The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “We’ll try one more house, and then go back,” agreed Tom. “We’ll tell dad about what’s happened, and see what he says.”

  “Carriage?” repeated an old farmer to whom they next put the question. “Wa’al, now, come t’ think of it, I did see one drivin’ along here early this morning. It had rubber tires on too, for I recollect remarkin’ t’ myself that it didn’t make much noise. Had t’ talk t’ myself,” he added in explanation, “’cause nobody else in the family was up, ’ceptin’ th’ dog.”

  “Did the carriage have some Russians in it?” asked Tom eagerly, “and was one a big bearded man?”

  “Wa’al, now you’ve got me,” admitted the farmer frankly. “It was quite early you see, and I didn’t take no particular notice. I got up early t’ do my milkin’ ’cause I have t’ take it t’ th’ cheese factory. That’s th’ reason nobody was up but me. But I see this carriage comin’ down th’ road, and thinks I t’ myself it was pretty middlin’ early fer anybody t’ be takin’ a pleasure ride. I ’lowed it were a pleasure ride, ’cause it were one of them hacks that folks don’t usually use ’ceptin’ fer a weddin’, or a funeral, an’ it wa’n’t no funeral.”

  “Then you can’t tell us anything more except that it passed?” asked Ned.

  “No, I couldn’t see inside, ’cause it was rather dark at that hour, and then, too, I noticed that they had th’ window shades down.”

  “That’s suspicious!” exclaimed Tom. “I believe they are the fellows we re after,” and, without giving any particulars he said that they were looking for a friend who might have been taken away against his will.

  “Could you tell where they were going?” asked Tom, scarcely hoping to get an affirmative answer.

  “Wa’al, th’ man on th’ seat pulled up when he see me,” spoke the farmer with exasperating slowness, “an’ asked me how far it was t’ th’ Waterville station, an’ I told him.”

  “Why didn’t you say so at first?” asked Tom quickly. “Why didn’t you tell us they were heading for the railroad?”

  “You didn’t ask me,” replied the farmer. “What difference does it make.”

  “Every minute counts!” exclaimed the young inventor. “We want to keep right after those fellows. Maybe the agent can tell us where they bought tickets to, and we can trace them that way.

  “Shouldn’t wonder,” commented the farmer. “There ain’t many trains out from Waterville at that time of day, an’ mighty few passengers. Shouldn’t wonder but Jake Applesauer could put ye on th’ trail.”

  “Much obliged,” called Tom. “Come on, Ned,” and he started back in the direction of the house where the kidnapping had taken place.

  “That ain’t th’ way t’ ’vaterville!” the farmer shouted after them.

  “I know it, we’re going to get our airship,” answered Tom, and then he heard the farmer mutter.

  “Plumb crazy! That’s what they be! Plumb crazy! Going after their airship! Shouldn’t wonder but they was escaped lunatics, and the other fellers was keepers after ’em. Hu! Wa’al, I’ve got my work to do. ’Tain’t none of my affair.”

  “Let him think what he likes,” commented Ned as he and his chum hurried on. “We’re on the trail all right.”

  If Jake Applesauer, the agent at the Waterville station, was surprised at seeing two youths drop down out of an aeroplane, and begin questioning him about some suspicious strangers that had taken the morning train, he did not show it. Jake prided himself on not being surprised at anything, except once when he took a counterfeit dollar in return for a ticket, and had to make it good to the company.

  But, to the despair of Tom and Ned, he could not help them much. He had seen the party, of course. They had driven up in the hack, and one of the men seemed to be sick, or hurt, for his head was done up in bandages, and the others had to half carry him on the train.

  “That was Mr. Petrofsky all right,” declared Ned.

  “Sure,” assented Tom. “They must have hurt and drugged him. But you can’t tell us for what station they bought tickets, Mr. Applesauer?”

  “No, for they didn’t buy any. They must have had ’em, or else they paid on the train. One man drove off in the coach, and that’s all I know.”

  As Tom and Ned started back to Shopton in the aeroplane they discussed what could be done next. A hard task lay before them, and they realized that.

  “They could have gotten off at any station between here and New York, or even changed to another railroad at the junction,” spoke Tom. “It’s going to be a hard job.”

  “Guess we’ll have to get some regular detectives on it,” suggested Ned.

  “And that’s what I’ll do,” declared the young inventor. “They may be able to locate Mr. Petrofsky before those spies take him out of this country. If they don’t—it will be too late. I’m going to talk to dad about it, and if he agrees I’ll hire the best private detectives.”

  Mr. Swift gave his consent when Tom had told the story, and, a day later, one of the best detectives of a well known agency called on Tom in Shopton and assumed charge of the case.

  The early reports from the detective were quite reassuring. He got on the trail of the men who had taken Mr. Petrofsky away, and confirmed the suspicion that they were agents of the Russian police. He trailed them as far as New York, and there the clues came to an end.

  “Whether they are in the big city, which might easily be, or in some of the nearby towns, will take some time to learn,” the detective wrote, and Tom wired back telling him to keep on searching.

  But, as several weeks went by, and no word came, even Tom began to give up hope, though he did not stop work on the air glider, which was nearing completion. And then, most unexpectedly a clue came—a clue from far-off Russia.

  Tom got a letter one day—a letter in a strange hand, the stamp and postmark showing that it had come from the land of the Czar.

  “What do you suppose it contains?” asked Ned, who was with his chum when the communication was received.

  “Haven’t the least idea; but I’ll soon find out.”

  “Maybe it’s from the Russian police, telling you to keep away from Siberia.”

  “Maybe,” answered Tom absently, for he was reading the missive. “I say!” he suddenly cried. “This is great! A clue at last, and from St. Petersburg! Listen to this, Ned!

  “This letter is from the head of one of the secret societies over there, a society that works against the government. It says that Mr. Petrofsky is being detained a prisoner in a lonely hut on the Atlantic sea coast, not far from New York—Sandy Hook the letter says—and here are the very directions how to get there!”

  “No!” cried Ned, in disbelief. “How in the world could anybody in Russia know that.”

  “It tells here,” said Tom. “It’s all explained. As soon as the secret police got Mr. Petrofsky they communicated with the head officials in St. Petersburg. You know nearly everyone is a spy over there, and the letter says that Mr. Petrofsky’s friends there soon heard the news, and even about the exact place where he is being held.”

  “What are they holding him for?” asked Ned.

  “That’s explained, too. It seems they can’t legally take him back until certain papers are received from his former prison in Siberia, and those are now on the way. His friends write to me to hasten and rescue him.”

  “But how did they ever get your address?”

  “That’s easy, though you wouldn’t think so. It seems, so the letter explains, that as soon as Mr. Petrofsky got acquainted with us he wrote to friends in St. Petersburg, giving my address, and telling them, in case anything ever happened to him, to notify us. You see he suspected that something might, after he found he was being shadowed that way.

  “And it all worked out. As soon as his friends heard that he was caught, and learned where he was being held, they wrote to me. Hurrah, Ned! A clue at last! Now to wire the detective—no, hold on, we’ll go there and rescue him ourselves! We’ll go in the airship, and p
ick up Detective Trivett in New York.”

  “That’s the stuff! I’m with you!”

  “Bless my suspender buttons! So am I, whatever it is!” cried Mr. Damon, entering the room at that moment.

  CHAPTER VI

  RESCUING MR. PETROFSKY

  “We ought to be somewhere near the place now, Tom.”

  “I think we are, Ned. But you know I’m not going too close in this airship.”

  “Bless my silk hat!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “I hope we don’t have to walk very far in such a deserted country as this, Tom Swift.”

  “We’ll have to walk a little way, Mr. Damon,” replied the young inventor. “If I go too close to the hut they’ll see the airship, and as those spies probably know that Mr. Petrofsky has been dealing with me, They’d smell a rat at once, and run away, taking him with them, and we’d have all our work to do over again.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Detective Trivett, who was one of the four in the airship that was now hovering over the Atlantic coast, about ten miles below the summer resorts of which Asbury Park was one.

  It was only a few hours after Tom had received the letter from Russia informing him of the whereabouts of the kidnapped Russian, and he had acted at once.

  His father sanctioned the plan of going to the rescue in one of Tom’s several airships and, Mr. Damon, having been on hand, at once agreed to go. Of course Ned went along, and they had picked up the private detective in New York, where he was vainly seeking a clue to the whereabouts of Mr. Petrofsky.

  Now the young inventor and his friends were hovering over the sandy stretch of coast that extends from Sandy Hook down the Atlantic seaboard. They were looking for a small fishing hamlet on the outskirts of which, so the Russian letter stated, was situated the lonely hut in which Mr. Petrofsky was held a prisoner.

  “Do you think you can pick it out from a distance, Tom?” asked Mr. Damon, as the airship floated slowly along. It was not the big one they intended taking on their trip to Siberia, but it was sufficiently large to accommodate the four and leave room for Mr. Petrofsky, should they succeed in rescuing him.

  “I think so,” answered the young inventor.

  In the letter from Russia a comparatively accurate description of the prisoner’s hut had been given, and also some details about his guards. For there is little goes on in political circles in the realm of the Czar that is not known either to the spies of the government or those of the opposition, and the latter had furnished Tom with reliable information.

  “That looks like the place,” said Tom at length, when, after peering steadily through a powerful telescope, during which time Ned steered the ship, the young inventor “picked up” a fishing settlement. “There is the big fish house, spoken of in the letter,” he went on, “and the Russians know a lot about fish. That house makes a good landmark. We’ll go down now, before they have a chance to see us.”

  The others thought this a good idea, and a little later the airship sank to the ground amid a lonely stretch of sand dunes, about two miles from the hamlet on the outskirts of which the prison hut was said to be located.

  “Now,” said Tom, “we’ve got to decide on a plan of campaign. It won’t do for all of us to go to the hut and make the rescue. Some one has got to stay with the airship, to be ready to start it off as soon as we come back with Mr. Petrofsky—if we do come.

  “Then there’s no use in me staying here,” spoke Detective Trivett. “I don’t know enough even to turn on the gasolene.”

  “No, it’s got to be Ned or me,” said the young inventor.

  “I’ll stay,” volunteered Ned quickly, for though he would very much have liked to be in at the rescue, he realized that his place was in the airship, as Mr. Damon was not sufficiently familiar with the machinery to operate it.

  Accordingly, after looking to everything to see that it was in working order, Tom led the advance. It was just getting dusk, and they figured on getting to the hut after dark.

  “Have everything ready for a quick start,” Tom said to Ned, “for we may come back running.”

  “I will,” was the prompt answer, and then, getting their bearings, the little party set off.

  They had to travel over a stretch of sandy waste that ran along the beach. Back in shore were a few scattered cottages, and not yet opened for the summer, and on the ocean side was the pounding surf. The hut, as Tom recalled the directions, lay just beyond a group of stunted hemlock trees that set a little way back from the ocean, on a bluff overlooking the sea. It was not near any other building.

  Slowly, and avoiding going any nearer the other houses than they could help, the little party made its way. They had to depend on their own judgement now, for the minor details of the location of the hut could not be given in the letter from Russia. In fact the spies themselves, in writing to their head officers about the matter, had not described the location in detail.

  “That looks like it over there,” said Tom at last, when they had gone about a mile and a half, and saw a lonely hut with a light burning in it.

  Cautiously they approached and, as they drew nearer, they saw that the light came through the window of a small hut.

  “Looks like the place,” commented the detective.

  “We’ll have a look,” remarked Tom.

  He crept up so he could glance in the window, and no sooner had he peered in, than he motioned for the others to approach.

  Looking under a partly-drawn curtain, Mr. Damon and Mr. Trivett saw the Russian whom they sought. He was seated at a table, his head bowed on his hands, and in the room were three men. A rifle stood in one corner, near one of the guards.

  “They’re taking no chances,” whispered Mr. Damon. “What shall we do, Tom?”

  “It’s three to three,” replied the young inventor. “But if we can get him away without a fight, so much the better. I think I have it. I’ll go up to the door, knock and make quite a racket, and demand admittance in the name of the Czar. That will startle them, and they may all three rush to answer. Mr. Damon, you and the detective will stay by the window. As soon as you see the men rush for the door, smash in the window with a piece of driftwood and call to Mr. Petrofsky to jump out that way. Then you can run with him toward the airship, and I’ll follow. It may work.”

  “I don’t see why it wouldn’t,” declared the detective. “Go ahead, Tom. We’re ready.”

  Looking in once more, to make sure that the guards were not aware of the presence of the rescuing party, Tom went to the front door of the hut. It was a small building, evidently one used by fishermen.

  Tom knocked loudly on the portal, at the same time crying out in a voice that he strove to make as deep and menacing as possible:

  “Open! Open in the name of the Czar!”

  Looking through the window, ready to act on the instant, Mr. Damon and the detective saw the three guards spring to their feet. One remained near Mr. Petrofsky, who also leaped up.

  “Now!” called the detective to his companion. “Smash the window!”

  The next instant a big piece of driftwood crashed through the casement, just as the two men were hurrying to the front door to answer Tom’s summons.

  “Mr. Petrofsky! This way!” yelled Mr. Damon, sticking his head in through the broken sash. “Come out! We’ve come to save you! Bless my putty blower, but this is great! Come on!”

  For a moment the exile stared at the head thrust through the broken window, and he listened to Tom’s emphatic knocks and demands. Then with a cry of delight the Russian sprang for the open casement, while the guard that had remained near him made a leap to catch him, crying out:

  “Betrayed! Betrayed! It’s the Nihilists! Look out, comrades!”

  CHAPTER VII

  THE AIR GLIDER

  Mr. Damon continued to hammer away at the window sash with the piece of driftwood. There were splinters of the frame and jagged pieces of glass sticking out, making it dangerous for the exile to slip through.

  “Come on! Come on!”
the eccentric man continued to call. “Bless my safety valve! We’ll save you! Come on!”

  Mr. Petrofsky was leaping across the room, just ahead of the one guard. The other two were at the open door now, through which Tom could be seen. Then the spies, realizing in an instant that they had been deceived, made a dash after their comrade, who had his hand on the tails of the exile’s coat.

  “Break away! Break loose!” cried Mr. Damon, who, by this time had cleared the window so a person could get through. “Don’t let them hold you!”

  “I don’t intend to!” retorted Mr. Petrofsky, and he swerved suddenly, tearing his coat, from the grasp of the guard.

  In another instant the exile was at the casement, and was being helped through by Mr. Damon, and there was need of it, for the three guards were there now, doing their best to keep their prisoner.

  “Pull away! Pull away!” cried Mr. Damon.

  “We’ll help you!” shouted Tom, who, now that his trick had worked, had sped around to the other side of the hut.

  “Don’t be afraid, we’re with you!” exclaimed the detective, who was with the young inventor.

  “Grab him! Keep him! Hold him!” fairly screamed the rearmost of the three guards. “It is a plot of the Nihilists to rescue him. Shoot him, comrades. He must not get away!”

  “Don’t you try any of your shooting games, or I’ll take a hand in it!” shouted the detective, and, at the same moment he drew his revolver and fired harmlessly in the air.

  “A bomb! A bomb!”, yelled the guards in terror.

  “Not yet, but there may be!” murmured Tom. The firing of the shot produced a good effect, for the three men who were trying to detain Ivan Petrofsky at once fell back from the window and gave him just the chance needed. He scrambled through, with the aid of Mr. Damon, and before the guards could again spring at him, which they did when the echoes of the shot had died away. They had realized, too late, that it was not a bomb, and that there was no immediate danger for them.