Victor Appleton (house Name) (5 page)

"An automobile," said Tom aloud. "Guess I'd better get out of the
way."

He turned to one side, but the auto, instead of passing him when it
got to the place where he was, made a sudden stop.

"Want a ride?" asked the chauffeur, peering out from the side
curtains which somewhat protected him from the storm. Tom saw that
the car was a large, touring one. "Can I give you a lift?" went on
the driver.

"Well, I've got my bicycle with me," explained the young inventor.
"My chain's broken, and I've got a mile to go."

"Jump up in back," invited the man. "Leave your wheel here; I guess
it will be safe."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," said Tom. "I don't mind walking. I'm wet
through now, and I can't get much wetter. I'm much obliged, though."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I can hardly take you and the bicycle, too,"
continued the chauffeur.

"Certainly not," added a voice from the tonneau of the car. "We
can't have a muddy bicycle in here. Who is that person, Simpson?"

"It's a young man," answered the driver.

"Is he acquainted around here?" went on the voice from the rear of
the car. "Ask him if he is acquainted around here, Simpson."

Tom was wondering where he had heard that voice before. He had a
vague notion that it was familiar.

"Are you acquainted around here?" obediently asked the man at the
wheel.

"I live here," replied Tom.

"Ask him if he knows any one named Swift?" continued the voice from
the tonneau, and the driver started to repeat it.

"I heard him," interrupted Tom. "Yes, I know a Mr. Swift;" but Tom,
with a sudden resolve, and one he could hardly explain, decided
that, for the present, he would not betray his own identity.

"Ask him if Mr. Swift is an inventor." Once more the unseen person
spoke in the voice Tom was trying vainly to recall.

"Yes, he is an inventor," was the youth's answer.

"Do you know much about him? What are his habits? Does he live near
his workshops? Does he keep many servants? Does he—"

The unseen questioner suddenly parted the side curtains and peered
out at Tom, who stood in the muddy road, close to the automobile. At
that moment there came a bright flash of lightning, illuminating not
only Tom's face, but that of his questioner as well. And at the
sight Tom started, no less than did the man. For Tom had recognized
him as one of the three mysterious persons in the restaurant, and as
for the man, he had also recognized Tom.

"Ah—er—um—is—Why, it's you, isn't it?" cried the questioner, and
he thrust his head farther out from between the curtains. "My, what a
storm!" he exclaimed as the rain increased. "So you know Mr. Swift,
eh? I saw you to-day in Mansburg, I think. I have a good memory for
faces. Do you work for Mr. Swift? If you do I may be able to—"

"I'm Tom Swift, son of Mr. Barton Swift," said Tom as quietly as he
could.

"Tom Swift! His son!" cried the man, and he seemed much agitated.
"Why, I thought—that is, Morse said—Simpson, hurry back to
Mansburg!" and with that, taking no more notice of Tom, the man in
the auto hastily drew the curtains together.

The chauffeur threw in the gears and swung the ponderous machine to
one side. The road was wide, and he made the turn skilfully. A
moment later the car was speeding back the way it had come, leaving
Tom standing on the highway, alone in the mud and darkness, with the
rain pouring down in torrents.

Tom's first impulse was to run after the automobile, the red tail-
light of which glowed through the blackness like a ruby eye. Then he
realized that it was going from him at such a swift pace that it
would be impossible to get near it, even if his bicycle was in
working order.

"But if I had my motor-cycle I'd catch up to them," he murmured. "As
it is, I must hurry home and tell dad. This is another link in the
queer chain that seems to be winding around us. I wonder who that
man was, and what he wanted by asking so many personal questions
about dad?"

Trundling his wheel before him, with the chain dangling from the
handle-bar, Tom splashed on through the mud and rain. It was a
lonesome, weary walk, tired as he was with the happenings of the
day, and the young inventor breathed a sigh of thankfulness as the
lights of his home shone out in the mist of the storm. As he tramped
up the steps of the side porch, his wheel bumping along ahead of
him, a door was thrown open.

"Why, it's Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Baggert. "Whatever happened to you?"
and she hurried forward with kindly solicitude, for the housekeeper
was almost a second mother to the youth.

"Chain broke," answered the lad laconically. "Where's dad?"

"Out in the shop, working at his latest invention, I expect. But are
you hurt?"

"Oh, no. I fell easily. The mud was like a feather-bed, you know,
except that it isn't so good for the clothes," and the young
inventor looked down at his splashed and bedraggled garments.

Mr. Swift was very much surprised when Tom told him of the happening
on the road, and related the conversation and the subsequent alarm
of the man on learning Tom's identity.

"Who do you suppose he could have been?" asked Tom, when he had
finished.

"I am pretty certain he was one of that crowd of financiers of whom
Anson Morse seems to be a representative," said Mr. Swift. "Are you
sure the man was one of those you saw in the restaurant?"

"Positive. I had a good look at him both times. Do you think he
imagined he could come here and get possession of some of your
secrets?"

"I hardly know what to think, Tom. But we will take every
precaution. We will set the burglar alarm wires, which I have
neglected for some time, as I fancied everything would be secure
here. Then I will take my plans and the model of the turbine motor
into the house. I'll run no chances to-night."

Mr. Swift, who was adjusting some of the new bolts that Tom had
brought home that day; began to gather up his tools and material.

"I'll help you, dad," said Tom, and he began connecting the burglar
alarm wires, there being an elaborate system of them about the
house, shops and grounds.

Neither Tom nor his father slept well that night. Several times one
or the other of them arose, thinking they heard unusual noises, but
it was only some disturbance caused by the storm, and morning
arrived without anything unusual having taken place. The rain still
continued, and Tom, looking from his window and seeing the downpour,
remarked:

"I'm glad of it!"

"Why?" asked his father, who was in the next room.

"Because I'll have a good excuse for staying in and working on my
motor-cycle."

"But you must do some studying," declared Mr. Swift. "I will hear
you in mathematics right after breakfast."

"All right, dad. I guess you'll find I have my lessons."

Tom had graduated with honors from a local academy, and when it came
to a question of going further in his studies, he had elected to
continue with his father for a tutor, instead of going to college.
Mr. Swift was a very learned man, and this arrangement was
satisfactory to him, as it allowed Tom more time at home, so he
could aid his father on the inventive work and also plan things for
himself. Tom showed a taste for mechanics, and his father wisely
decided that such training as his son needed could be given at home
to better advantage than in a school or college.

Lessons over, Tom hurried to his own particular shop, and began
taking apart the damaged motor-cycle.

"First I'll straighten the handle-bars, and then I'll fix the motor
and transmission," he decided. "The front wheel I can buy in town,
as this one would hardly pay for repairing." Tom was soon busy with
wrenches, hammers, pliers and screw-driver. He was in his element,
and was whistling over his task. The motor he found in good
condition, but it was not such an easy task as he had hoped to
change the transmission. He had finally to appeal to his father, in
order to get the right proportion between the back and front gears,
for the motor-cycle was operated by a sprocket chain, instead of a
belt drive, as is the case with some.

Mr. Swift showed Tom how to figure out the number of teeth needed on
each sprocket, in order to get an increase of speed, and as there
was a sprocket wheel from a disused piece of machinery available,
Tom took that. He soon had it in place, and then tried the motor. To
his delight the number of revolutions of the rear wheel were
increased about fifteen per cent.

"I guess I'll make some speed," he announced to his father.

"But it will take more gasolene to run the motor; don't forget that.
You know the great principle of mechanics—that you can't get out of
a machine any more than you put into it, nor quite as much, as a
matter of fact, for considerable is lost through friction."

"Well, then, I'll enlarge the gasolene tank," declared Tom. "I want
to go fast when I'm going."

He reassembled the machine, and after several hours of work had it
in shape to run, except that a front wheel was lacking.

"I think I'll go to town and get one," he remarked. "The rain isn't
quite so hard now."

In spite of his father's mild objections Tom went, using his
bicycle, the chain of which he had quickly repaired. He found just
the front wheel needed, and that night his motor-cycle was ready to
run. But it was too dark to try it then, especially as he had no
good lantern, the one on the cycle having been smashed, and his own
bicycle light not being powerful enough. So he had to postpone his
trial trip until the next day.

He was up early the following morning, and went out for a spin
before breakfast. He came back, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes,
just as Mr. Swift and Mrs. Baggert were sitting down to the table.

"To Reedville and back," announced Tom proudly.

"What, a round trip of thirty miles!" exclaimed Mr. Swift.

"That's what!" declared his son. "I went like a greased pig most of
the way. I had to slow up going through Mansburg, but the rest of at
time I let it out for all it was worth."

"You must be careful," cautioned his father. "You are not an expert
yet."

"No, I realize that. Several times, when I wanted to slow up, I
began to back-pedal, forgetting that I wasn't on my bicycle. Then I
thought to shut off the power and put on the brake. But it's
glorious fun. I'm going out again as soon as I have something to
eat. That is, unless you want me to help you, dad."

"No, not this morning. Learn to ride the motor-cycle. It may come in
handy."

Neither Tom nor his father realized what an important part the
machine was soon to play in their lives.

Tom went out for another spin after breakfast, and in a different
direction. He wanted to see what the machine would do on a hill, and
there was a long, steep one about five miles from home. The roads
were in fine shape after the rain, and he speeded up the incline at
a rapid rate.

"It certainly does eat up the road," the lad murmured. "I have
improved this machine considerably. Wish I could take out a patent
on it."

Reaching the crest of the slope, he started down the incline. He
turned off part of the power, and was gliding along joyously, when
from a cross-road he suddenly saw turn into the main highway a mule,
drawing a ramshackle wagon, loaded with fence posts. Beside the
animal walked an old colored man.

"I hope he gets out of the way in time," thought Tom. "He's moving
as slow as molasses, and I'm going a bit faster than I like. Guess
I'll shut off and put on the brakes."

The mule and wagon were now squarely across the road. Tom was coming
nearer and nearer. He turned the handle-grip, controlling the supply
of gasolene, and to his horror he found that it was stuck. He could
not stop the motor-cycle!

"Look out! Look out!" cried Tom to the negro. "Get out of the way! I
can't stop! Let me pass you!"

The darky looked up. He saw the approaching machine, and he seemed
to lose possession of his senses.

"Whoa, Boomerang!" cried the negro. "Whoa! Suffin's gwine t'
happen!"

"That's what!" muttered Tom desperately, as he saw that there was
not room for him to pass without going into the ditch, a proceeding
that would mean an upset. "Pull out of the way!" he yelled again.

But either the driver could not understand, or did not appreciate
the necessity. The mule stopped and reared up. The colored man
hurried to the head of the animal to quiet it.

"Whoa, Boomerang! Jest yo' stand still!" he said.

Tom, with a great effort, managed to twist the grip and finally shut
off the gasolene. But it was too late. He struck the darky with the
front wheel. Fortunately the youth had managed to somewhat reduce
his speed by a quick application of the brake, or the result might
have been serious. As it was, the colored man was gently lifted away
from the mule's head and tossed into the long grass in the ditch.
Tom, by a great effort, succeeded in maintaining his seat in the
saddle, and then, bringing the machine to a stop, he leaped off and
turned back.

The colored man was sitting up, looking dazed.

"Whoa, Boomerang!" he murmured. "Suffin's happened!"

But the mule, who had quieted down, only waggled his ears lazily,
and Tom, ready to laugh, now that he saw he had not committed
manslaughter, hurried to where the colored man was sitting.

"Are you hurt?" asked Tom as he leaned his motor-cycle against the
fence and stood beside the negro.

"Hurt?" repeated the darky. "I'se killed, dat's what I is! I ain't
got a whole bone in mah body! Good landy, but I suttinly am in a
awful state! Would yo' mind tellin' me if dat ar' mule am still
alive?"

"Of course he is," answered Tom. "He isn't hurt a bit. But why can't
you turn around and look for yourself?"