The odd man had gotten his quinine gathering business well under way now, and he had some spare time. So, with an interpreter who could be trusted, he went to the native village whence had come nearly all of the ten missing men. But though Mr. Damon found some of their relatives, the latter, with shrugs of their shoulders, declared they had seen nothing of the ones sought.
“And they didn’t seem to worry much, either,” reported Mr. Damon.
“Then we can depend on it,” remarked Tom, “that the men are all right and their relatives know it. There’s some conspiracy here.”
So it seemed. But who was at the bottom of it?
“I can’t figure out where Blakeson & Grinder come in,” said Job Titus. “They would have an object in crippling us, but they seem to be working from the financial end, trying to make us fail there. I haven’t seen any of their sneaking agents around here lately, and as for Waddington he seems to have stayed up North.”
Tom resumed his vigil in the tunnel, poking here and there, but with little success. His week was about up, and he would soon have to resume his character as powder expert, for the debris was nearly all cleaned up, and another blast would have to be fired shortly.
“Well, I’m stumped!” Tom admitted, the day when he was to come on duty for the last time as a pretended foreman. “I’ve hunted all over, and I can’t find any secret passage.”
It was warm in the tunnel, and Tom, having seen one train of the dump cars loaded, sat down to rest on an elevated ledge of rock, where he had made a sort of easy chair for himself, with empty cement bags for cushions.
The heat, his weariness and the monotonous clank-clank of a water pump near by, and the equally monotonous thump of the lumps of rocks in the cars made Tom drowsy. Almost before he knew it he was asleep.
What suddenly awakened him he could not tell. Perhaps it was some influence on the brain cells, as when a vivid dream causes us to start up from slumber, or it may have been a voice. For certainly Tom heard a voice, he declared afterward.
As he roused up he found himself staring at the rocky wall of the tunnel. And yet the wall seemed to have an opening in it and in the opening, as if it were in the frame of a picture, appeared the face Tom had seen at his library the day Job Titus called on him—the face of Waddington!
Tom sat up so quickly that he hit his head sharply on a projecting rock spur, and, for the moment he “saw stars.” And with the appearance of these twinkling points of light the face of Waddington seemed to fade away, as might a vision in a dream.
“Bless my salt mackerel, as Mr. Damon would say!” cried Tom. “What have I discovered?”
He rubbed his head where he had struck it, and then passed his hand before his eyes, to make sure he was awake. But the vision, if vision it was, had vanished, and he saw only the bare rock wall. However, the echo of the voice remained in his ears, and, looking down toward the tunnel floor Tom saw Serato, the Indian foreman.
“Were you speaking to me?” asked Tom, for the man understood and spoke English fairly well.
“No, sar. I not know you there!” and the fore man seemed startled at seeing Tom. Clearly he was in a fright.
“You were speaking!” insisted Tom.
“No, sar!” The man shook his head.
“To some one up there!” went on the young inventor, waving his hand toward the spot where he had seen the face in the rock.
“Me speak to roof? No, sar!” Serato laughed.
Tom did not know what to believe.
“You hear me tell um lazy man to much hurry,” the Indian went on. “Me not know you sleep there, sar!”
“Oh, all right,” Tom said, recollecting that he must keep up his disguise. “Maybe I was dreaming.”
“Yes, sar,” and the foreman hurried on, with a backward glance over his shoulder.
“Now was I dreaming or not?” thought Tom. “I’m going to have a look at that place though, where I saw Waddington’s face. Or did I imagine it?”
He got a long pole and a powerful flash lamp, and when he had a chance, unobserved, he poked around in the vicinity where he had seen the face.
But there was only solid rock.
“It must have been a dream,” Tom concluded. “I’ve been thinking too much about this business. I’ll have to give up. I can’t solve the mystery of the missing men.”
The next day, much disappointed, he resumed his own character as explosive expert, and prepared for another blast. The net result of his watch was that he became suspicious of Serato, and so informed the Titus Brothers.
“Oh, but you’re mistaken,” said Job “We have had him for years, on other contracts in Peru, and we trust him.”
“Well, I don’t,” Tom said, but he had to let it go at that.
Another blast was set off, but it was not very successful.
“The rock seems to be getting harder the farther in we go,” commented Walter Titus. “We’re not up to where we ought to be.”
“I’ll have to look into it,” answered Tom. “I may have to change the powder mixture. Guess I’ll go up the mountain a way, and see if there are any outcroppings of rock there that would give me an idea of what lies underneath.”
Accordingly, while the men in the tunnel were clearing away the rock loosened by the blast, Tom, one day, taking his electric rifle with him, went up the mountain under which the big bore ran.
He located, by computation, the spot beneath which the end of the tunnel then was, and began collecting samples of the outcropping ledge. He wanted to analyze these pieces of stone later. Koku was with him, and, giving the giant a bag of stones to carry, Tom walked on rather idly.
It was a wild and desolate region in which he found himself on the side of the mountain. Beyond him stretched towering and snow-clad peaks, and high in the air were small specks, which he knew to be condors, watching with their eager eyes for their offal food.
As Tom and Koku made their way along the mountain trail they came unexpectedly upon an Indian workman who was gathering herbs and bark, an industry by which many of the natives added to their scanty livelihood. The woman was familiar with the appearance of the white men, and nodded in friendly fashion.
Tom passed on, thinking of many things, when he was suddenly startled by a scream from the woman. It was a scream of such terror and agony that, for the moment, Tom was stunned into inactivity. Then, as he turned, he saw a great condor sweeping down out of the air, the wind fairly whistling through the big, outstretched wings.
“Jove!” ejaculated Tom. “Can the bird be going to attack the woman?”
But this was not the object of the condor. It was aiming to strike, with its fierce talons, at a point some paces distant from where the woman stood, and in the intervals between her screams Tom heard her cry, in her native tongue:
“My baby! My baby! The beast-bird will carry off my baby!”
Then Tom understood. The woman herb-gatherer had brought her infant with her on her quest, and had laid it down on a bed of soft grass while she worked. And it was this infant, wrapped as Tom afterward saw in a piece of deer-skin, at which the condor was aiming.
“Master shoot!” cried Koku, pointing to the down-sweeping bird.
“You bet I’ll shoot!” cried Tom.
Throwing his electric rifle to his shoulder, Tom pressed the switch trigger. The unseen but powerful force shot straight at the condor.
The outstretched wings fell limp, the great body seemed to shrivel up, and, with a crash, the bird fell into the underbrush, breaking the twigs and branches with its weight. The electric rifle, a full account of which was given in the volume entitled “Tom Swift and His Electric Rifle,” had done its work well.
With a scream, in which was mingled a cry of thanks, the woman threw herself on the sleeping child. The condor had fallen dead not three paces from it.
Tom Swift had shot just in time.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE INDIAN STRIKE
Snatching up in her arms the now awakened ch
ild, the woman gazed for a moment into its face, which she covered with kisses. Then the herb-gatherer looked over to the dead, limp body of the great condor, and from thence to Tom.
In another moment the woman had rushed forward, and knelt at the feet of the young inventor. Holding the baby in one arm, in her other hand the woman seized Toms and kissed it fervently, at the same time pouring forth a torrent of impassioned language, of which Tom could only make out a word now and then. But he gathered that the woman was thanking him for having saved the child.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Tom said, rather embarrassed by the hand-kissing. “It was an easy shot.”
An Indian came bursting through the bushes, evidently the woman’s husband by the manner in which she greeted him, and Tom recognized the newcomer as one of the tunnel workers. There was some quick conversation between the husband and wife, in which the latter made all sorts of motions, including in their scope Tom, his rifle, the dead condor and the now smiling baby.
The man took off his hat and approached Tom, genuflecting as he might have done in church.
“She say you save baby from condor,” the man said in his halting English. “She t’ank you—me, I t’ank you. Bird see babe in deer skin—t’ink um dead animal. Maybe so bird carry baby off, drop um on sharp stone, baby smile no more. You have our lives, senor! We do anyt’ing we can for you.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, easily. “I’m glad I happened to be around. I supposed condors only went for things dead, but I reckon, as you say, it mistook the baby in the deer skin for a dead animal. And I guess it might have carried your little one off, or at least lifted it up, and then it might have dropped it far enough to have killed it. It sure is a big bird,” and Tom strolled over to look at what he had bagged.
The condor of the Andes is the largest bird of prey in existence. One in the Bronx Zoo, in New York, with his wings spread out, measured a little short of ten feet from tip to tip. Measure ten feet out on the ground and then imagine a bird with that wing stretch.
This same condor in the park was made angry by a boy throwing a feather boa up into the air outside the cage. The condor raised himself from the ground, and hurled himself against the heavy wire netting so that the whole, big cage shook. And the breeze caused by the flapping wings blew off the hats of several spectators. So powerful was the air force from the condor’s wings that it reminded one of the current caused when standing behind the propellers of an aeroplane in motion. The condor rarely attacks living persons or animals, though it has been known to carry off big sheep when driven by hunger.
It was one of these animals Tom Swift had shot with his electric rifle.
“We do anyt’ing you want,” the man gratefully repeated.
“Well, I’ve got about all I want,” Tom said. “But if you could tell me where those ten missing men are, and how they got out of the tunnel, I’d be obliged to you.”
The woman did not seem to comprehend Tom’s talk, but the man did. He started, and fear seemed to come over him.
“Me—I—I can not tell,” he murmured.
“No, I don’t suppose you can,” said Tom, musingly. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I guess I’ll have to cross it off my books. I’ll never find out.”
Again the Indian and his wife expressed their gratitude, and Tom, after letting the little brown baby cling to his finger, and patting its chubby cheek, went on his way with Koku.
“Well, that was some excitement,” mused Tom, who made little of the shot itself, for the condor was such a mark that he would have had to aim very badly indeed to miss it. And perhaps only the electric rifle could have killed quickly enough to prevent the baby’s being injured in some way by the big bird, even though it was dying.
“Master heap good shot!” exclaimed Koku, admiringly.
The tunnel work went on, though not so well as when Tom’s explosive was first used. The rock was indeed getting harder and was not so easily shattered. Tom made tests of the pieces he had obtained from the outcropping ledge on the mountain where he had shot the condor, and decided to make a change in the powder.
Shipments were regularly received from Shopton, Mr. Swift keeping things in progress there. Mr. Damon’s business was going on satisfactorily, and he lent what aid he could to Tom. As for Professor Bumper he kept on with his search for the lost city of Pelone, but with no success.
The scientist wanted Tom and Mr. Damon to go on another trip with him, this time to a distant sierra, or fertile valley, where it was reported a race of Indians lived, different from others in that region.
“It may be that they are descendants from the Pelonians,” suggested the professor. Tom was too busy to go, but Mr. Damon went. The expedition had all sorts of trouble, losing its way and getting into a swamp from which escape was not easy. Then, too, the strange Indians proved hostile, and the professor and his party could not get nearer than the boundaries of the valley.
“But the difficulties and the hostile attitude of these natives only makes me surer that I am on the right track,” said Mr. Bumper. “I shall try again.”
Tom was busy over a problem in explosives one day when he saw Tim Sullivan hurrying into the office of the two brothers. The Irishman seemed excited.
“I hope there hasn’t been another premature blast,” mused Tom. “But if there had been I think I’d have heard it.”
He hastened out to see Job and Walter Titus in excited conversation with Tim.
“They didn’t come out, an’ thot’s all there is to it,” the foreman was saying. “I sint thim in mesilf, and they worked until it was time t’ set off th’ blast. I wint t’ get th’ fuse, an’ I was goin’ t’ send th’ black imps out of danger, whin—whist—they was gone whin I got back—fifteen of ’em this time!”
“Do you mean that fifteen more of our men have vanished as the first ten did?” asked Job Titus.
“That’s what I mean,” asserted the Irishman.
“It can’t be!” declared Walter.
“Look for yersilf!” returned Tim. “They’re not in th’ tunnel!”
“And they didn’t come out?”
“Ask th’ time-keeper,” and Tim motioned to a young Englishman who, since the other disappearance, had been stationed at the mouth of the tunnel to keep a record of who went in and came out.
“No, sir! Nobody kime hout, sir!” the Englishman declared. “Hi ’aven’t been away frim ’ere, sir, not since hi wint on duty, sir. An’ no one kime out, no, sir!”
“We’ve got to stop this!” declared Job Titus.
“I should say so!” agreed his brother.
With Tom and Tim the Titus brothers went into the tunnel. It was deserted, and not a trace of the men could be found. Their tools were where they had been dropped, but of the men not a sign.
“There must be some secret way out,” declared Tom.
“Then we’ll find it,” asserted the brothers.
Work on the tunnel was stopped for a day, and, keeping out all natives, the contractors, with Tom and such white men as they had in their employ, went over every foot of roof, sides and floor in the big shaft. But not a crack or fissure, large enough to permit the passage of a child, much less a man, could be found.
“Well, I give up!” cried Walter Titus in despair. “There must be witchcraft at work here!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed his brother. “It’s more likely the craft of Blakeson & Grinder, with Waddington helping them.”
“Well, if a human agency made these twenty-five men disappear, prove it!” insisted Walter.
His brother did not know what to say.
“Well, go on with the work,” was Job’s final conclusion. “We’ll have one of the white men constantly in the tunnel after this whenever a gang is working. We won’t leave the natives alone even long enough to go to get a fuse. They’ll be under constant supervision.”
The tunnel was opened for work, but there were no workers. The morning after the investigation, when the starting whistle blew there was no l
ine of Indians ready to file into the big, black hole. The huts where they slept were deserted. A strange silence brooded over the tunnel camp.
“Where are the men, Serato?” asked Tom of the Indian foreman.
“Men um gone. No work any more. What you call a hit.”
“You mean a strike?” asked Tom.
“Sure—strike—hit—all um same. No more work—um ’fraid!”
CHAPTER XIX
A WOMAN TELLS
“Well, if this isn’t the limit!” cried Torn Swift. “As if we didn’t have trouble enough without a strike on our hands!”
“I should say yes!” chimed in Job Titus.
“Do you mean that the men won’t work any more?” asked his brother of the native foreman.
“Sure, no more work—um much ’fraid big devil in tunnel carry um off an’ eat um.”
“Well, I don’t know that I blame ’em for being a bit frightened,” commented Job. “It is a queer proceeding how twenty-five men can disappear like that. Where have the men gone, Serato?”
“Gone home. No more work. Go on hit—strike—same like white men.”
“They waited until pay day to go on strike,” commented the bookkeeper, a youth about Tom’s age.
This was true. The men had been paid off the day before, and usually on such occasions many of them remained away, celebrating in the nearest village. But this time all had left, and evidently did not intend to come back.
“We’ll have to get a new gang,” said Job. “And it’s going to delay us just at the wrong time. Well, there’s no help for it. Get busy, Serato. You and Tim go and see how many men you can gather. Tell them we’ll give them a sol a week more if they do good work. (A sol is the standard silver coin of Peru, and is worth in United States gold about fifty cents.)
“Half a dollar a day more will look mighty big to them,” went on the contractor. “Get the men, Serato, and we’ll raise your wages two sols a week.”
The eyes of the Indian gleamed, and he went off, saying.
“Um try, but men much ’fraid.”
Whether Serato used his best arguments could not, of course, be learned, but he came back at the close of the day, unaccompanied by any workers, and he shook his head despondently.
The Tom Swift Megapack Page 240
