The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “But bless my fountain pen!” cried Mr. Damon, when Tom objected to so much notoriety. “You did it all; didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I know. But these people won’t believe it.”

  “Oh, yes they will!” said the odd man. “I’ll take good care that they believe it.”

  “If any one say it not so, you tell me!” broke Koku, shaking his huge fist.

  “No, I guess I’d better keep still,” said Tom, with a laugh.

  The weather was pleasant, if we except a shower or two, and as the vessel proceeded south, tropical clothing became the order of the day, while all who could, spent most of their time on deck under the shade of awnings.

  “Did you ever hear anything more of that fellow, Waddington?” asked Tom of Mr. Titus one day.

  “Not a thing. He seems to have dropped out of sight.”

  “And are your rivals, Blakeson & Grinder, making any trouble?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of. Though just what the situation may be down in Peru I don’t know. I fancy everything isn’t going just right or my brother would not be so anxious for me to come on in such a hurry.”

  “Do you anticipate any real trouble?”

  Mr. Titus paused a moment before answering.

  “Well, yes,” he said, finally, “I do!”

  “What sort?” asked Tom.

  “That I can’t say. I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Tom. You know I told you at the time that we were in for difficulties. I didn’t want you to go into this thing blindly.”

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of trouble,” Tom hastened to assure his friend. “I’ve had more or less of it in my life, and I’m willing to meet it again. Only I like to know what kind it is.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you—exactly,” went an the tunnel contractor. “Those rivals of ours, Blakeson & Grinder, are unscrupulous fellows. They feel very bitter about not getting the contract, I hear. And they would be only too glad to have us fail in the work. That would mean that they, as the next lowest bidders, would be given the job. And we would have to make up the difference out of our pockets, as well as lose all the work we have, so far, put on the tunnel.”

  “And you don’t want that to happen!”

  “I guess not, my boy! Well, it won’t happen if we get there in time with this new explosive of yours. That will do the business I’m sure.”

  “I hope so,” murmured Tom. “Well, we’ll soon see. And now I think I’ll go and write a few letters. We are going to put in at Panama, and I can mail them there.”

  Tom started for his stateroom, and rapidly put his hand in the inner pocket of his coat. He drew out a bundle of letters and papers, and, as he looked at them, a cry of astonishment came from his lips.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Titus.

  “Matter!” cried Tom. “Why here’s a letter from Mary—from Mr. Nestor,” he went on, as he scanned the familiar handwriting. “I never opened it! Let’s see—when did I get that?”

  His memory went back to the day of his departure from Shopton when he had sent Mary the gift, and he recalled that the letter had arrived just as he was getting into the automobile.

  “I stuck it in my pocket with some other mail,” he mused, “and I never thought of it again until just now. But this is the first time I’ve worn this coat since that day. A letter from Mr. Nestor! Probably Mary wrote, thanking me for the box, and her father addressed the envelope for her. Well, let’s see what it says.”

  Tom retired to the privacy of his stateroom to read the note, but he had not glanced over more than the first half of it before he cried out:

  “Dynamite! Great Scott! What does this mean? ‘Gross carelessness! Poor idea of a joke! No person with your idea of responsibility will ever be my son-in-law!’ Box labeled ‘open with care!’ Why—why—what does it all mean?”

  Tom read the letter over again, and his murmurs of astonishment were so loud that Mr. Damon, in the next room, called out:

  “What’s the matter, Tom? Get bad news?”

  “Bad news? I should say so! Mary—her father—he forbids me to see her again. Says I tried to dynamite them all—or at least scare them into believing I was going to. I can’t understand it!”

  “Tell me about it, Tom,” suggested Mr. Damon, coming into Tom’s stateroom. “Bless my gunpowder keg! what does it mean?”

  Thereupon Tom told of having purchased the gift for Mary, and of having, at the last minute, told Eradicate to put it in a box and deliver it at the Nestor home.

  “Which he evidently did,” Tom went on, “but when it got there Mary’s present was in a box labeled ‘Dynamite. Handle with care.’ I never sent that.”

  Mr. Damon read over Mr. Nestor’s letter which had lain so long in Tom’s pocket unopened.

  “I think I see how it happened,” said the old man. “Eradicate can’t read; can he, Tom?”

  “No, but he pretends he can.”

  “And did you have any empty boxes marked dynamite in your laboratory?”

  “Why yes, I believe I did. I used dynamite as one of the ingredients of my new explosive.”

  “Well then, it’s as clear as daylight. Eradicate, being unable to read, took one of the empty dynamite boxes in which to pack Mary’s present. That’s how it happened.”

  Tom thought for a moment. Then he burst into a laugh.

  “That’s it,” he said, a bit ruefully. “That’s the explanation. No wonder Mr. Nestor was roiled. He thought I was playing a joke. I’ll have to explain. But how?”

  “By letter,” said Mr. Damon.

  “Too slow. I’ll send a wireless,” decided Tom, and he began the composition of a message that cost him considerable in tolls before he had hit on the explanation that suited him.

  “That ought to clear the atmosphere,” he said when the wireless had shot his message into the ether. “Whew! And to think, all this while, Mary and her folks have believed that I tried to play a miserable joke on them! My! My! I wonder if they’ll ever forgive me. When I get hold of Eradicate—”

  “Better teach him to read if he’s going to do up love packages,” interrupted Mr. Damon, dryly.

  “I will,” decided the young inventor.

  The Bellaconda stopped at Panama and then kept on her way south. Soon after that she ran into a severe tropical storm, and for a time there was some excitement among the passengers. The more timid of them put on life preservers, though the captain and his officers assured them there was no danger.

  Tom and Mr. Titus, descending from the deck, whence they had been warned by one of the mates, were on their way to their stateroom, walking with some difficulty owing to the roll of the ship.

  As they approached their quarters the door of a stateroom farther up the passage opened, and a head was thrust out.

  “Will you send a steward to me?” a man requested. “I am feeling very ill, and need assistance.”

  “Certainly,” Tom answered, and at that moment he heard Mr. Titus utter an exclamation.

  “What is it?” asked Tom, for the man who had appealed for help, had withdrawn his head.

  “That—that man!” exclaimed the contractor. “That was Waddington, the tool of our rivals.”

  “Waddington!” repeated Tom, with a look at the now closed door. “Why, the bearded man has that stateroom—the bearded man who so nearly lost the steamer. He isn’t Waddington!”

  “And I tell you Waddington is in that room!” insisted the contractor. “I only saw the upper part of his face, but I’d know his eyes anywhere. Waddington is spying on us!”

  CHAPTER IX

  THE BOMB

  Tom Swift and Mr. Titus withdrew a little way down the corridor, around a bulkhead and out of sight of any one who might look out from the stateroom whence had come the appeal for help. But, at the same time, they could keep watch over it.

  “I tell you Waddington is in there!” insisted Mr. Titus, hoarsely whispering.

  “Well, perhaps he may be,” admitted Tom. “But several times I h
ave seen the bearded man going in there, and it’s only a single stateroom, for it’s so marked on the deck plan.”

  “Waddington might be disguised with a false beard, Tom.”

  “Yes, he might. But did the man who just now looked out have a beard?”

  “I couldn’t tell, as I saw only the upper part of his face. But those were Waddington’s shifty eyes, I’m positive.”

  “If Waddington were on board don’t you suppose you would have seen him before this?”

  “Not positively, no. If he and the bearded man are one and the same that would account for it. But I haven’t noticed the bearded man once since he came aboard in such a hurry.”

  “Nor have I, now that I come to think of it,” Tom admitted. “However, there is an easy way to prove who is in there.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll knock on the door and go in.”

  “Perhaps he won’t let us.”

  “He’ll think it’s the steward he called for. Come, you know Waddington better than I do. You knock and go in.”

  “I don’t know Waddington very well,” admitted the contractor. “I have only seen him a few times, but I am sure that was he. But what shall I do when he sees I’m not the steward?”

  “Tell him you have sent for one. I’ll go with the message, so it will be true enough. Even if you have only a momentary glance at him in close quarters you ought to be able to tell whether or not he has on a false beard, and whether or not it is Waddington.”

  Mr. Titus considered for a moment, and then he said:

  “Yes, I guess that is a good plan. You go for the steward, Tom, and I’ll see if I can get in that stateroom. But I’m sure I’m not mistaken. I’ll find Waddington in there, perhaps in the person of the bearded man, disguised. Or else they are using a single stateroom as a double one.” And while Tom went off down the pitching and rolling corridor to find a steward, Mr. Titus, not without some apprehension, advanced to knock on the door of the suspect.

  “If it is Waddington he’ll know me at once, of course,” thought the contractor, “and there may be a row. Well, I can’t help it. The success of my brother and myself depends on finishing that tunnel, and we can’t have Waddington, and those whose tool he is, interfering. Here goes!”

  He tapped on the door, and a faint voice called:

  “Come in!”

  The contractor entered, and saw the bearded man lying in his berth.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” asked the contractor, bending close over the man. He wanted to see if the beard were false. Somewhat to his surprise the contractor saw that undoubtedly it was real.

  “Steward, will you kindly get me—Oh, you’re not the steward!” the bearded man exclaimed.

  “No, my friend and I heard you call,” replied the contractor. “He has gone for the steward, who will be here soon. Can I do anything for you in the meanwhile?”

  “No—not a thing!” was the rather snappish answer, and the man turned his face away. “I beg your pardon,” he went on, as if conscious that he had acted rudely, “but I am suffering very much. The steward knows just what I want. I have had these attacks before. I am a poor sailor. If you will send the steward to me I will be obliged to you. He can fix me up.”

  “Very well,” assented Mr. Titus. “But if there is anything I can do—”

  At that moment footsteps and voices were heard in the corridor, and as the door of the bearded man’s stateroom was opened, Mr. Titus had a glimpse of Tom and one of the stewards.

  “Yes, I’ll look after him,” the steward said “He’s been this way before. Thank you, sir, for calling me.”

  “I guess the steward has been well tipped,” thought Tom. As Mr. Titus came out and the door was shut, the young inventor asked in a whisper,

  “Well, was it he?”

  The contractor shook his head.

  “No,” he answered. “I never was more surprised in my life. I felt sure it was Waddington in there, but it wasn’t. That man’s beard is real, and while he has a look like Waddington about the eyes and upper part of his face, the man is a stranger to me. That is I think so, but in spite of all that, I have a queer feeling that I have met him before.”

  “Where?” Tom inquired.

  “That I can’t say,” and the tunnel contractor shook his head. “Whew! That was a bad one!” he exclaimed, as the steamer pitched and tossed in an alarming manner.

  “Yes, the storm seems to be getting worse instead of better,” agreed Tom. “I hope none of the cargo shifts and comes banging up against my new explosive. If it does, there’ll be no more tunnel digging for any of us.”

  “Better not mention the fact of the explosives on board,” suggested Mr. Titus.

  “I won’t,” promised Tom. “The passengers are frightened enough as it is. But I watched the powder being stored away. I guess it is safe.”

  The storm raged for two days before it began to die away. Meanwhile, nothing was seen, on deck or in the dining cabins, of the bearded man.

  Tom and Mr. Titus made some guarded inquiries of the steward who had attended the sick man, and from him learned that he was down on the passenger list as Senor Pinto, from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He was traveling in the interests of a large firm of coffee importers of the United States, and was going to Lima.

  “And there’s no trace of Waddington?” asked Tom of Mr. Titus, as they were discussing matters in their stateroom one day.

  “Not a trace. He seems to have dropped out of sight, and I’m glad of it.”

  “Perhaps Blakeson & Grinder have given up the fight against you.”

  “I wish they had, though I don’t look for any such good luck. But I’m willing to fight them, now that we have an even chance, thanks to your explosive.”

  The storm blew itself out. The Bellaconda “crossed the line,” and there was the usual horseplay among the sailors when Father Neptune came aboard to hold court. Those who had never before been below the equator were made to undergo more or less of an initiation, being lathered and shaved, and then pushed backward into a canvas tank of water on deck.

  While Tom enjoyed the voyage, with the possible exception of the storm, he was anxious, and so was Mr. Titus, for the time to come when they should get to the tunnel and try the effect of the new explosive. Mr. Damon found an elderly gentleman as fond of playing chess as was the eccentric man himself, and his days were fully occupied with castles, pawns, knights, kings, queens and so on. As for Koku he was taken in charge by the sailors and found life forward very agreeable.

  Senor Pinto had recovered from his seasickness, the steward told Tom and Mr. Titus, but still he kept to his stateroom.

  It was when the Bellaconda was within a day or two of Callao that a wireless message was received for Mr. Titus. It was from his brother. The message read:

  “Have information from New York office that rivals are after you. Look out for explosive.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Tom.

  “Well, I presume it means our rival contractors know we have a supply of your new powder on board, and they may try to get it away from us.”

  “Why?” Tom demanded.

  “To prevent our using it to complete the tunnel. In that case they’ll get the secret of it to use for themselves, when the contract goes to them by default. Can we do anything to protect the powder, Tom?”

  “Well, I don’t know that we’ll need to while it’s stowed away in the cargo. They can’t get at it any more than we can, until the ship unloads. I guess it’s safe enough. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open when it’s taken out of the hold, though.”

  Tom and Mr. Titus, both of whom were fond of fresh air and exercise, had made it a practice to get up an hour before breakfast and take a constitutional about the steamer deck. They did this as usual the morning after the wireless warning was received, and they were standing near the port rail, talking about this, when they heard a thud on the deck behind them. Both turned quickly, and saw a round black object ro
lling toward them. From the object projected what seemed to be a black cord, and the end of this cord was glowing and smoking.

  For a moment neither Tom nor Mr. Titus spoke. Then, as a slow motion of the ship rolled the round black thing toward Tom, he cried:

  “It a bomb!”

  He darted toward it, but Mr. Titus pulled him back.

  “Run!” yelled the contractor.

  Before either of them could do anything, a queer figure of an elderly gentleman stepped partly from behind a deck-house, and stooped over the smoking object.

  “Look out!” yelled Mr. Titus, crouching low. “That’s an explosive bomb! Toss it overboard!”

  CHAPTER X

  PROFESSOR BUMPER

  Fairly fascinated by the spluttering fuse, neither Tom nor Mr. Titus moved for a second, while the deadly fire crept on through the black string-like affair, nearer and nearer to the bomb itself.

  Then, just as Tom, holding back his natural fear, was about to thrust the thing overboard with his foot, hardly realizing that it might be even more deadly to the ship in the water than it was on the deck, the foot of the newcomer was suddenly thrust out from behind the deck-house, and the sizzling fuse was trodden upon.

  It went out in a puff of smoke, but the owner of the foot was not satisfied with that for a hand reached down, lifted the bomb, the fuse of which still showed a smouldering spark of fire, and calmly pulled out the “tail” of the explosive. It was harmless then, for the fuse, with a trail of smoke following, was tossed into the sea, and the little man came out from behind the deck-house, holding the unexploded bomb.

  For a moment neither Tom nor Mr. Titus could speak. They felt an inexpressible sense of relief. Then Tom managed to gasp out:

  “You—you saved our lives!”

  The little man who had stepped on the fuse, and had then torn it from the bomb, looked at the object in his hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world to pick explosives up off the deck of passenger steamers, as he remarked:

  “Well, perhaps I did. Yes, I think it would have gone off in another second or two. Rather curious; isn’t it?”