The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “Sell Boomerang! Bless my curry comb! what for?” asked Mr. Damon.

  “’Case as how he wouldn’t neber be any good fo’ wuk any mo’,” explained Eradicate. “He’s got so attached t’ dis place, an’ all de folkes on it, dat he’d feel so sorry ef—ef—well, ef any ob ’em went away, dat I couldn’t git no mo’ wuk out ob him, no how. So ef Massa Swift doan’t git well, den I an’ Boomerang parts!”

  “Well, we hope it won’t happen,” said Tom, greatly touched by the simple grief of Eradicate. The young inventor was silent a moment, and then he softly added: “I—I wonder when—when we’ll know?”

  “Soon now, I think,” answered Mr. Damon, in a low voice.

  Silently they waited about the aeroplane. Tom tried to busy himself, but he could not. He kept his eyes fastened on the house.

  It seemed like several hours, but it was not more than one, ere the white-capped nurse came to the door and waved her hand to Tom. He sprang to his feet and rushed forward. What would be the message he was to receive?

  He stood before the nurse, his heart madly beating. She looked gently at him.

  “Will he—will he live?” Tom asked, pantingly.

  “I think so,” she answered gently. “The operation is over. It was a success, so far. Time alone will tell, now. Dr. Hendrix says you can see your father for just a moment.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  OFF TO THE MEET

  Softly Tom tiptoed into the room where his father lay. At the bedside were the three doctors, and the nurse followed the young inventor in. Mrs. Baggert stood in the hall, and near her was Garret Jackson. The aged housekeeper had been weeping, but she smiled at Tom through her tears.

  “I think he’s going to get well,” she whispered. She always looked on the bright side of things. Tom’s heart felt better.

  “You must only speak a few words to him,” cautioned the specialist, who had performed such a rare and delicate operation, near the heart of the invalid. “He is very weak, Tom.”

  Mr. Swift opened his eyes as his son approached. He looked around feebly.

  “Tom—are you there?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, dad,” was the eager answer

  “They tell me you—you made a great trip to get Dr. Hendrix—broken bridge—came through the air with him. Is that right?”

  “Yes, dad. But don’t tire yourself. You must get well and strong.”

  “I will, Tom. But tell me; did you go in—in the Humming-Bird?”

  “Yes, dad.”

  “How did she work?”

  “Fine. Over a hundred, and the motor wasn’t at its best.”

  “That’s good. Then you can go in the big race, and win.”

  “No, I don’t believe I’ll go, dad.”

  “Why not?” Mr. Swift spoke more strongly.

  “I—because—well, I don’t want to.”

  “Nonsense, Tom! I know; it’s on my account. I know it is. But listen to me. I want you to go in! I want you to win that race! Never mind about me. I’m going to get well, and I’ll recover all the more quickly if you win that race. Now promise me you’ll go in it and—and—win!”

  The invalid’s strength was fast leaving him.

  “I—I—-,” began Tom.

  “Promise!” insisted the aged inventor, trying to rise. Dr. Hendrix made a hasty move toward the bed.

  “Promise!” whispered the surgeon to Tom.

  “I—I promise!” exclaimed Tom, and the aged inventor sank back with a smile of satisfaction on his pale face.

  “Now you must go,” said Dr. Gladby to Tom. “He has talked long enough. He must sleep now, and get up his strength.”

  “Will he get better?” asked Tom, anxiously.

  “We can’t say for sure,” was the answer. “We have great hopes.”

  “I don’t want to enter the race unless I know he is going to live,” went on Tom, as Dr. Gladby followed him out of the room.

  “No one can say for a certainty that he will recover,” spoke the physician. “You will have to hope for the best, that is all, Tom. If I were you I’d go in the race. It will occupy your mind, and if you could send good news to your father it might help him in the fight for life he is making.”

  “But suppose—suppose something happens while I am away?” suggested the young inventor.

  The doctor thought for a moment. Then he exclaimed:

  “You have a wireless outfit on your craft; haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can receive messages from here every hour if you wish. Garret Jackson, your engineer, can send them, and you can pick them up in mid-air if need be.”

  “So I can!” cried Tom. “I will go to the meet. I’ll take the Humming-Bird apart at once, and ship it to Eagle Park. Unless Dr. Hendrix wants to go back in it,” he added as an after thought.

  “No,” spoke Dr. Gladby, “Dr. Hendrix is going to remain here for a few days, in case of an emergency. By that time the bridge will have been repaired, and he can go back by train. I gather, from what he said, that though he liked the air trip, he will not care for another one.”

  “Very well,” assented Tom, and Mr. Damon and he were kept busy, packing the Humming-Bird for shipment. Mr. Jackson helped them, and Eradicate and his mule Boomerang were called on occasionally when boxes or crates were to be taken to the railroad station.

  In the meanwhile, Mr. Swift, if he did not improve any, at least held his own. This the doctors said was a sign of hope, and, though Tom was filled with anxiety, he tried to think that fate would be kind to him, and that his father would recover. Dr. Hendrix left, saying there was nothing more he could do, and that the rest depended on the local physicians, and on the nurse.

  “Und ve vill do our duty!” ponderously exclaimed Dr. Kurtz. “You go off to dot bird race, Dom, und doan’t vorry. Ve vill send der with-out-vire messages to you venever dere is anyt’ing to report. Go mit a light heart!”

  How Tom wished he could, but it was out of the question. The last of the parts of the Humming-Bird had been sent away, and our hero forwarded a telegram to Mr. Sharp, of the arrangement committee, stating that he and Mr. Damon would soon follow. Then, having bidden his father a fond farewell, and after arranging with Mr. Jackson to send frequent wireless messages, Tom and the eccentric man left for the meet.

  There was a wireless station at Eagle Park, and Tom had planned to receive the messages from home there until he could set up his own plant. He would have two outfits. One in the big tent where the Humming-Bird was to be put together, and another on the machine itself, so that when in the air, practicing, or even in the great race itself, there would be no break in the news that was to be flashed through space.

  Tom and Mr. Damon arrived at Eagle Park on time, and Tom’s first inquiry was for a message from home. There was one, stating that Mr. Swift was fairly comfortable, and seemed to be doing well. With happiness in his heart, the young inventor then set about getting the parts of his craft from the station to the park, where he and Mr. Damon, with a trusty machinist whom Mr. Sharp had recommended, would assemble it. Tom arranged that in his absence the wireless operator on the grounds would take any message that came for him.

  The Humming-Bird, in the big cases and boxes, had safely arrived, and these were soon in the tent which had been assigned to Tom. It was still several days until the opening of the meet, and the grounds presented a scene of confusion.

  Workmen were putting up grand stands, tents and sheds were being erected, exhibitors were getting their machines in shape, and excited contestants of many nationalities were hurrying to and fro, inquiring about parts delayed in shipment, or worrying lest some of their pet ideas be stolen.

  Tom and Mr. Damon, with Frank Forker, the young machinist, were soon busy in their big tent, which was a combined workshop and living quarters, for Tom had determined to stay right on the ground until the big race was over.

  “I don’t see anything of Andy Foger,” remarked Mr. Damon, on the secon
d day of their residence in the park. “There are lots of new entries arriving, but he doesn’t seem to be on hand.”

  “There’s time enough,” replied Tom. “I am afraid he’s hanging back until the last minute, and will spring his machine so late that I won’t have time to lodge a protest. It would be just like him.”

  “Well, I’ll be on the lookout for him. Have you heard from home today, Tom?”

  “No. I’m expecting a message any minute.” The young inventor glanced toward the wireless apparatus which had been set up in the tent. At that moment there came the peculiar sound which indicated a message coming through space, and down the receiving wires. “There’s something now!” exclaimed Tom, as he hurried over and clamped the telephone receiver to his ear. He listened a moment.

  “Good news!” he exclaimed. “Dad sat up a little today! I guess he’s going to get well!” and he clicked back congratulations to his father and the others in Shopton.

  Another day saw the Humming-Bird almost in shape again, and Tom was preparing for a tryout of the engine.

  Mr. Damon had gone over to the committee headquarters to consult with Mr. Sharp about the steps necessary for Tom to take in case Andy did attempt to enter a craft that infringed on the ideas of the young inventor, and on his way back he saw a newly-erected tent. There was a young man standing in the entrance, at the sight of whom the eccentric man murmured:

  “Bless my skate-strap! His face looks very familiar!”

  The youth disappeared inside the tent suddenly, and, as Mr. Damon came opposite the canvas shelter, he started in surprise.

  For, on a strip of muslin which was across the tent, painted in gay colors, were the words:

  THE FOGER AEROPLANE

  “Bless my elevation rudder!” cried Mr. Damon. “Andy’s here at last! I must tell Tom!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE GREAT RACE

  “Well,” remarked Mr. Sharp, when Tom and Mr. Damon had called on him, to state that Andy Foger’s machine was now on the grounds, and demanding to be allowed to view it, to see if it was an infringement on the one entered by the young inventor, “I’ll do the best I can for you. I’ll lay the case before the committee. It will meet at once, and I’ll let you know what they say.”

  “Understand,” said Tom, “I don’t want to interfere unless I am convinced that Andy is trying an underhand trick. My plans are missing, and I think he took them. If his machine is made after those plans, it is, obviously, a steal, and I want him ruled out of the meet.”

  “And so he shall be!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp. “Get the evidence against him, and we’ll act quickly enough.”

  The committee met in about an hour, and considered the case. Meanwhile, Tom and Mr. Damon strolled past the tent with its flaring sign. There was a man on guard, but Andy was not in sight.

  Then Tom was sent for, and Mr. Sharp told him what conclusion had been arrived at. It was this:

  “Under the rules of the meet,” said the balloonist, “we had to guarantee privacy to all the contestants until such time as they choose to exhibit their machines. That is, they need not bring them out until just before the races,” he added. “This is not a handicap affair, and the speediest machine, or the one that goes to the greatest height, according to which class it enters, will win. In consequence we cannot force any contestant to declare what kind of a machine he will use until he gets ready.

  “Some are going to use the familiar type of biplanes and, as you can see, there is no secret about them. They are trying them out now.” This was so, for several machines of this type were either in the air, circling about, or were being run over the ground.

  “But others,” continued Mr. Sharp, “will not even take the committee into their confidence until just before the race. They want to keep their craft a secret. We can’t compel them to do otherwise. I’m sorry, Tom, but the only thing I see for you to do is to wait until the last minute. Then, if you find Andy has infringed on your machine, lodge a protest—that is unless you can get evidence against him before that time.”

  Tom well knew the uselessness of the latter plan. He and Mr. Damon had tried several times to get a glimpse of the craft Andy had made, but without success. As to the other alternative—that of waiting until the last moment—Tom feared that, too, would be futile.

  “For,” he reasoned, “just before the race there will be a lot of confusion, officials will be here and there, scattered over the ground, they will be hard to find, and it will be almost useless to protest then. Andy will enter the race, and there is a possibility that he may win. Almost any one could with a machine like the Humming-Bird. It’s the machine almost as much as the operator, in a case like this.”

  “But you can protest after the race,” suggested Mr. Damon.

  “That would be little good, in case Andy beat me. The public would say I was a sorehead, and jealous. No, I’ve either got to stop Andy before the race, or not at all. I will try to think of a plan.”

  Tom did think of several, but abandoned them one after the other. He tried to get a glimpse inside the tent where the Foger aeroplane was housed, but it was too closely guarded. Andy himself was not much in evidence, and Tom only had fleeting glimpses of the bully.

  Meanwhile he and Mr. Damon, together with their machinist, were kept busy. As Tom’s craft was fully protected by patents now, he had no hesitation in taking it out, and it was given several severe tests around the aerial course. It did even better than Tom expected of it, and he had great hopes.

  Always, though, there were two things that worried him. One was his father’s illness, and the other the uneasiness he felt as to what Andy Foger might do. As to the former, the wireless reports indicated that Mr. Swift was doing as well as could be expected, but his improvement was not rapid. Regarding the latter worry, Tom saw no way of getting rid of it.

  “I’ve just got to wait, that’s all,” he thought.

  The day before the opening of the meet, Tom and Mr. Damon had given the Humming-Bird a grueling tryout. They had taken her high up—so high that no prying eyes could time them, and there Tom had opened the motor for all the power in it. They had flashed through space at the rate of one hundred and twenty miles an hour.

  “If we can only do that in the race, the ten thousand dollars is mine!” exulted Tom, as he slanted the nose of the aeroplane toward the earth.

  The day of the race dawned clear and beautiful. Tom was up early, for there remained many little things to do to get his craft in final trim for the contest. Then, too, he wanted to be ready to act promptly as soon as Andy’s machine was wheeled out, and he also wanted to get a message from home.

  The wireless arrived soon after breakfast, and did not contain very cheering news.

  “Your father not so well,” Mr. Jackson sent. “Poor night, but doctor thinks day will show improvement. Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry! I wonder who could help it,” mused poor Tom. “Well, I’ll hope for the best,” and he wired back to tell the engineer in Shopton to keep in touch with him, and to flash the messages to the Humming-Bird in the air, after the big race started.

  “Now I’ll go out and see if I can catch a glimpse of what that sneak Andy has to pit against me,” said Tom.

  The Foger tent was tightly closed, and Tom turned back to his own place, having arranged with a messenger to come and let him know as soon as Andy’s craft was wheeled out.

  All about was a scene of great activity. The grand stands were filled, and a big crowd stood about the field anxiously waiting for the first sight of the “bird-men” in their wonderful machines. Now and then the band blared out, and cheers arose as one after another the frail craft were wheeled to the starting place.

  Men in queer leather costumes darted here and there—they were the aviators who were soon to risk life and limb for glory and gold. Most of them were nervously smoking cigarettes. The air was filled with guttural German or nasal French, while now and then the staccato Russian was heard, and occasional
ly the liquid tones of a Japanese. For men of many nations were competing for the prizes.

  The majority of the machines were monoplanes and biplanes though one triplane was entered, and there were several “freaks” as the biplane and monoplane men called them—craft of the helicopter, or the wheel type. There was also one Witzig Liore Dutilleul biplane, with three planes behind.

  Tom was familiar with most of these types, but occasionally he saw a new one that excited his curiosity. However, he was more interested in what Andy Foger would turn out. Andy’s machine had not been tried, and Tom wondered how he dared risk flying in it, without at least a preliminary tryout. But Andy, and those with him, were evidently full of confidence.

  News of the suspicions of Tom, and what he intended to do in case these suspicions proved true, had gotten around, and there was quite a crowd about his own tent, and another throng around that of Andy.

  Tom and Mr. Damon had wheeled the Humming-Bird out of her canvas “nest.”. There was a cheer as the crowd caught sight of the trim little craft. The young inventor, the eccentric man, and the machinist were busy going over every part.

  Meanwhile the meet had been officially opened, and it was announced that the preliminary event would be some air evolutions at no great height, and for no particular prize. Several biplanes and monoplanes took part in this. It was very interesting, but the big ten-thousand-dollar race, over a distance of a hundred miles was the principal feature of the meet, and all waited anxiously for this.

  The opening stunts passed off successfully, save that a German operator in a Bleriot came to grief, crashing down to the ground, wrecking his machine, and breaking an arm. But he only laughed at that, and coolly demanded another cigarette, as he crawled out of the tangle of wires, planes and the motor.

  After this there was an exhibition flight by a French aviator in a Curtis biplane, who raced against one in a Baby Wright. It was a dead heat, according to the judges. Then came a flight for height; and while no records were broken, the crowd was well satisfied.

  “Get ready for the hundred-mile ten-thousand-dollar-prize race!” shouted the announcer, through his megaphone.