grip of the air, and was one of the “bird-men.”

  Every moment the Humming-Bird increased her speed. They passed over the river near where men were working on the broken bridge. It was now no barrier to them. Tom, noting the barograph, and seeing that they were twenty-two hundred feet high, decided to keep at about that distance from the earth.

  “How fast are we going?” cried Dr. Hendrix, into the ear of the young inventor.

  “Just a little short of a hundred an hour!” Tom shouted back. “We’ll hit a hundred and five before long.”

  His prediction proved true, and when about forty miles from Shopton that terrific speed had been attained. It seemed as if they were going to have a trip devoid of incident, and Tom was congratulating himself on the quick time made, when he ran into a contrary strata of air. Almost before he knew it the Humming-Bird gave a dangerous and sickening dive, and tilted at a terrifying angle.

  “Are we going to turn turtle?” cried the doctor.

  “I—I hope not!” gasped Tom. He could not understand why the equilibrium weights did not work, but he had no time then to investigate. Quickly he warped the wing tips and brought the craft up on an even keel.

  He gave a sigh of relief as the aeroplane was once more shooting forward, and he was not mistaken when he thought he heard Dr. Hendrix murmur a prayer of thankfulness. Their escape had been a narrow one. Tom’s nerve, and the coolness of the physician, had alone saved them from a fall to death.

  But now, as if ashamed of her prank, the Humming-Bird went along even better than before. Tom was peering through the slight haze that hung over the earth, for a sight of Shopton. At length the spires of the churches came into view.

  “There it is,” he called, pointing downward. “We’ll land in two minutes more.”

  “No time to spare,” murmured the doctor, who knew the serious nature of the aged inventor’s illness. “How long did it take us?”

  “Fifty-one minutes,” replied Tom, glancing at a small clock in front of him. Then he shut off the motor and volplaned to earth, to the no small astonishment of the surgeon. He made a perfect landing in the yard before the shed, leaped from his seat, and called:

  “Come, Dr. Hendrix!”

  The surgeon followed him. Dr. Gladby and Dr. Kurtz came to the door of the house. On their faces were grave looks. They greeted the celebrated surgeon eagerly.

  “Well?” he asked quickly, and they knew what he meant.

  “You are only just in time,” said Dr. Gladby, softly, and Tom, following the doctors into the house, wondered if his trip with the specialist had been in vain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “WILL HE LIVE?”

  Soon there were busy scenes in the Swift home, as preparations were made for a serious operation on the aged inventor. Tom’s father had sunk into deep unconsciousness, and was stretched out on the bed as though there was no more life in him. In fact, Tom, for the moment, feared that it was all over. But good old Dr. Kurtz, noting the look on the lad’s face, said:

  “Ach, Dom, doan’t vorry! Maybe it vill yet all be vell, und der vater vill hear of der great race. Bluck up your courage, und doan’t gif up. Der greatest surgeon in der vorld is here now, und if anybody gan safe your vater, Herr Hendriz gan. Dot vos a great drip you made—a great drip!”

  Tom felt a little comforted and, after a sight of his father, and a silent prayer that God would spare his life for years to come, the young inventor went out in the yard. He wanted to be busy about something, for he knew, with the doctors, and a trained nurse who had been hastily summoned, there was no immediate need for him. He wanted to get his mind off the operation that would soon take place, and so he decided to look over his aeroplane.

  Mr. Damon came out when Tom was going over the guy wires and braces, to see how they had stood the strain.

  “Well, Tom, my lad,” said the eccentric man, sadly, as he grasped our hero’s hand, “it’s too bad
. But hope for the best. I’m sure your father will pull through. We will have to begin taking the Humming-Bird apart soon; won’t we, if we’re going to ship it to Eagle Park?” He wanted to take Tom’s mind off his troubles.

  “I don’t know whether we will or not,” was the answer, and Tom tried to speak unbrokenly, but there was a troublesome lump in his throat, and a mist of tears in his eyes that prevented him from seeing well. The Humming-Bird, to him, looked as if she was in a fog.

  “Nonsense! Of course we will!” cried Mr. Damon. “Why, bless my wishbone! Tom, you don’t mean to say you’re going to let that little shrimp Andy Foger walk away with that ten-thousand-dollar prize without giving him a fight for it; are you?”

  This was just what Tom needed, and it seemed good to have Mr. Damon bless something again, even if it was only a wishbone.

  “No!” exclaimed Tom, in ringing tones. “Andy Foger isn’t going to beat me, and if I find out he is going to race with a machine made after my stolen plans, I’ll make him wish he’d never taken them.”

  “But if the machine he had flying over here when he dropped that bomb on the shed roof, and set fire to it, is the one he’s going to race with, it isn’t like yours,” suggested Mr. Damon, who was glad he had turned the conversation into a more cheerful channel.

  “That’s so,” agreed the young inventor. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see.” He was busy now, going over every detail of the Humming-Bird. Mr. Damon helped him, and they discovered the defect in the equilibrium weights, and remedied it.

  “We can’t afford to have an accident in the race,” said Tom. He glanced toward the house, and wondered if the operation had begun yet. He could see the trained nurse hurrying here and there, Mrs. Baggert helping her.

  Eradicate Sampson shuffled out from the stable where he kept his mule Boomerang. On the face of the honest colored man there was a dejected look.

  “Am Massa Swift any better, Massa Tom?” he asked.

  “We can’t tell yet,” was the answer.

  “Well, if he doan’t git well, den I’m goin’ t’ sell mah mule,” went on the dirt-chaser, from which line of activity Eradicate had derived his name.