Victor Appleton (house Name) (2 page)

Though many of Mr. Swift's inventions paid him well, he was
constantly seeking to perfect others. To this end he had built near
his home several machine shops, with engines, lathes and apparatus
for various kinds of work. Tom, too, had the inventive fever in his
veins, and had planned some useful implements and small machines.

Along the pleasant country roads on a fine day in April rode Tom
Swift on his way to Mansburg to register the letter. As he descended
a little hill he saw, some distance away, but coming toward him, a
great cloud of dust.

"Somebody must be driving a herd of cattle along the road," thought
Tom. "I hope they don't get in my way, or, rather, I hope I don't
get in theirs. Guess I'd better keep to one side, yet there isn't
any too much room."

The dust-cloud came nearer. It was so dense that whoever or whatever
was making it could not he distinguished.

"Must be a lot of cattle in that bunch," mused the young inventor,
"but I shouldn't think they'd trot them so on a warm day like this.
Maybe they're stampeded. If they are I've got to look out." This
idea caused him some alarm.

He tried to peer through the dust-cloud, but could not. Nearer and
nearer it came. Tom kept on, taking care to get as far to the side
of the road as he could. Then from the midst of the enveloping mass
came the sound of a steady "chug-chug."

"It's a motor-cycle!" exclaimed Tom. "He must have his muffler wide
open, and that's kicking up as much dust as the wheels do. Whew! But
whoever's on it will look like a clay image at the end of the line!"

Now that he knew it was a fellow-cyclist who was raising such a
disturbance, Tom turned more toward the middle of the road. As yet
he had not had a sight of the rider, but the explosions of the motor
were louder. Suddenly, when the first advancing particles of dust
reached him, almost making him sneeze, Tom caught sight of the
rider. He was a man of middle age, and he was clinging to the
handle-bars of the machine. The motor was going at full speed.

Tom quickly turned to one side, to avoid the worst of the dust. The
motor-cyclist glanced at the youth, but this act nearly proved
disastrous for him. He took his eyes from the road ahead for just a
moment, and he did not see a large stone directly in his path. His
front wheel hit it, and the heavy machine, which he could not
control very well, skidded over toward the lad on the bicycle. The
motor-cyclist bounced up in the air from the saddle, and nearly lost
his hold on the handle-bars.

"Look out!" cried Tom. "You'll smash into me!"

"I'm—I'm—try—ing—not—to!" were the words that were rattled out
of the middle-aged man.

Tom gave his wheel a desperate twist to get out of the way. The
motor-cyclist tried to do the same, but the machine he was on
appeared to want matters its own way. He came straight for Tom, and
a disastrous collision might have resulted had not another stone
been in the way. The front wheel hit this, and was swerved to one
side. The motor-cycle flashed past Tom, just grazing his wheel, and
then was lost to sight beyond in a cloud of dust that seemed to
follow it like a halo.

"Why don't you learn to ride before you come out on the road!" cried
Tom somewhat angrily.

Like an echo from the dust-cloud came floating back these words:

"I'm—try—ing—to!" Then the sound of the explosions became
fainter.

"Well, he's got lots to learn yet!" exclaimed Tom. "That's twice
to-day I've nearly been run down. I expect I'd better look out for the
third time. They say that's always fatal," and the lad leaped from his
wheel. "Wonder if he bent any of my spokes?" the young inventor
continued as he inspected his bicycle.

"Everything seems to be all right," Tom remarked, "but another inch
or so and he'd have crashed into me. I wonder who he was? I wish I
had a machine like that. I could make better time than I can on my
bicycle. Perhaps I'll get one some day. Well, I might as well ride
on."

Tom was soon at Mansburg, and going to the post-office handed in the
letter for registry. Bearing in mind his father's words, he looked
about to see if there were any suspicious characters, but the only
person he noticed was a well-dressed man, with a black mustache, who
seemed to be intently studying the schedule of the arrival and
departure of the mails.

"Do you want the receipt for the registered, letter sent to you here
or at Shopton?" asked the clerk of Tom. "Come to think of it,
though, it will have to come here, and you can call for it. I'll
have it returned to Mr. Barton Swift, care of general delivery, and
you can get it the next time you are over," for the clerk knew Tom.

"That will do," answered our hero, and as he turned away from the
window he saw that the man who had been inquiring about the mails
was regarding him curiously. Tom thought nothing of it at the time,
but there came an occasion when he wished that he had taken more
careful note of the well-dressed individual. As the youth passed out
of the outer door he saw the man walk over to the registry window.

"He seems to have considerable mail business," thought Tom, and then
the matter passed from his mind as he mounted his wheel and hurried
to the machine shop.

"Say, I'm awfully sorry," announced Mr. Merton when Tom said he had
come for the bolts, "but they're not quite done. They need
polishing. I know I promised them to your father to-day, and he can
have them, but he was very particular about the polish, and as one
of my best workers was taken sick, I'm a little behind."

"How long will it take to polish them?" asked Tom.

"Oh, about an hour. In fact, a man is working on them now. If you
could call this afternoon they'll be ready. Can you?"

"I s'pose I've got to," replied Tom good-naturedly. "Guess I'll have
to stay in Mansburg for dinner. I can't get back to Shopton in time
now."

"I'll be sure to have them for you after dinner," promised Mr.
Merton. "Now, there's a matter I want to speak to you about, Tom.
Has your father any idea of giving the work he has been turning over
to me to some other firm?"

"Not that I know of. Why?" and the lad showed his wonder.

"Well, I'll tell you why. Some time ago there was a stranger in
here, asking about your father's work. I told Mr. Swift of it at the
time. The stranger said then that he and some others were thinking
of opening a machine shop, and he wanted to find out whether they
would be likely to get any jobs from your father. I told the man I
knew nothing about Mr. Swift's business, and he went away. I didn't
hear any more of it, though of course I didn't want to lose your
father's trade. Now a funny thing happened. Only this morning the
same man was back here, and he was making particular inquiries about
your father's private machine shops."

"He was?" exclaimed Tom excitedly.

"Yes. He wanted to know where they were located, how they were laid
out, and what sort of work he did in them."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing at all. I suspected something, and I said the best way for
him to find out would be to go and see your father. Wasn't that
right?"

"Sure. Dad doesn't want his business known any more than he can
help. What do you suppose they wanted?"

"Well, the man talked as though he and his partners would like to
buy your father's shops."

"I don't believe he'd sell. He has them arranged just for his own
use in making patents, and I'm sure he would not dispose of them."

"Well, that's what I thought, but I didn't tell the man so. I judged
it would be best for him to find out for himself."

"What was the man's name?"

"He didn't tell me, and I didn't ask him."

"How did he look?"

"Well, he was well dressed, wore kid gloves and all that, and he had
a little black mustache."

Tom started, and Mr. Merton noticed it.

"Do you know him?" he asked.

"No," replied Tom, "but I saw—" Then he stopped. He recalled the
man he had seen in the post-office. He answered this description,
but it was too vague to be certain.

"Did you say you'd seen him?" asked Mr. Merton, regarding Tom
curiously.

"No—yes—that is—well, I'll tell my father about it," stammered
Tom, who concluded that it would be best to say nothing of his
suspicions. "I'll be back right after dinner, Mr. Merton. Please
have the bolts ready for me, if you can."

"I will. Is your father going to use them in a new machine?"

"Yes; dad is always making new machines," answered the youth, as the
most polite way of not giving the proprietor of the shop any
information. "I'll be back right after dinner," he called as he went
out to get on his wheel.

Tom was much puzzled. He felt certain that the man in the post-
office and the one who had questioned Mr. Merton were the same.

"There is something going on, that dad should know about," reflected
Tom. "I must tell him. I don't believe it will be wise to send any
more of his patent work over to Merton. We must do it in the shops
at home, and dad and I will have to keep our eyes open. There may be
spies about seeking to discover something about his new turbine
motor. I'll hurry back with those bolts and tell dad. But first I
must get lunch. I'll go to the restaurant and have a good feed while
I'm at it."

Tom had plenty of spending money, some of which came from a small
patent he had marketed himself. He left his wheel outside the
restaurant, first taking the precaution to chain the wheels, and
then went inside. Tom was hungry and ordered a good meal. He was
about half way through it when some one called his name.

"Hello, Ned!" he answered, looking up to see a youth about his own
age. "Where did you blow in from?"

"Oh, I came over from Shopton this morning," replied Ned Newton,
taking a seat at the table with Tom. The two lads were chums, and in
their younger days had often gone fishing, swimming and hunting
together. Now Ned worked in the Shopton bank, and Tom was so busy
helping his father, so they did not see each other so often.

"On business or pleasure?" asked Tom, putting some more sugar in his
coffee.

"Business. I had to bring some papers over from our bank to the
First National here. But what about you?"

"Oh, I came on dad's account."

"Invented anything new?" asked Ned as he gave his order to the
waitress.

"No, nothing since the egg-beater I was telling you about. But I'm
working on some things."

"Why don't you invent an automobile or an airship?"

"Maybe I will some day, but, speaking of autos, did you see the one
Andy Foger has?"

"Yes; it's a beaut! Have you seen it?"

"Altogether at too close range. He nearly ran over me this morning,"
and the young inventor related the occurrence.

"Oh, Andy always was too fresh," commented Ned; "and since his
father let him get the touring car I suppose he'll be worse than
ever."

"Well, if he tries to run me down again he'll get into trouble,"
declared Tom, calling for a second cup of coffee.

The two chums began conversing on more congenial topics, and Ned was
telling of a new camera he had, when, from a table directly behind
him, Tom heard some one say in rather loud tones:

"The plant is located in Shopton, all right, and the buildings are
near Swift's house."

Tom started, and listened more intently.

"That will make it more difficult," one man answered. "But if the
invention is as valuable as—"

"Hush!" came a caution from another of the party. "This is too
public a place to discuss the matter. Wait until we get out. One of
us will have to see Swift, of course, and if he proves stubborn—"

"I guess you'd better hush yourself," retorted the man who had first
spoken, and then the voices subsided.

But Tom Swift had overheard something which made him vaguely afraid.
He started so at the sound of his father's name that he knocked a
fork from the table.

"What's the matter; getting nervous?" asked Ned with a laugh.

"I guess so," replied Tom, and when he stooped to pick the fork up,
not waiting for the girl who was serving at his table, he stole a
look at the strangers who had just entered. He was startled to note
that one of the men was the same he had seen in the post-office—the
man who answered the description of the one who had been inquiring
of Mr. Merton about the Swift shops.

"I'm going to keep my ears open," thought Tom as he went on eating
his dinner.

Though the young inventor listened intently, in an endeavor to hear
the conversation of the men at the table behind him, all he could
catch was an indistinct murmur. The strangers appeared to have
heeded the caution of one of their number and were speaking in low
tones.

Tom and Ned finished their meal, and started to leave the
restaurant. As Mr. Swift's son passed the table where the men sat
they looked up quickly at him. Two of them gave Tom but a passing
glance, but one—he whom the young inventor had noticed in the post-
office—stared long and intently.

"I think he will know me the next time he sees me," thought Tom, and
he boldly returned the glance of the stranger.

The bolts were ready when the inventor's son called at the machine
shop a second time, and making a package of them Tom fastened it to
the saddle of his bicycle. He started for home at a fast pace, and
was just turning from a cross road into the main highway when he saw
ahead of him a woman driving a light wagon. As the sun flashed on
Tom's shining wheel the horse gave a sudden leap, swerved to one
side, and then bolted down the dusty stretch, the woman screaming at
the top of her voice.

"A runaway!" cried Tom; "and partly my fault, too!"