The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “I get your statement, Mr. Bartholomew,” said Mr. Swift. “But it is merely a statement as yet.”

  “Sure. Now I will give you the particulars. We are using the Jandel locomotives on our electrified stretch of road. You know that patent?”

  “I know something about it, Mr. Bartholomew,” said the younger inventor. “I have felt some interest in the electric locomotive, though I have done nothing practical in the matter. But I know the Jandel patent.”

  “It is about the best there is—and the most recent; but it does not fill the bill. Not for the H. & P. A., anyway,” said Mr. Bartholomew, shortly.

  “What does it lack?” asked Mr. Swift.

  “Speed. It’s got the power for heavy hauls. It could handle the freight through the Pas Alos Range. But it would slow up our traffic so that the shippers would at once turn to the Hendrickton & Western. You understand that their rails do not begin to engage the grades that our engineers thought necessary when the old H. & P. A. was built.”

  “I get that,” said Tom briskly. “You have come here, then, to interest us in the development of a faster but quite as powerful type of electric locomotive as the Jandel.”

  “Stated to the line!” exclaimed Mr. Bartholomew, smiting the arm of his chair with his clenched fist. “That is it, young man. You get me exactly. And now I will go on to put my proposition to you.”

  “Do so, Mr. Bartholomew,” murmured the old inventor, quite as much interested as his son.

  “I want you to make a study of electric motive power as applied to track locomotives, with the idea of utilizing our power plants and others like them, and even with the possibility in mind of the continued use of the Jandel locomotives on our more level stretches of road.

  “But I want your investigation to result in the building of locomotives that will make a speed of two miles a minute, or as near that as possible, on level rails, and be powerful enough to snake our heavy freight trains through the hills and over the steep grades so rapidly that even two engines, a pusher and a hauler, cannot beat the electric power.”

  “Some job, that, I’ll say,” murmured Tom Swift.

  “Exactly. Some job. And it is the only thing that will save the H. & P. A.,” said Mr. Bartholomew decidedly. “I put it up to you Swifts. I have heard of some of your marvelous inventions. Here is something that is already invented. But it needs development.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Swift, and nodded.

  “It interests me,” admitted Tom. “As I say, I have given some thought to the electric locomotive.”

  “This is the age of speed,” said Mr. Bartholomew earnestly. “Rapidity in handling freight and kindred things will be the salvation, and the only salvation, of many railroads. Tapping a rich territory is not enough. The road that can offer the quickest and cheapest service is the road that is going to keep out of a receivership. Believe me, I know!”

  “You should,” said Mr. Swift mildly. “Your experience should have taught you a great deal about the railroad business.”

  “It has. But that knowledge is worth just nothing at all without swift power and cheap traffic. Those are the problems today. Now, I am going to take a chance. If it doesn’t work, my road is dished in any case. So I feel that the desperate chance is the only chance.”

  “What is that?” asked Tom Swift, sitting forward in his chair. “I, for one, feel so much interested that I will do anything in reason to find the answer to your traffic problem.”

  “That’s the boy!” ejaculated Richard Bartholomew. “I will give it to you in a few words. If you will experiment with the electric locomotive idea, to develop speed and power over and above the Jandel patent, and will give me the first call on the use of any patents you may contrive, I will put up twenty-five thousand dollars in cash which shall be yours whether I can make use of a thing you invent or not.”

  “Any time limit in this agreement, Mr. Bartholomew?” asked Tom, making a few notes on a scratch pad before him on the library table.

  “What do you say to three months?”

  “Make it six, if you can,” Tom said with continued briskness. “It interests me. I’ll do my best. And I want you to get your money’s worth.”

  “All right. Make it six,” said Mr. Bartholomew. “But the quicker you dig something up, the better for me. Now, that is the first part of my proposition.”

  “All right, sir. And the second?”

  “If you succeed in showing me that you can build and operate an electric locomotive that will speed two miles a minute on a level track and will get a heavy drag over the mountain grades, as I said, as surely as two engines of the coal-burning or oil-burning type, I will pay you a hundred thousand dollars bonus, besides buying all the engines you can build of this new type for the first two years. I’ve got to have first call; but the hundred thousand will be yours free and clear, and the price of the locomotives you build can be adjusted by any court of agreement that you may suggest.”

  Tom Swift’s face glowed. He realized that this offer was not only generous, but that it made it worth his while dropping everything else he had in hand and devoting his entire time and thought for even six months to the proposition of developing the electric locomotive.

  He looked at his father and nodded. Mr. Swift said, calmly:

  “We take you on that offer, Mr. Bartholomew. Tom has the facts on paper, and we will hand it to Mr. Newton, our financial manager, in the morning. If you will remain in town for twenty-four hours, the contract can be signed.”

  “Suits me,” declared. Richard Bartholomew, rising quickly from his chair. “I confess I hoped you would take me up quite as promptly as you have. I want to get back West again.

  “We will see you in the office of the company at two o’clock tomorrow,” said Tom Swift confidently.

  “Better than good! And now, if that trailer that I am pretty sure Montagne Lewis sent after me does not get wise to the subject of our talk, it may be a slick job we have done and will do. I admit I am rather afraid of the enemy. You Swifts must keep your plans in utter darkness.”

  After a little talk on more ordinary affairs, Mr. Bartholomew took his departure. It was getting late in the evening, and Tom Swift had an engagement. While old Rad, their colored servant, was helping him on with his coat preparatory to Tom’s leaving the house, his father called from the library:

  “Got those notes in a safe place, Tom?”

  “Safest in the world, Dad,” his son replied. But he did not go into details. Tom considered the “safest place in the world” just then was his own wallet, which was tucked into an inside pocket of his vest “I’m going to see Mary Nestor, Father,” said Tom, as he went to the front door and opened it.

  He halted a moment with the knob of the door in his hand. The porch was deep in shadows, but he thought he had seen something move there.

  “That you, Koku?” asked Tom in an ordinary voice. Sometimes his gigantic servant wandered about the house at night. He was a strange person, and he had a good many thoughts in his savage brain that even his young master did not understand.

  There was no reply to Tom’s question, so he walked down the steps and out at the gate. It was not a long distance to the Nestor house, and the air was brisk and keen, in spite of the fact that threatening clouds masked the stars.

  Two blocks from the house he came to a high wall which separated the street from the grounds of an old dwelling. Tom suddenly noticed that the usual street lights on this block had been extinguished—blown out by the wind, perhaps.

  Involuntarily he quickened his steps. He reached the archway in the wall. Here was the gate dividing the private grounds from the street. As he strode into the shadow of this place a voice suddenly halted Tom Swift.

  “Hands up! Put ’em up and don’t be slow about it!” A bulky figure loomed in the dark. Tom saw the highwayman’s club poised threateningly over his head.

  CHAPTER II

  TROUBLE STARTS

  The fact that he was stopped by
a footpad smote Tom Swift’s mind as not a particularly surprising adventure. He had heard that several of that gentry had been plying their trade about the outskirts of the town. To a degree he was prepared for this sudden event.

  Then there flashed into Tom’s mind the thought of what Mr. Richard Bartholomew had said regarding the spy he believed had followed him from the West. Could it be possible that some hired thug sent by Montagne Lewis and his crooked crowd of financiers considered that Tom Swift had obtained information from the president of the H. & P. A. that might do his employers signal service?

  Tom Swift had fallen in with many adventures—and some quite thrilling ones—since, as a youth, he was first introduced to the reader in the initial volume of this series, entitled “Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle.” His first experiences as an inventor, coached by his father, who had spent his life in the experimental laboratory and workshop, was made possible by his purchase from Mr. Wakefield Damon, now one of his closest friends, of a broken-down motor cycle.

  Through a series of inventions, some of them of a marvelous kind, Tom Swift, aided by his father, had forged ahead, building motor boats, airships, submarines, monoplanes, motion picture cameras, searchlights, cannons, photo-telephones, war tanks. Of late, as related in “Tom Swift Among the Fire Fighters,” he had engaged in the invention of an explosive bomb carrying flame-quenching chemicals that would, in time, revolutionize fire-fighting in tall buildings.

  The matter that Mr. Richard Bartholomew, the railroad magnate, had brought to Tom’s and his father’s attention had deeply interested the young inventor. Thought of the electric locomotive, the development of which the railroad president stated was the only salvation of the finances of the H. & P. A., had so held Tom’s attention as he walked along the street that being stopped in this sudden way was even more startling than such an incident might ordinarily have been.

  Tom was a muscular young fellow; but a club held over one’s head by a burly thug would have shaken the courage of anybody. Dark as it was under the archway the young fellow saw that the bulk of the man was much greater than his own.

  “That’s right, sonny,” said the stranger, in a sneering tone. “You got just the right idea. When I say ‘Stick ’em up’ I mean it. Never take a chance. Ah—ah!”

  The fellow ripped open Tom’s overcoat, almost tearing the buttons off. Another masterful jerk and his victim’s jacket was likewise parted widely. He did not lower the club for an instant. He thrust his left hand into the V-shaped parting of the young fellow’s vest.

  It was then that Tom was convinced of what the fellow was after. He remembered the notes he had made regarding the contract that was to be signed on the morrow between the Swift Construction Company and President Richard Bartholomew of the H. & P. A. Railroad. He remembered, too, the figure he thought he had seen in the dark porch of the house as he so recently left it.

  Mr. Bartholomew had considered it very possible that he was being spied upon. This was one of the spies—a Westerner, as his speech betrayed. But Tom was suddenly less fearful than he had been when first attacked.

  It did not seem possible to him that Mr. Bartholomew’s enemies would allow their henchman to go too far to obtain information of the railroad president’s intentions. This fellow was merely attempting to frighten him.

  A sense of relief came to Tom Swift’s assistance. He opened his lips to speak and could the thug have seen his face more clearly in the dark he would have been aware of the fact that the young inventor smiled.

  The fellow’s groping hand entered between Tom’s vest and his shirt. The coarse fingers seized upon Tom’s wallet. Nobody likes to be robbed, no matter whether the loss is great or small. There was not much money in the wallet, nor anything that could be turned into money by a thief.

  These facts enabled Tom, perhaps, to bear his loss with some fortitude. The highwayman drew forth the wallet and thrust it into his own coat pocket. He made no attempt to take anything else from the young inventor.

  “Now, beat it!” commanded the fellow. “Don’t look back and don’t run or holler. Just keep moving—in the way you were headed before. Vamoose.”

  More than ever was Tom assured that the man was from the West. His speech savored of Mexican phrases and slang terms used mainly by Western citizens. And his abrupt and masterly manner and speech aided in this supposition. Tom Swift stayed not to utter a word. It was true he was not so frightened as he had at first been. But he was quite sure that this man was no person to contend with under present conditions.

  He strode away along the sidewalk toward the far corner of the wall that surrounded this estate. Shopton had not many of such important dwellings as this behind the wall. Its residential section was made up for the most part of mechanics’ homes and such plain but substantial houses as his father’s.

  Prospering as the Swifts had during the last few years, neither Tom nor his father had thought their plain old house too poor or humble for a continued residence. Tom was glad to make money, but the inventions he had made it by were vastly more important to his mind than what he might obtain by any lavish expenditure of his growing fortune.

  This matter of the electric locomotive that had been brought to his attention by the Western railroad magnate had instantly interested the young inventor. The possibility of there being a clash of interests in the matter, and the point Mr. Bartholomew made of his enemies seeking to thwart his hope of keeping the H. & P. A. upon a solid financial footing, were phases of the affair that likewise concerned the young fellow’s thought.

  Now he was sure that Mr. Bartholomew was right. The enemies of the H. & P. A. were determined to know all that the railroad president was planning to do. They would naturally suspect that his trip East to visit the Swift Construction Company was no idle jaunt.

  Tom had turned so many fortunate and important problems of invention into certainties that the name of the Swift Construction Company was broadly known, not alone throughout the United States but in several foreign countries. Montagne Lewis, whom Tom knew to be both a powerful and an unscrupulous financier, might be sure that Mr. Bartholomew’s visit to Shopton and to the young inventor and his father was of such importance that he would do well through his henchmen to learn the particulars of the interview.

  Tom remembered Mr. Bartholomew’s mention of a name like Andy O’Malley. This was probably the man who had done all that he could, and that promptly, to set about the discovery of Mr. Bartholomew’s reason for visiting the Swifts.

  Without doubt the man had slunk about the Swift house and had peered into one of the library windows while the interview was proceeding. He had observed Tom making notes on the scratch pad and judged correctly that those notes dealt with the subject under discussion between the visitor from the West and the Swifts.

  He had likewise seen Tom thrust the paper into his wallet and the wallet into his inside vest pocket. Instead of dogging Mr. Bartholomew’s footsteps after that gentleman left the Swift house, the man had waited for the appearance of Tom. When he was sure that the young fellow was preparing to walk out, and the direction he was to stroll, the thug had run ahead and ensconced himself in the archway on this dark block.

  All these things were plain enough. The notes Tom had taken regarding the offer Mr. Bartholomew had made for the development of the electric locomotive might, under some circumstances, be very important. At least, the highwayman evidently thought them such. But Tom had another thought about that.

  One thing the young inventor was convinced about, as he strode briskly away from the scene of the hold-up: There was going to be trouble. It had already begun.

  CHAPTER III

  TOM SWIFT’S FRIENDS

  Tom was still walking swiftly when he arrived in sight of Mary Nestor’s home. He was so filled with excitement both because of the hold-up and the new scheme that Mr. Richard Bartholomew had brought to him from the West, that he could keep neither to himself. He just had to tell Mary!

  Mary Nestor was a very
pretty girl, and Tom thought she was just about right in every particular. Although he had been about a good deal for a young fellow and had seen girls everywhere, none of them came up to Mary. None of them held Tom’s interest for a minute but this girl whom he had been around with for years and whom he had always confided in.

  As for the girl herself, she considered Tom Swift the very nicest young man she had ever seen. He was her beau-ideal of what a young man should be. And she entered enthusiastically into the plans for everything that Tom Swift was interested in.

  Mary was excited by the story Tom told her in the Nestor sitting room. The idea of the electric locomotive she saw, of course, was something that might add to Tom’s laurels as an inventor. But the other phase of the evening’s adventure—”Tom, dear!” she murmured with no little disturbance of mind. “That man who stopped you! He is a thief, and a dangerous man! I hate to think of your going home alone.”

  “He’s got what he was after,” chuckled Tom. “Is it likely he will bother me again?”

  “And you do not seem much worried about it,” she cried, in wonder.

  “Not much, I confess, Mary,” said Tom, and grinned.

  “But if, as you suppose, that man was working for Mr. Bartholomew’s enemies—”

  “I am convinced that he was, for he did not rob me of my watch and chain or loose money. And he could have done so easily. I don’t mind about the old wallet. There was only five dollars in it.”

  “But those notes you said you took of Mr. Bartholomew’s offer?”

  “Oh, yes,” chuckled Tom again. “Those notes. Well, I may as well explain to you, Mary, and not try to puzzle you any longer. But that highwayman is sure going to be puzzled a long, long time.”

  “What do you mean, Tom?”

  “Those notes were jotted down in my own brand of shorthand. Such stenographic notes would scarcely be readable by anybody else. Ho, ho! When that bold, bad hold-up gent turns the notes over to Montagne Lewis, or whoever his principal is, there will be a sweet time.”