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X
CHAPTER XIII TOWED BY A MULE
"Bless my gizzard! Is it anything serious?" asked Mr. Damon.
"Will it blow up, or anything like that?" "No," replied the lad, as he leaped out of
the car, and began to make an examination.
Mr. Sharp assisted him. "The motor seems to be all right," remarked
the balloonist, as he inspected it. "Yes," agreed our hero, "and the batteries
have plenty of power left in them yet.
The gauge shows that. I can't understand what the trouble can be,
unless--" He paused in his remark and uttered an exclamation.
"I've found it!" he cried.
"What?" demanded the aeronaut. "Some of the fuses blew out.
I turned on too much current, and the fuses wouldn't carry it.
I put them in to save the motor from being burned out, but I didn't use heavy enough
ones. I see where my mistake was."
"But what does it mean?" inquired Mr. Damon.
"It means that we've got to walk back home," was Tom's sorrowful answer.
"The car is stalled, for I haven't any extra fuses with me."
"Can't you connect up the battery by using some extra wire?" asked Mr. Sharp.
"I have some," and he drew a coil of it from his pocket.
"I wouldn't dare to. It might be so heavy that it would carry
more current than the motor could stand.
I don't want to burn that out. No, I guess we'll have to walk home, or
rather I will. You two can stay here until I come back
with heavier fuses.
I'm sorry." Tom had hardly ceased speaking, when, from
around the turn in the road proceeded a voice, and, at the sound of it all three
started, for the voice was saying:
"Now it ain't no use fer yo' to act dat-a- way, Boomerang.
Yo' all ain't got no call t' git contrary now, jest when I wants t' git home t' mah
dinner.
I should t'ink you'd want t' git t' de stable, too.
But ef yo' all ain't mighty keerful I'll cut down yo' rations, dat's what I'se goin'
to do.
G'lang, now, dat's a good feller. Ho! Ho! I knowed dat'd fetch yo' all.
When yo' all wiggles yo' ears dat-a-way, dat's a suah sign yo' all is gwine t'
move."
Then followed the sound of a rattletrap of a wagon approaching.
"Eradicate! It's Eradicate!" exclaimed Tom.
"And his mule, Boomerang!" added Mr. Sharp.
"He's just in time!" commented Mr. Damon with a sigh of relief, as the ancient
outfit, in charge of the aged colored man, came along.
Eradicate had been sent to Shopton to get a load of wood for Mr. Swift, and was now
returning.
At the sight of the stalled auto the mule pricked up his long ears, and threw them
forward. "Whoa dar, now, Boomerang!" cried
Eradicate.
"Doan't yo' all commence t' gittin' skittish.
Dat machine ain't gwine t' hurt yo'. Why good land a' massy!
Ef 'tain't Mistah Swift!" cried the colored man, as he caught sight of Tom.
"What's de trouble?" he asked. "Broke down," answered the young inventor
briefly.
"You always seem to come along when I'm in trouble, Rad."
"Dat's right," assented the darkey, with a grin.
"Me an' trouble am ole acquaintances.
Sometimes she hits me a clip on de haid, den, ag'in Boomerang, mah mule, gits it.
He jest had his trouble. Got a stone under his shoe, an' didn't want
t' move.
Den when I did git him started he balked on me.
But I'se all right now. But I suah am sorry fo' you.
Can't I help yo' all, Mistah Swift?"
"Yes, you can, Rad," answered Tom. "Drive home as fast as you can, and ask Dad
to send back with you some of those fuses he'll find on my work bench.
He knows what I want.
Hurry there and hurry back." Eradicate shook his head doubtfully.
"What's the matter? Don't you want to go?" asked Mr. Sharp, a
trifle nettled.
"We can't get the car started until we have some new fuses."
"Oh, I wants t' go all right 'nuff, Mistah Sharp," was Eradicate's prompt answer.
"Yo' all knows I'd do anyt'ing t' 'blige yo' or Mistah Swift.
But hits dish yeah mule, Boomerang.
I jest done promised him dat we were gwine home t' dinnah, an' he 'spects a manger
full ob oats.
Ef I got to Mistah Swift's house wid him, I couldn't no mo' git him t' come back widout
his dinnah, dan yo' all kin git dat 'ar car t' move widout dem fusin' t'ings yo' all
talked about."
"Bless my necktie!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "That's all nonsense!
You don't suppose that mule understands what you say to him, do you?
How does he know you promised him his dinner?"
"I doan't know how he know, Mistah Damon," replied Eradicate, "but he do know, jest de
same.
I know hit would be laik pullin' teeth an' wuss too, t' git Boomerang t' start back
wid dem foosd t'ings until after he's had his dinner.
Wouldn't it, Boomerang?"
The mule waved his long ears as if in answer.
"Bless my soul, I believe he does understand!" cried Mr. Damon.
"Of course he do," put in the colored man.
"I'se awful sorry.
Now if it were afternoon I could bring back dem what-d'ye-call-'ems in a jiffy, 'cause
Boomerang allers feels good arter he has his dinnah, but befo' dat--" and Eradicate
shook his head, as if there was no more to be said on the subject.
"Well," remarked Tom, sadly, "I guess there's no help for it.
We'll have to walk home, unless you two want to wait until I can ride back with
Eradicate, and come back on my motor cycle. Then I'll have to leave the cycle here, for
I can't get it in the car."
"Bless my collar button!" cried Mr. Damon. "It's like the puzzle of the fox, the goose
and the bag of corn on the banks of a stream.
I guess we'd better all walk."
"Hold on!" exclaimed Mr. Sharp. "Is your mule good and strong, Eradicate?"
"Strong? Why dish yeah mule could pull a house ober-
-dat is when he's got a mind to.
An' he'd do most anyt'ing now, 'ca'se he's anxious t' git home t' his dinnah; ain't
yo' all, Boomerang?" Once more the mule waved his ears, like
signal flags.
"Then I have a proposition to make," went on the balloonist.
"Unhitch the mule from the load of wood, and hitch him to the auto.
We've got some rope along, I noticed.
Then the mule can pull us and the runabout home."
"Good idea!" cried Mr. Damon. "Dat's de racket!" *** Eradicate.
"I'll jest sequesterate dish year load ob wood side ob de road, an' hitch Boomerang
to de auto." Tom said nothing for a few seconds.
He gazed sadly at his auto, which he hoped would win the touring club's prize.
It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. "Towed by a mule!" he exclaimed, shaking
his head, and smiling ruefully.
"The fastest car in this country towed by a mule!
It's tough luck!"
"'Tain't half so bad as goin' widout yo' dinnah, Mistah Swift!" remarked Eradicate,
as he began to harness the mule to the electric runabout.
Boomerang made no objection to the transfer.
He looked around once or twice as he was being made fast to the auto and, when the
word was given he stepped out as if pulling home stalled cars was his regular business.
Tom sat beside Eradicate on the front seat, and steered, while the colored man drove
the mule, and Mr. Sharp and Mr. Damon were in the "tonneau" seats as Tom called them.
"I hope no one sees us," thought Tom, but he was doomed to disappointment.
When nearly home he heard an auto approaching, and in it were Andy Foger, Sam
Snedecker and Pete Bailey.
The three cronies stared at the odd sight of Boomerang ambling along, with his great
ears flapping, drawing Tom's speedy new car.
"Ha! Ha!" laughed Andy.
"So that's the motive power he's going to use!
Look at him, fellows.
I thought his new electric, that was going to beat my car, and win the prize, was to
be two hundred horse power. Instead it's one mule power!
That's rich!" and Andy's chums joined in the laugh at poor Tom.
The young inventor said nothing, for there was nothing he could say.
In dignified silence he passed the car containing his enemies, they, meanwhile,
jeering at him. "Dat's all right," spoke Eradicate,
sympathizing with his young employer.
"Maybe dey'll 'want a tow derselves some day, an' when dey does, I'll make Boomerang
pull 'em in a ditch." But this was small comfort to Tom.
He made up his mind, though, that he would demonstrate that his car could do all that
he had claimed for it, and that very soon.
>
CHAPTER XIV A GREAT RUN
Boomerang did not belie the reputation Eradicate had given him as a beast of
strength.
Though the electric runabout was heavy, the mule managed to move it along the road at a
fair speed, with the four occupants. Perhaps the animal knew that at the end of
his journey a good feed awaited him.
At any rate they were soon within sight of the Swift home.
Mr. Damon and Mr. Sharp refrained from making any comments that might hurt Tom's
feelings, for they realized the chagrin felt by the young inventor in having his
apparatus go back on him at the first trial.
But our hero was not the kind of a lad who is disheartened by one failure, or even
half a dozen.
The humor of the situation appealed to him, and, as he turned the auto into the
driveway, and noticed Boomerang's long ears waving to and fro, he laughed.
The lad insisted on putting new fuses in the car before he ate his dinner, and then,
satisfied that the motor was once more in running order, he partook of a hasty meal,
and began making several changes which he had decided were desirable.
He finished them in time to go for a little run in the car all alone on a secluded road
late that afternoon.
Tom returned, with eyes shining, and cheeks flushed with elation.
"Well, how did it go? asked his father. "Fine!
Better than I expected," responded his son enthusiastically.
"When it gets to running smoothly I'll pass anything on the road."
"Don't be too sure," cautioned Mr. Swift, but Tom only smiled.
There was still much to do on the electric runabout, and Tom spent the next few days
in adjusting the light steel wind-shield, that was to come down over the driver's
seat.
He also put in a powerful electric search- light, which was run by current from the
battery, and installed a new speedometer and an instrument to tell how much current
he was using, and how much longer the battery would run without being exhausted.
This was to enable him to know when to begin recharging it.
When the current was all consumed it was necessary to store more in the battery.
This could be done by attaching wires from a dynamo, or, in an emergency by tapping an
electric light wire in the street.
But as the battery would enable the car to run many miles on one charging, Tom did not
think he would ever have to resort to the emergency charging apparatus.
He had a new system for this, one that enabled him to do the work in much less
than the usual time.
With his new car still unpainted, and rather rough and crude in appearance, the
lad started out alone one morning, his father and Mr. Sharp having declined to
accompany him, on the plea of business to
attend to, and Mr. Damon not being at the Swift house.
Tom rode about for several hours, giving his car several severe tests in the way of
going up hills, and speeding on the level.
He was proceeding along a quiet country road, in a small town about fifteen miles
from Shopton, when, as he flashed past the small railroad station, he saw a familiar
figure standing on the platform.
"Why, Ned!" called Tom, "what are you doing over here?"
"I might ask the same thing of you. Is that your new car?
It doesn't look very new."
"Yes, this is it. I haven't had a chance to paint and varnish
it yet. But you ought to see it go.
What are doing here, though?"
"I came over on some bank business. A customer here had some bonds he wanted to
dispose of and I came for them. You see we're enlarging our business since
the new bank started."
"Has it hurt your bank any?" "Not yet, but Foger and his associates are
trying hard to make us lose money. Say, did you ever see such a place as this?
I've got to wait two hours for a train back to Shopton."
"No you haven't." "Why not?
Have they changed the timetable since I came over this morning?"
"No, but you can ride back with me. I'm going, and I'll show you what my new
electric car can do."
"Good!" cried the young bank cashier. "You're just in time.
I was wondering how I could kill two hours, but now I'll get in your new car and--"
"And maybe we'll kill a few chickens, or a dog or two when we get her speeded up," put
in Tom, with a laugh in which Ned joined.
The two lads, seated in the front part of the auto, were soon moving down the hard
highway.
Suddenly Tom pulled a lever and the steel wind-shield came sliding down from the top
case, meeting the forward battery compartment, and forming a sort of slanting
roof over the heads of the two occupants.
"Here! What's this?" cried Ned.
"We're going to hit it up in a few minutes," replied the young inventor, "and
I want to reduce the wind resistance."
"Oh, I thought maybe we were going through a bombardment.
It's all right, go ahead, don't mind me. I'm game."
There was a celluloid window in the steel wind-shield, and through this the lads
could observe the road ahead of them. As they swung along it, the speed
increasing, Ned saw an auto ahead of them.
"Whose car is that?" he asked. "Don't know," replied Tom.
"We'll be up to it in about half a minute, though."
As the electric runabout, more dilapidated looking than ever from the layer of dust
that covered it, passed the other auto, which was a powerful car, the solitary
occupant of it, a middle-aged man, looked
to one side, and, seeing the *** machine, remarked:
"You fellows are going the wrong way to the junk heap.
Turn around."
"Is that so?" asked Tom, his eyes flashing at the cheap wit of the man.
"Why we came out here to show you the way!" "Do you want to race?" asked the man
eagerly, too eagerly, Ned thought.
"I'll give you a brush, if you do, and a handicap into the bargain."
"We don't need it," replied the young inventor quickly.
"I'll wager fifty dollars I can beat you bad on this three-mile stretch," went on
the autoist. "How about it?"
"I'll race you, but I don't bet," answered Tom, a bit stiffly.
"Oh, be a sport," urged the man. Tom shook his head.
He had slowed down his machine, and was running even with the gasolene car now.
He noticed that it was a new one, of six cylinders, and looked speedy.
Perhaps he was foolish to pit his untried car against it.
Yet he had confidence in his battery and motor.
"Well, we'll race for the fun of it then," went on the man.
"Do you want a handicap?" Tom shook his head again, and there came
around his mouth a grim look.
"All right," assented the other. "Only you're going to be beat badly.
I never saw an electric car yet that could do anything except to crawl along."
"You're going to see one now," was all the retort Tom permitted himself.
"Here we go then!" cried the man, and he gave his gear handle a yank, and shoved
over the sparking and gasolene levers.
His car instantly shot ahead, and went "chug chugging" down the road in a cloud of
dust.
At the same moment Tom, in answer to a look from Ned, who feared his friend was going
to be left behind, turned more power into the motor.
The humming, purring sound increased and the electric car forged ahead.
"Can you catch him?" asked Ned. "Watch," was all Tom said.
The hum of the motor became a sort of whine, and the electric rapidly acquired
speed.
It crept up on the gasolene car, as an express train overtakes a freight, and the
man, looking back, and expecting to see his rival far behind was surprised to note the
*** looking vehicle lapping his rear wheels.
"Well, you are coming on, aren't you?" he asked.
"Maybe you'll keep up now!"
He shifted the gears, using a little more gasolene.
For a moment his car opened a wide gap between it and Tom's, but the young
inventor had only begun to race.
Still louder purred the motor, and in a few minutes Tom was running on even terms with
his competitor.
The man looked annoyed, and tried, by the skilful use of gasolene and sparking
levers, to leave Tom behind. But the electric held her own.
"I've got to go the limit I see," remarked the man at last, glancing sideways at the
other car.
"I'll tell 'em you're coming," he added, "though I must say your electric does
better than any of its kind I ever came across."
"I'm not done yet," was the comment of our hero.
But the man did not hear him, for he was yanking into place the lever that enabled
him to run on direct drive for fourth speed.
Forward shot his car, and, for perhaps a quarter of a mile it led.
The racers were almost at the end of the three-mile level stretch of road, and if
Tom was going to win the impromptu contest it seemed high time he began.
"Can you catch him?" asked Ned anxiously.
"Watch," was his chum's reply. "I haven't used my high speed gear yet.
I'm afraid the fuses won't stand it, but here goes for a try, anyhow."
He threw over a switch, changed a lever and then, having pushed into place the last
gear, he grasped the steering wheel more firmly.
There was need of it, for, in an instant, the electric runabout, with the motors
fairly roaring, swept up the road, after the gasolene car that was almost hidden
from sight in a cloud of dust.
Faster and faster went Tom's car. The young inventor was listening with
critical ear to the song of the machinery.
He wanted to learn if it was running sweet and true, for that is how a careful
mechanic tests his apparatus. Foot by foot the distance between the two
cars lessened.
Now the electric was lapping the rear wheels of the gasolene machine, but the
driver did not know it. His whole attention was on the road ahead
of him.
"Half a mile more!" cried Ned, naming the distance which yet remained of the straight
stretch. "Can you do it, Tom?"
His chum nodded.
He shoved the controller handle over to the last notch, and then waited an anxious
second. Would the fuse carry the extra load?
It seemed so, for there was a slight increase of power.
An instant later Tom gave a sudden twist to the steering wheel.
It was well that he did, for he was passing the gasolene car dangerously close.
Then he was ahead of it, and in a second he was three lengths in advance.
Desperately the man opened his muffler, and sought to gain by this advantage, but
though his car gave off explosions like a battery of guns in action, he could not
gain on Tom.
The electric shot around a curve in the road, winner of the impromptu race by an
eighth of a mile.
"Well," asked Tom of his chum, as he slowed down, for the road now was not so good,
"did I do it?" "You certainly did.
Whew!
But we did scoot along?" "Eighty miles an hour there one spell,"
went on the young inventor, glancing at a gauge.
"But I've got to do better than that to win the big race."
>
CHAPTER XV ANDY FOGER'S BLACK EYE
Around the bend came the six-cylinder touring car.
The driver, with a surprised look on his face, was slacking up.
He ran his machine up alongside of Tom's.
"Say," he asked, in dazed tones, "did you take a short cut, or anything like that to
get ahead of me?" "No," answered the youth.
"And you didn't jump me in the air?"
"No," was Tom's answer, smilingly given. "Well, all I've got to say is that you've
got a wonderful car there, Mr.--er--er--" He paused suggestively.
"Swift is my name," our hero answered.
"Thomas Swift, of Shopton." "Ah, I've heard of you.
My name is Layton--Paul Layton. I'm from Netherton.
Let's see, you built an airship, didn't you?"
"I helped," Tom admitted modestly.
"Well, you beat me fair and square, and if I do say it myself I've got a fairly speedy
car. Took two firsts at the Indianapolis meet
last month.
But you certainly scooted ahead of me. Where did you buy that electric, if I may
ask?" "I made it."
"I might have known," admitted the man.
"But are you going to put them on the market?
If you are I'd like to get one. I want the fastest car going, and you seem
to have it."
"I hadn't thought of manufacturing them for sale," said the young inventor.
"If I do, I'll let you know." "I wish you would.
My! I had no idea you could beat me, but you did--fair and square."
There was some more talk, and then Mr. Layton started on, after exacting from Tom
a further promise to let him know if any electrics were to be made for sale.
"You certainly have a wonderful car," complimented Ned, as he and his chum took a
short cut to Shopton. "Well, I'm not quite satisfied with it,"
declared Tom.
"Why not?" "Well, I've set a hundred miles an hour as
my limit. I didn't make but eighty to-day.
I've got to have more speed if I go up against the crowd that will race for the
touring club's prize." "Can you make a hundred miles?"
"I think so.
I've got to change my gears, though, and use heavier fuses.
I was afraid every second that one of the fuses would melt, and leave me stranded.
But they stood pretty well.
Of course, when the car, geared as it is now, has been run a little longer it will
go faster, but it won't come up to a hundred miles an hour.
That's what I want, and that's what I'm going to get," and the lad looked very
determined.
Ned was taken to the bank, and, as Tom turned his machine around, to go home, he
saw, standing on the steps of the new bank, which was almost across the street from the
old one, Andy Foger, and the bully's father.
The red-haired lad laughed at Tom's rough looking car, and said something to his
parent, but Mr. Foger did not notice Tom.
Not that this caused our hero any uneasiness, however.
But, as he swung away from the bank, he saw, coming up the street a figure that
instantly attracted his attention.
It was that of Mr. Berg, and Tom at once recalled the night he had pursued the
submarine agent, and torn loose his watch charm.
Mr. Berg was evidently going to enter the new bank, for, at the sight of the former
agent, Mr. Foger descended the steps, and went to meet him.
Tom, however, had decided upon a plan of action.
He steered his machine in toward the curb, ran up the steel wind-shield, and called:
"Mr. Berg!"
"Eh? What's that?" asked the agent, in some surprise.
Then, as he caught sight of Tom, and recognized him, he added: "I'm very busy
now, my young friend.
You'll have to excuse me." "I won't detain you a moment," went on Tom,
casually. "I have something of yours that I wish to
return to you."
"Something of mine?" Mr. Berg was evidently puzzled.
He approached the electric car, in spite of the fact that Mr. Foger was calling him.
"Something of mine?
What is it?" "This!" exclaimed Tom suddenly, extending
the compass watch charm, which he always carried with him of late.
"That!
Where did you get that. I lost it--"
Mr. Berg paused in some confusion.
"I grabbed it off your watch chain the night you were hiding in our shrubbery, and
tripped me into the brook," answered the lad, looking the man squarely in the eye.
"Hiding?
Tripped you? Grabbed that off my chain--" stammered Mr.
Berg.
He had taken the charm up in his fingers, but now he quickly dropped it back into
Tom's hand. "I guess you're mistaken," he added
quickly.
"That's not mine.
I never had one--I--er--that's not mine--at least--Oh, you'll have to excuse me, young
man, I'm in a hurry, and I have an important engagement!" and with that Mr.
Berg wheeled off, and joined Mr. Foger, who stood on the sidewalk, waiting for him.
"I thought sure it was yours," said Tom, easily.
"Perhaps Mr. Foger will keep it in one of the safety-deposit boxes of his bank, until
the owner claims it," and he looked at the banker.
"What's that?" asked Andy's father.
"This watch charm which I grabbed off Mr. Berg's chain the night he was sneaking
around our house, and crossed the electric wires," went on the lad.
"Don't listen to him.
He doesn't know what he is saying!" exclaimed the former submarine boat agent.
"It's not my charm. He's crazy!"
"Oh, am I?" thought Tom, with a grim look on his face.
"Well, we'll see about that, Mr. Berg," and, putting the charm back in his pocket,
Tom swung his machine toward home, while the agent and the banker entered the new
institution.
"So they're getting chummy," mused Tom.
"Andy and Berg were friends when Andy shut me up in the submarine tank, and now Berg
comes here to do business, and Foger and his associates are trying to put the old
bank out of business.
I wonder if there's any connection there? I must keep my eyes open.
Berg is an unscrupulous man, and so is Andy's father, to say nothing of the red-
haired bully himself.
He had nerve to deny that was his charm. Well, maybe I'll catch him some day."
Tom spent a busy week making new adjustments to his electric car, changing
the gear and providing for heavier fuses.
He was planning for another trip on the road, as the time for the great race was
drawing near, and he wanted the mechanism to be in perfect shape.
One evening, as he was preparing for a short night trip to Mansburg, where he had
promised to call for Miss Nestor, Tom left his machine standing in the road in front
of the house, while he went back to get a robe, as it threatened to be chilly.
As he came back to enter the car, he saw some one standing near it.
"Is that you, Ned?" he called.
"Come, take a spin." Hardly had he spoken than there sounded
from the machine a whirr that told of the current being turned on.
"Don't do that!" cried Tom, knowing at once that it could not be Ned, who never meddled
with the machinery.
A blinding flash and a loud report followed, and Tom saw some one leap from
his car, and try to run away.
But the figure stumbled, and, a moment later the young inventor was upon him,
grappling with him. "Here!
Let me go!" cried a voice, and Tom uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Andy Foger!" he cried. "I've caught you!
You tried to damage my car!"
"Yes, and I'm hurt, too!" whined Andy. "My father will sue you for damages if I
die."
"No danger of that; you're too mean," murmured Tom, as he maintained a tight grip
on the bully. "You let me go!" demanded Andy, squirming
to get away.
"Wait until I see what damage you've done," retorted the young inventor.
"The worst, though, would be the blowing out of a fuse, for I had the gear
disconnected.
You wait a minute now. Maybe it's you who'll have to pay damages."
"You let me go!" fairly screamed Andy, and he aimed a blow at Tom.
It caught our hero on the chest and Tom's fighting blood was up in an instant.
He drew back his left hand, and delivered a blow that landed fairly on Andy's right
eye.
The bully staggered and went down in the dust.
"There!" cried Tom, righteously angry. "That will teach you not to try to damage
my car, and then hit me into the bargain!
Now clear out, before I give you some more!"
Whining and blubbering Andy arose to his feet.
"You just wait.
I'll get square with you for this," he threatened.
"You can accept part of that as pay for what you did in the tar and feathering
game," added Tom.
Then, as Andy moved in front of one of the electric side lamps on the car, Tom uttered
a whistle of surprise. For both of Andy's eyes were bruised and
swollen, though Tom had only hit him once.
"Look at me!" cried the bully, more squint- eyed than ever.
"Look at me! You hit me in one eye, and that explosion
hit me in the other!
My father will sue you for this." As he hurried off down the road Tom
understood.
Andy coming along, had seen Tom's car standing there, and, thinking to do some
mischief, had climbed in, and turned on the power.
Perhaps he hoped it would run into the roadside ditch and be smashed.
But as the gear was out, turning on the electric current had a different effect.
As the bully pulled the handle over too quickly, throwing almost the entire force
of the battery into the wires at once, the load was too heavy for them.
A safety fuse blew out, causing the flare and the explosion, and a piece of the soft
lead-like metal had hit the red-haired lad in the eye.
Tom's fist had completed the work on the other optic, and for several days
thereafter Andy Foger remained in seclusion.
When he did go out there were many embarrassing questions put to him, as to
when he had had the fight. Andy didn't care to answer.
As for Tom, it did not take long to put a new fuse in his car, and he greatly enjoyed
his ride with Miss Nestor that night.
>
CHAPTER XVI TROUBLE AT THE BANK
Coming in rather late from his trip to Mansburg, and thinking of some things he
and Miss Nestor had talked about, Tom was rather surprised, on reaching the house, to
see a light in his father's particular
room, where the aged inventor did his reading and his planning of new devices.
"Dad's up rather late," said Tom to himself.
"I wonder if he's studying over some new machine."
The lad ran his auto into the temporary garage he had built for it, and connected
the wires of a burglar alarm he had arranged, to give warning in case any of
his enemies should seek to damage the car.
Tom encountered Garret Jackson, the aged inventor who was going his rounds, seeing
that everything was all right about the various shops.
"Anybody with my father, Garret?" asked the lad.
"I see he's still up." "Yes," was the rather unexpected reply.
"Mr. Damon is with him.
They've been in your father's room all the evening--ever since you went away in the
car."
"Anything the matter?" inquired the young inventor, a bit anxious, as he thought of
the Happy Harry gang. "Well, I don't know," and the engineer
seemed puzzled.
"They called me in once to know if everything was all right outside, and to
inquire if you were back.
I saw, then, that they were busy figuring over something, but I didn't take much
notice.
Only I heard Mr. Damon say: 'There's going to be trouble if we can't realize on those
bonds,' and then I came away." "Is that all he said?" asked Tom.
"No, he said 'Bless my buttons,' or something like that; but he blesses so many
things I didn't pay much attention." "That's right," agreed the lad.
"But I wonder what the trouble is about?
I must go see." As he passed along the hall, out of which
his father's combined study and library opened, the aged inventor came to the door.
"Is that you, Tom?" he asked.
"Yes, Dad." "Come in here, if you haven't anything else
to do. Mr. Damon is here."
Tom needed but a single glance at the faces of his father and Mr. Damon to see that
something was troubling the two. The table in front of them was littered
with papers covered with rows of figures.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Well, I suppose I ought not to let it
bother me, but it does," replied his father.
"Something wrong with your patents, Dad?
Has the crowd of bad men been bothering you again?"
"No, it isn't that. It's trouble at the bank, Tom."
"Has it been robbed again?" asked the lad quickly.
"If it has I can prove an alibi," and he smiled at the recollection of the time he
and Mr. Damon had been accused of looting the vault, as told in "Tom Swift and His
Airship."
"No, it hasn't been robbed in just that way," put in Mr. Damon.
"But, bless my shoe laces, it's almost as bad!
You see, Tom, since Mr. Foger started the new bank he's done his best to cripple the
one in which your father and I are interested.
I may say we are very vitally interested in it, for, since the withdrawal of Foger and
his associates, your father and I have been elected directors."
"I didn't know that," remarked the lad.
"No, I didn't tell you, because you were so busy on your electric car," rejoined Mr.
Swift.
"But Mr. Damon and I, being both large depositors, were asked to assume office,
and, as I was not very busy on patent affairs, I consented."
"But what is the trouble?" inquired Tom.
"I'm coming to it," resumed Mr. Damon. "Bless my check book, I'm coming to it!
You see we have lost several good customers, by reason of Foger opening the
new bank.
That wouldn't have mattered so much, as between your father and myself, and one or
two others, we have enough capital to carry on the business of the bank.
But there is a more serious matter.
We hold a number of very good securities, but they are of a class hard to realize
cash for, on short notice.
In other words they are not active bonds, though they are issued by reliable
concerns.
Then, too, the bank has lost considerable money by not doing as much business as it
formerly did.
In short we don't know just what to do, Tom, and your father and I were discussing
it, when you came in." "Do you need more money?" asked Tom.
"I have some, that is my share from the submarine treasure, and some I have allowed
to accumulate as royalties from my patents. It's about ten thousand dollars, and you're
welcome to it."
"Thank you, Tom," spoke his father. "We may use your cash, but we'll need a
great deal more than that." "But why?" asked the lad.
"I don't understand.
If you have good bonds, can't you dispose of them, and get the money?"
"We could, Tom, yes, if we had time," replied Mr. Damon.
"But to throw the bonds on the market at short notice would mean that we would not
get a good price for them. We would lose considerable."
"But why do it in a hurry?"
"Because there is need of hurry," responded Mr. Swift.
"That's it," joined in Mr. Damon.
"We have to have cash in a hurry, Tom, to meet pressing demands, and we don't just
see our way clear to get it.
I am trying to raise it on some private securities I own, but I can't get an answer
within several days. Meanwhile the bank may fail, because of
lack of funds.
Of course no one would lose anything, ultimately, as we could go into the hands
of a receiver, and, eventually pay dollar for dollar.
Your father and I, and some of the other directors, might lose a little, but the
depositors would not. But your father and I don't like the idea
of failing.
It's something I've never done, and I'm too old to start in now, bless my cash ledger
if I'm not!"
"And for the sake of my reputation in this community I don't want to see the bank
close its doors," added Mr. Swift. "It would give Foger too good a chance to
crow over us."
"And you need cash in a hurry," went on Tom.
"How much?" "Fifty thousand dollars at least," replied
Mr. Damon.
"And if you don't get it?" The eccentric man shrugged his shoulders.
"Well," remarked Mr. Swift musingly, "I don't see that we need worry you about it,
Tom.
Perhaps--" Mr. Swift was interrupted by a ring at the
front door. The three looked at each other.
It was late for a caller, and Mrs. Baggert had gone to bed.
"I'll answer it," volunteered Tom. He switched on the electric light in the
hall, and opened the door.
He was confronted by Mr. Pendergast, the president of the bank.
"Is your father in?" asked Mr. Pendergast, and he seemed to be much agitated.
"Yes, he is," replied the lad.
"Come this way, please." "I want to see him on important business,"
went on the president, as he followed the young inventor.
"I'm afraid I have bad news for him and Mr. Damon.
Bad news, Tom, bad news," and the aged banker's voice trembled.
Tom, with a chill of apprehension seeming to clutch his heart, threw open the library
door.
>
CHAPTER XVII A RUN ON THE BANK
"Why, Mr. Pendergast!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, rising quickly as Tom ushered in the aged
president. "Whatever is the matter?
You here at this hour?
Bless my trial balance! Is anything wrong?
"I'm afraid there is," answered the bank head.
"I have just received word which made it necessary for me to see you both at once.
I'm glad you're here, Mr. Damon." He sank wearily into a chair which Tom
placed for him, and Mr. Swift asked:
"Have you been able to raise any cash, Mr. Pendergast?"
"No, I am sorry to say I have not, but I did not come here to tell you that.
I have bad news for you.
As soon as we open our doors in the morning, there will be a run on the bank."
"A run on the bank?" repeated Mr. Swift. "The moment we begin business in the
morning," went on Mr. Pendergast.
"Bless my soul, then don't begin business!" cried Mr. Damon.
"We must," insisted Mr. Pendergast. "To keep the doors closed would be a
confession at once that we have failed.
No, it is better to open them, and stand the run as long as we can.
When we have exhausted our cash--" he paused.
"Well?" asked Mr. Damon.
"Then we'll fail--that's all." "But we mustn't let the bank fail!" cried
Mr. Swift.
"I am willing to put some of my personal fortune into the bank capital in order to
save it. So is my son here."
"That's right," chimed in Tom heartily.
"All I've got. I'm not going to let Andy Foger get ahead
of us; nor his father either." "I'll help to the limit of my ability,"
added Mr. Damon.
"I appreciate all that," continued the president.
"But the unfortunate part of it is that we need cash.
You gentlemen, like myself, probably, have your money tied up in stocks and bonds.
It is hard to get cash quickly, and we must have cash as soon as we open in the
morning, to pay the depositors who will come flocking to the doors.
We must prepare for a run on the bank."
"How do you know there will be a run?" asked the young inventor.
"I received word this evening, just before I came here," replied Mr. Pendergast.
"A poor widow, who has a small amount in the bank, called on me and said she had
been advised to withdraw all her cash.
She said she preferred to see me about it first, as she did not like to lose her
interest.
She said a number of her acquaintances, some of whom are quite heavy depositors,
had also been warned that the bank was unsound, and that they ought to take out
their savings and deposits at once."
"Did she say who had thus warned her?" inquired Mr. Swift.
"She did," was the reply, "and that shows me that there is a conspiracy on foot to
ruin our bank.
She stated that Mr. Foger had told her our institution was unsound."
"Mr. Foger!" cried Mr. Damon. "So this is one of his tricks to bolster up
his new bank!
He hopes the people who withdraw their money from our bank will deposit with him.
I see his game.
He's a scoundrel, and if it's possible I'm going to sue him for damages after this
thing is over." "Did he warn the others?" inquired the aged
inventor.
"Not all of them," answered the president. "Some received letters from a man signing
himself Addison Berg, warning them that our bank, was likely to fail any day."
"Addison Berg!" exclaimed Tom.
"That must have been the important business he had with Mr. Foger, the day I showed him
the watch charm!
They were plotting the ruin of our bank then," and he told his father about his
disastrous pursuit of the submarine agent. "Very likely Foger is working with Berg,"
admitted Mr. Damon.
"We will attend to them later. The question is, what can we do to save the
bank?" "Get cash, and plenty of it," advised Mr.
Pendergast.
"Suppose we go over the whole situation again?" and they fell to talking stocks:
bonds, securities, mortgages and interest, until the youth, interested as he was in
the situation, could follow it no longer.
"Better go to bed, Tom," advised his father.
"You can't help us any, and we have many details to go over."
The lad reluctantly consented, and he was soon dreaming that he was in his electric
auto, trying to pull up a thousand pound lump of gold from the bottom of the sea.
He awoke to find the bedclothes in a lump on his chest, and, removing them, fell into
a deep slumber.
When the young inventor awoke the next morning, Mrs. Baggert told him that his
father and Mr. Damon had risen nearly an hour before, had partaken of a hearty
breakfast, and departed.
"They told me to tell you they were at the bank," said the housekeeper.
"Did Mr. Pendergast stay all night?" inquired Tom.
"I heard some one go away about two o'clock this morning," replied the housekeeper.
"I don't know who it was."
"They must have had a long session," thought Tom, as he began on his bacon, eggs
and coffee. "I'll take a run down to the bank in my
electric in a little while."
The car was still in rather crude shape, outwardly, but the mechanism was now almost
perfect. Tom charged the batteries well before
starting out.
The youth had no sooner come in sight of the old Shopton bank, to distinguish it
from the Second National, which Mr. Foger had started, than he was aware that
something unusual had occurred.
There was quite a crowd about it, and more persons were constantly arriving to swell
the throng.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom, of one of the few police officers of which Shopton
boasted, though the lad did not need to be told.
"Run on the bank," was the brief answer.
"It's failed." Tom felt a pang of disappointment.
Somehow, he had hoped that his father and his friends might have been able to stave
off ruin.
As he approached nearer Tom was made aware that the crowd was in an ugly mood.
"Why don't they open the doors and give us our money?" cried one excited woman.
"It's ours!
I worked hard for mine, an' now they want to keep it from us.
I wish I'd put it in the new bank." "Yes, that's the best place," added
another.
"That Mr. Foger has lots of money." "I can see the hand of Andy's father, and
that of Mr. Berg, at work here," thought Tom, "They have spread rumors of the bank's
trouble, and hope to profit by it.
I wish I could find a way to beat them at their own game."
As the minutes passed, and the bank was not opened, the ugly temper of the crowd
increased.
The few police could do nothing with the mob, and several, bolder than the rest,
advocated battering down the doors. Some went up the steps and began to pound
on the portals.
Tom looked for a sight of his father or Mr. Damon, but could not see either.
It was not the regular hour for opening the bank, but when the police reminded the
people of this they only laughed.
"I guess they ain't going to open anyhow!" shouted a man.
"They've got our money, and they're going to keep it.
What difference is an hour, anyway?"
"Yes, if they have the money, why don't they open, and not wait until ten o'clock?"
cried another. "I've got a hundred and five dollars in
there, and I want it!"
More excited persons were arriving every minute.
The crowd surged this way, and that. Many looked anxiously at the clock in the
tower of the town hall.
The gilded hands pointed to a few minutes of ten.
Would the bank open its doors when the hour boomed out?
Many were anxiously asking this question.
Tom sat in his electric car, near the front of the bank.
The interest of the crowd, which under ordinary circumstances would have been
centered in the *** vehicle, was not drawn toward it.
The people were all thinking of their money.
Suddenly one of the two doors of the bank slowly opened.
There was a yell from the crowd, and a rush to get in.
But the police managed to hold the leaders back, and then Tom saw that it was Ned
Newton, who stood in the partly-opened portal.
He held up his hand to indicate silence, and a hush fell over the mob.
"The bank is open for business," Ned announced, "but there must be no rush.
The building is not large enough to accommodate you all.
If you form a line, you will be admitted in turn.
The bank hopes to pay you all."
"Hopes!" cried a woman scornfully. "We can't eat hopes, young man, nor yet pay
the rent with it. Hopes indeed!"
But Ned had said all he cared to, and, with rather a white face, he went back inside.
The one door remained open and, with a policeman on either side, a line of anxious
depositors was slowly formed.
Tom watched them crowding and surging forward, all eager to be first to get their
cash out, lest there be not enough for all.
As he watched, the young inventor was aware that some was signaling to him from the big
window of the bank.
He looked more closely and saw Ned Newton beckoning to him, and the young cashier was
motioning Tom to go around to the rear, where a door of the bank opened on a small
alley.
Wondering what was wanted, Tom slowly ran his machine down the side street, and up
the alley. No one paid any attention to him.
A porter admitted the lad, and he made his way to the private offices, where he knew
his father and Mr. Damon would be.
In the corridors he could hear the murmur of the throng and the *** of money, as
the tellers paid it out. "Well, Tom, this is bad business," remarked
Mr. Swift, as he saw his son.
The lad noticed that Mr. Damon was in the telephone booth.
"Yes, Dad," admitted Tom. "It's a run, all right.
What are you going to do?"
"The best we can. Pay out all the cash we have, and hope that
before that time, the people will come to their senses.
The bank is all right if they would only wait.
But I'm afraid they won't and, after we pay out all the cash we have, we'll have to
close the doors.
Then there's sure to be an unpleasant scene, and maybe some of the more hot-
headed ones will advocate violence.
We have given orders to the tellers to pay out as slowly as possible, so as to enable
us to gain some time." "And all you need is money; is that it,
Dad?"
"That's it, Tom, but we have exhausted every possibility.
Mr. Damon is trying a forlorn hope now, but, even if he is successful--"
Before Mr. Swift had ceased speaking, Mr. Damon fairly burst from the telephone
booth. He was much excited.
"I've got it!
I've got it!" he cried. "What?" asked Mr. Swift and Tom in the same
breath. "The cash, or, what's just as good, the
promise of it.
I called up Mr. Chase, of the Clayton National Bank, and he has agreed to take
the railroad securities I offered him as collateral, and let me have sixty thousand
dollars on them!
That will give us cash enough to weather the storm.
Hurrah! We're all right now.
Bless my check book!"
"The Clayton National Bank," remarked Mr. Swift, and his voice was hopeless.
"It's forty miles away, Mr. Damon, and no railroad around here runs anywhere near it.
No one could get there and back with the cash to-day, in time to save us from ruin.
It's impossible! Our last chance is gone."
"How far did you say it was, Dad?" asked Tom quickly.
"Forty miles there, over forty, I guess, and not very good roads.
We would need to have the cash here before three o'clock to be of any service to us.
No, it's out of the question. The bank will have to fail!"
"No!" cried the young inventor, and his voice rang out through the room.
"I'll get the cash for you!" "How?" gasped Mr. Damon.
"You can't get there and back in time?"
"Yes, I can!" cried Tom. "In my electric runabout!
I can make it go a hundred miles an hour, if necessary!
Probably I'll have to run slow over the bad roads; but I can do it!
I know I can. I'll get the sixty thousand dollars for
you!"
For a moment there was silence. Then Mr. Damon cried:
"Good! And I'll go with you and deliver the
securities to Mr. Chase.
Come on, Tom Swift! Bless my collar button, but maybe we can
yet save the old bank after all!"
>
CHAPTER XVIII AFTER THE CASH
Tom's proposal as a way out of the difficulty, and the prompt seconding of it
by Mr. Damon, seemed to deprive the other bank officials, Mr. Swift included, of the
power of speech for a few moments.
Then, as there came to the room where the scene had taken place, the sound of the mob
outside, clamoring for cash, Mr. Pendergast, the president, remarked in a
low voice:
"It seems to be the only way. Do you think you can do it, Tom Swift?"
"I'm sure of it, as far as my electric car is concerned," replied the young inventor.
"If we get the cash I'll have it back here on time.
The runabout is all ready for a fast trip." "Then don't lose any time, Tom," advised
his father.
"Every minute counts." "Yes," added Mr. Damon.
"Come on.
I've got the securities in my valise, and we can bring the cash back in the same
satchel. Come on, Tom."
The eccentric character caught up his valise, and started from the room.
Tom followed. "Now, my son, be careful," advised his
father.
"You know the need of haste, but don't take unnecessary risks.
You'd better go out the back way, as the crowd is easily excited."
Little more was said.
Mr. Swift clasped his son's hand in a firm pressure, and the bank president nervously
bade the lad good-by.
Then, slipping out of the bank, by the rear entrance, the porter closing the door after
them, Tom and Mr. Damon took their places in the electric machine.
"Just imagine you're racing for that three- thousand-dollar prize, offered by the
Touring Club of America, Tom," observed Mr. Damon, as he deposited the valise at his
feet.
"I don't have to do that," replied the youth.
"I'm trying for a bigger prize than that. I want to save the bank, and defeat the
schemes of the Fogers--father and son."
Tom turned on the power, and the machine rolled out on the main street.
As it turned the corner, leaving the impatient crowd of depositors, now larger
than ever, behind, Mr. Damon glanced over at the new bank, and, as he did so, he
called to Tom:
"There are the Fogers now." The young inventor looked, and saw Andy and
his father on the steps of the new institution.
At the sight of the electric car, speeding along, Andy turned and spoke to his parent.
What he said seemed to impress Mr. Foger, for he started, and looked more intently at
Tom and Mr. Damon.
Then, as Tom watched, he saw the two excitedly conversing, and a moment later
Andy ran off in the direction in which Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey lived.
"I wonder if he's up to any tricks?" thought Tom, as he turned on more power.
"Well, if he is, I'll soon be where he can't reach me."
The young inventor did not dare send his car at full speed through the streets of
the town, and it was not until several minutes had passed that they could go at
more than the ordinary rate.
But once the open country was reached Tom "opened her up full," and the song the
motor sung was one of power. The vehicle quickly gathered headway and
was soon fairly whizzing along.
"If we keep this up we'll be there and back in good time," remarked Mr. Damon.
"Yes, but we can't do it," replied his companion.
"The road to Clayton is a poor one, and we'll soon be on it.
Then we'll have to go slow. But I'll make all the time I can until
then."
So, for several miles more they crept along, at times having to reduce to almost
a walking pace, because of bad roads. Mr. Damon looked at his watch almost every
other minute.
"Eleven o'clock," he remarked, as they passed a milestone, "and we're not half way
there. Bless my gizzard, but I'm afraid we won't
make it, Tom.
We left about ten, and we ought to be back by two o'clock to do any good.
That's four hours, and it will take some time to transfer the securities, and get
the cash.
Every minute counts." "I know it," answered Tom, "and I'm going
to count every minute." With eager eyes he watched every inch of
the road, to steer to the best advantage.
His hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles showed white with the strain, and,
every now and then his right hand adjusted the speed lever or the controller handle,
while his foot was on the emergency brake,
ready to stop the car at the first sign of danger.
And there was danger, not infrequently, for the road was up and down hill, over frail
bridges, and along steep cliffs.
It was no pleasure tour they were on. When a little over half the distance had
been made they came to a better road, and Tom was able to use full speed ahead.
Then the electric went so fast that, had it not been for the steel wind-shield in
front, Mr. Damon, at any rate, would have been short of breath.
"This is going some!" he cried to Tom.
The lad nodded grimly, and shoved the controller handle over to the last notch.
Then came a bad stretch and they had to slow down again.
As they were about out of it there came a little flash of fire and the motor stopped.
"Bless my overshoes!" cried Mr. Damon. "What's that; a fuse blown out?"
"No," replied Tom, with a puzzled air.
"But something has gone wrong." Hastily he got out, and made an
examination.
He found it was only one of the unimportant wires which had short-circuited, and it was
soon adjusted. But they had lost five precious minutes.
Tom tried to make up for lost time, but came to a hill a little later, and this
reduced their speed. "Do you think we can make it before
twelve?" asked Mr. Damon anxiously.
"We've got to, if we're to get back before three, Tom."
"I'll try," was the calm answer, and Tom's jaw was shut still more tightly.
Once again came more favorable roads and pushing the car to the limit the occupants
were rejoiced, a little later, as they topped a hill, to come in sight of a fairly
large city.
"There's Clayton!" cried Mr. Damon. Ten minutes later they were rolling through
the main street, and as they stopped in front of the bank, the noon whistles blew
shrill and noisily.
"You did it, Tom!" cried Mr. Damon, springing out with the valise of
securities. "Now be ready for the return trip.
I'll be with you as soon as possible."
He went up the bank steps three at a time, like some boy instead of an elderly man.
Tom looked after him for a second and then got down to oil up his car, and make some
adjustments that had rattled loose from the rough road.
Unmindful of the curious throng that gathered he crawled under the machine with
his oil-can.
He had finished his work, and was back in his seat, ready to start, but Mr. Damon had
not reappeared. "It's taking him a good while to get that
cash," thought Tom.
"Maybe the securities were no good." But, a few minutes later, Mr. Damon came
hurrying from the bank. The valise he carried seemed much heavier
than when he went in.
"It's all right, Tom," he said. "I've got it.
Now for the trip home, and I hope we don't have any accidents.
It took longer than I thought to check over the bonds and receipt for them.
But I've got the cash. Now to save the bank!"
He took his place beside the young inventor, holding the valise between his
knees, while Tom turned on the power and sent his car dashing down the street, and
toward the road that led to Shopton.
>
CHAPTER XIX STOPPED ON THE ROAD
"Did Mr. Chase make any objection to giving you the cash?" asked Tom, as he shoved the
controller over another notch, and caused the motor to make a higher note in its song
of speed.
"Oh, no, he was very nice about it," replied Mr. Damon.
"He said he hoped our bank would pull through.
Said if we needed more cash we could have it."
It was nearly one o'clock, and they had the worst part of the journey yet to go.
Thirty miles of stiff roads lay between them and Shopton, the last five and the
first five being fairly good, with, here and there, soft spots.
Up hill and down went the electric auto.
At every opportunity Tom let out all the speed he could draw from the motor, but
there were many times when he had to slow down.
He had just made the ascent of a steep hill, and was turning into a fairly good
road, skirting the edge of a steep cliff, when there came a sharp report.
"Bless my soul!
That's a fuse, I'm sure of it!" cried Mr. Damon.
"No," announced Tom, as he quickly shut off the power.
"It's a puncture.
One of the inner tubes of the tire has been pierced.
I was afraid of that tube." "What have you got to do; put on a new
tire?" asked Mr. Damon.
"No, I'm going to put on a new wheel. I carry two spare ones with tires all ready
inflated. It won't take long."
But the process of changing wheels consumed more time than Tom anticipated for the nut
was stuck, and he and Mr. Damon had to exert all their strength before they could
loosen it.
When the new wheel was in place ten minutes had been lost.
"Hold on now, I'm going to speed her!" cried Tom, when they were once more in
their seats, and speed the machine he did.
The road was rough, but despite this the lad turned on almost full power.
Over the bumps they went, around curves and into rain-washed ruts careening from side
to side, and throwing Mr. Damon about, as he expressed it afterward, "like a bean
inside of a football."
As for the young inventor his grasp of the steering wheel, and the manner in which he
could brace himself against the foot pedals, held him more firmly in place.
On and on they rushed, covering mile after mile, and approaching Shopton where so much
depended on their arrival.
Good and bad stretches of the road alternated, but now that Tom had seen of
what mettle his car was made, he did not spare it as much as he had on the first
trip.
He saw that his machine would stand hard knocks, and the way the battery and motor
was behaving was a joy to him.
He knew that if he could make that eighty- mile run in safety he stood a good chance
of winning the prize, for no harder test could have been devised.
But the race was still far from won.
There was a particularly unsafe stretch of road yet to be covered, and then would come
a smooth highway into Shopton. "Ten miles more," observed Mr Damon,
snapping shut his big gold watch.
"Ten miles more, and it's a quarter of two now.
We ought to be there at a quarter after, and that will be in good time, eh, Tom?"
"I think so, but I don't know about this piece of road we're coming to.
It seems worse than when we passed over it this morning."
As he spoke the auto began to slow up, for the wheels had struck some heavy sand, and
it was necessary to reduce the current.
Tom turned back the controller handle, but watched with eager eyes for a sign that the
roadbed was harder, so that he could increase speed.
As the car turned around a curve, passing through a lonely stretch of country, with
woods on either side of the highway, Tom glancing up, uttered a cry of astonishment.
"What's the matter; something gone wrong?" asked his companion.
For answer Tom pointed.
There, just ahead of them, was a big load of hay, and it was evident that the driver,
was in no particular hurry. "We can't pass that without getting in over
our hubs!" cried Tom.
"If we turn out the side ditches are so soft that we'll need help to pull out, and
the road is so narrow for several miles that we'll have to trail along behind that
fellow."
"Bless my check book!" cried Mr. Damon. "Are we going to lose, after all, on
account of a load of hay?
No, I'll buy it from him first, at double the market price, tip it over, set fire to
it, toss it in the ditch, and then we can go past!"
"Maybe that will answer," retorted Tom, smiling grimly.
He put on a little more speed, and was soon close up behind the load of hay, ringing
his electric bell as a warning.
"I say!" called Mr. Damon to the unseen driver, "can't you turn out and let us
pass?" "Ha! Hum!
Wa'al I guess not!" came the answer, in unmistakable farmer's accents.
"You automobile fellers is too gol-hanged smart, racin' along th' roads.
I've got just as good a right here as you fellers have, by heck!"
The driver did not show himself.
"We know that," responded Tom, as quickly as he could, for he did not want to anger
the man.
"But our machine is so heavy that if we turn into the ditch I'm afraid we'll be
mired." "Huh! So'll I," was the retort from the
unseen driver..
"Think I want t' spile my load of hay?" "But you have wide tires on, and you
wouldn't sink in far," answered the young inventor.
"Besides, it's very necessary that we get past.
A great deal depends on our speed." "So it does on mine," was the reply.
"Ef I git t' market late I'll have t' stay all night, an' spend money on a hotel
bill." "I'll pay it!
I'll pay your bill if you'll only pull out!" cried Mr. Damon.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars!" He suddenly ceased speaking.
From the bushes along the road sprang several ragged, masked figures.
Each one, aiming his weapon at Tom, said in a low voice, that could not have been heard
by the driver of the hay wagon:
"Slow up your machine, young feller! We want to speak with you, and don't you
make a loud noise, or it won't be healthy for you!"
"Why of all the-!" began Mr. Damon, but another of the footpads leveling his weapon
at the eccentric man growled: "Dry up, if you don't want to get shot!"
Mr. Damon subsided.
Discretion was very plainly the better part of valor.
Tom had shut off the current. The load of hay continued on ahead.
Tom thought perhaps the driver of it might have been in collusion with the thieves, to
cause the auto to slow up.
"What do you want with us?" asked the young inventor, trying to speak calmly, but
finding it a hard task, with a revolver pointed at him.
"You know what we want," exclaimed the leader, in a low voice.
"We want that cash you got from the bank, and we're going to have it!
Come, now, shell out!" and he advanced toward the automobile.
>
CHAPTER XX ON TIME
Close around the electric auto crowded the members of the hold-up gang.
Their eyes seemed to glare through the holes in their black masks.
Instantly Tom thought of the other occasion when he was halted by masked figures.
Could these, by any possibility, be the same individuals?
Was this a trick of Andy Foger and his cronies?
Tom tried to pierce through the disguises. Clearly the persons were men--not boys--and
they wore the ragged clothes of tramps.
Also, there was an air of dogged determination about them.
"Well, are you going to shell out?" asked the leader, taking a step nearer, "or will
we have to take it?"
"Bless my very existence! You don't mean to say that you're going to
take the money--I mean how do you know we have any money?" and Mr. Damon hastily
corrected himself.
"What right have you to stop us in this way?
Don't you know that every minute counts? We are in a hurry."
"I know it," spoke the leading masked figure with a laugh.
"I know you have considerable money in that shebang, and I know what you hope to do
with it, prevent the run on the Shopton National Bank.
But we need that money as much as some other people and, what's more, we're going
to have it! Come on, shell out!"
"Oh, why didn't we bring a gun!" lamented Mr. Damon in a low voice to Tom.
"Isn't there anything we can do? Can't you give them an electric shock,
Tom?"
"I'm afraid not. If it wasn't for that hay wagon we could
turn on the current and make a run for it. But we'd only go into the ditch if we tried
to pass now."
The load of hay was down the road, but as Tom looked he noticed a curious thing.
It seemed to be nearer than it was when the attack of the masked men came.
The wagon actually seemed to have backed up.
Once more the thought came to the lad that possibly the load of fodder might be one of
the factors on which the thieves counted.
They might have used it to make the auto halt, and the man, or men, on it were
probably in collusion with the footpads.
There was no doubt about it, the load of hay was coming nearer, backing up instead
of moving away. Tom couldn't understand it.
He gave a swift glance at the robbers.
They had not appeared to notice this, or, if they had, they gave no sign.
"Then we can't do anything," murmured Mr. Damon.
"I don't see that we can," replied the young inventor in a low voice.
"And the money we worked so hard to get won't do the bank any good," and Mr. Damon
sighed.
"It's tough luck," agreed Tom. "Come now, fork over that cash!" called the
leader, advancing still closer. "None of that talk between you there.
If you think you can work some trick on us you're mistaken.
We're desperate men, and we're well armed.
The first show of resistance you make, and we shoot--get that, fellows?" he added to
his followers, and they nodded grimly.
"Well," remarked Mr. Damon with an air of submission, "I only want to warn you that
you are acting illegally, and that you are perpetrating a desperate crime."
"Oh, we know that all right," answered one of the men, and Tom gave a start.
He was sure he had heard that voice before. He tried to remember it--tried to penetrate
the disguise--but he could not.
"I'll give you ten seconds more to hand over that bag of money," went on the
leader. "If you don't, we'll take it and some of
you may get hurt in the process."
There seemed nothing else to do. With a white face, but with anger showing
in his eyes Mr. Damon reached down to get the valise.
Tom had retained his grip of the steering wheel, and the starting lever.
He hoped, at the last minute, he might see a chance to dash away, and escape, but that
load of hay was in the path.
He noted that it was now quite near, but the thieves paid no attention to it.
Tom might have reversed the power, and sent his machine backward, but he could not see
to steer it if he went in that direction, and he would soon have gone into the ditch.
There was nothing to do save to hand over the cash, it seemed.
Mr. Damon had the bag raised from the car, and the leader of the thieves was reaching
up for it, when there came a sudden interruption.
From the load of hay there sounded a fusillade of pistol shots, cracking out
with viciousness.
This was instantly followed by the appearance of three men who came running
from around the load of hay, down the road toward the thieves.
Each man carried a pitchfork, and as they ran, one of the trio shouted:
"Right at 'em, boys! Jab your hay forks clean through the
scoundrels!
By Heck, I guess we'll show 'em we know how t' tackle a hold-up gang as well as the
next fellow! Right at 'em now!
Charge 'em!
Stick your forks right through 'em!" Again there sounded a fusillade of pistol
shots. The thieves turned as one man, and glanced
at the relief so unexpectedly approaching.
They gave one look at the three determined looking farmers, with their sharp,
glittering pitchforks, and then, without a word, they turned and fled, leaping into
the bushes that lined the roadway.
The underbrush closed after them and they were hidden from sight.
On came the three farmers, waving their effective weapons, the pistol shots still
ringing out from the load of hay.
Tom could not understand it, and could see no one firing--could detect no smoke.
"Are they gone? Did they rob ye?" asked the foremost of the
trio, a burly, grizzled farmer.
"Bust my buttons, but I guess we skeered 'em all right!"
"Bless my shoe buttons, but you certainly have!" cried Mr. Damon, descending from the
automobile, and wringing the hand of the farmer, while Tom, thrust the bag of money
under his legs and waited further developments.
The pistol shots rang out until one of the men called:
"That'll do, Bub! We've skeered 'em like Mrs. Zenoby's pet cat!
You needn't crack that whip any more." "Whip!" cried Tom.
"Was that a whip?"
"That's what it was," explained the leading farmer.
"Bub Armstrong, my nephew, can crack it to beat th' band," and as if in proof of this
there emerged from behind the load of hay a small lad, carrying a large whip, to which
he gave a few trial cracks, like pistol shots, as if to show his ability.
"It's all right, Bub," his uncle assured him.
"We made 'em run."
"But I don't exactly understand," spoke Mr. Damon.
"I thought you were in league with those thieves, stopping us as you did with your
big load."
"So did I," admitted Tom. "Ha! Ha!" laughed the farmer.
"That's a pretty good joke. Excuse me for laughin'.
My name's Lyon, Jethro Lyon, of Salina Township, an' these is my two sons, Ade and
Burt. You see we're on our way to Shopton, an' my
nephew, Bub, he went along.
We thought you was some of them sassy automobile fellers at first when you
hollered to us you wanted to pass.
Then when we looked back, we seen them burglars goin' t' rob you, at least that's
what we suspicioned," and he paused suggestively.
"That was it," Tom said.
"Wa'al, when we seen that, we held a sort of consultation on thet load of hay, where
they couldn't see us. It was so big you know," he needlessly
explained.
"Wa'al, we calcalated we could help you, so I jest quietly backed up, until we was near
enough.
I told Bub to take the long whip, an' crack it for all he was wuth, so's it would sound
like reinforcements approachin' with guns, an' he done it."
"He certainly done it," added Burt.
"Wa'al," resumed Mr. Lyon, "then me an my sons we jest slipped down off the front
seat, an' come a runnin' with our pitchforks.
I reckoned them burglars would run when they see us an' heard us, an' they done
so." "Yep, they done so," added Ade, like an
echo.
"I can't tell you how much obliged we are to you," said Mr. Damon.
"We have sixty thousand dollars in this valise, and they would have had it in
another minute, and the bank would have failed."
"Sixty thousand dollars!" gasped Mr. Lyon, and his sons and nephew echoed the words.
Mr. Damon briefly explained about the money, and he and the young inventor again
thanked their rescuers, who had so unexpectedly, and in such a novel manner,
put the thieves to flight.
"An' you've got t' git t' Shopton before three o'clock with thet cash?" asked Mr.
Lyon. "That's what we hoped to do," replied Tom
"but I'm afraid we won't now.
It's half past two, and--" "Don't say another word," interrupted Mr.
Lyon. "I know what ye mean.
My hay's in the road.
But don't let that worry ye none. I'll pull out of your road in a jiffy, an'
if we do go down in th' ditch, why we can throw off part of th' load, lighten th'
wagon, an' pull out again.
You've got t' hustle if ye git t' Shopton by three o'clock."
"I can do it with a clear road," declared Tom, confidently.
"Then ye'll have th' clear road," Mr. Lyon assured him.
"Come boys, let's git th' hay t' one side." The farmers pulled into the ditch.
As they had feared the wagon went in almost to the hubs, but they did not mind, and,
even as Tom and Mr. Damon shot past them, they fell to work tossing off part of the
fodder, to lighten the wagon.
The young inventor and his companion waved a grateful farewell to them as they fairly
tore past, for Tom had turned on almost the full current.
"Do you suppose that was the Happy Harry gang, or some members of it who were not
captured and sent to jail?" asked Mr. Damon.
"I don't believe so," answered the lad, shaking his head.
"Maybe they didn't really want to rob us. Perhaps they only wanted to delay us so we
wouldn't get to the bank on time."
"Bless my top knot, you may be right!" cried Mr. Damon.
Further conversation became difficult, as they struck a rough part of the road, where
the vehicle swayed and jolted to an alarming degree.
But Tom never slackened pace.
On and on they rushed, Mr. Damon frequently looking at his watch.
"We've got twenty minutes left," he remarked as they came out on the smooth
stretch of road, that led directly into Shopton.
Then Tom turned all the reserve power into the motor.
The machinery almost groaned as the current surged into the wires, but it took up the
load, and the electric car, swaying more than ever, dashed ahead with its burden of
wealth.
Now they were in the town, now speeding down the street leading to the bank.
One or two policemen shouted after them, for they were violating the speed laws, but
it was no time to stop for that.
On and on they dashed. They came in sight of the bank.
A long line of persons was still in front.
They seemed more excited than in the morning, for the hour of three was
approaching, and they feared the bank would close its doors, never to open them again.
"The run is still on," observed Mr. Damon.
"But it will soon be over," predicted Tom.
Some news of the errand of the automobile must have penetrated the crowd, for as Tom
swung past the front entrance to the bank, to go up the rear alley, he was greeted
with a cheer.
"They're got the cash!" a man cried. "I'm satisfied now.
I don't draw out my deposit." "I want to see the cash before I'll believe
it," said another.
Tom slowed up to make the turn into the alley.
As he did so he glanced across the street to the new bank.
In the window stood Andy Foger and his father.
There was a look of surprise on their faces as they saw the arrival of the powerful
car, and, Tom fancied, also a look of chagrin.
Up the alley went the car, police keeping the crowd from following.
The porter was at the door.
So, also, was Mr. Pendergast and Mr. Swift, while some of the other officers were
grouped behind them. "Did you get the money?" gasped the
president.
"We did," answered Tom. "Are we on time, Dad?"
"Just on time, my boy! They're paying out the last of the cash
now!
You're on time, thank fortune!"
>
CHAPTER XXI OFF TO THE BIG RACE
From their task of handing out money to eager depositors, the wearied tellers
looked up as Tom and Mr. Damon entered with the big valise crammed full of money.
It was opened, and the bundles of bills turned out on a table.
"Perhaps you'd better make an announcement to the crowd, Mr. Pendergast," suggested
Mr. Swift.
"Tell them we now have cash enough to meet all demands, and that the bank will be kept
open until every one is paid." "I will," agreed the aged president.
His announcement was received with cheers, and had exactly the effect the inventor
hoped it would.
Many, learning that the bank was safe, and that they could have their money whenever
they wanted it, concluded not to withdraw it, thus saving the interest.
Scores in the waiting crowd turned out of line and went home.
Their example was contagious, and, though many still remained to get their deposits,
the run was broken.
Only part of the sixty thousand dollars Tom and Mr. Damon had brought through after a
race with time, was needed.
But had it not been for the moral effect of the cash arriving as it did, the bank would
have failed.
"You have a great car, Tom Swift," complimented Mr. Pendergast, when the
excitement had somewhat cooled down, and the story of the hold-up had been told.
"I think so myself," agreed the young inventor modestly.
"I must get ready for the races now." "And as for those farmers, I think I'll
send them a reward," went on the president.
"They deserve something for the trouble they had with the load of hay.
I certainly shall send them a reward," which he did, and a substantial one, too.
Of course the hold-up was at once reported to the police after the run had quieted
down, but Chief Simonson surprised Tom by saying that he had expected it.
"The gang that held you up," said the police officer, "was one that escaped from
a jail, about twenty miles away.
I got a tip after you left, that they were going to rob you, for, in some way, they
learned about the money you and Mr. Damon were to bring from the bank.
The unfortunate part of it was that the tip I got was to the effect that the hold-up
would take place just outside of Clayton.
I telephoned to the police there, just after you left, and they said they'd send
out a posse.
But the gang changed their plans; and held you up near here, where I wasn't expecting
it. But I'll get 'em yet."
Chief Simonson did not arrest the gang, but some other police officers did, and they
were taken back to jail.
They were not prosecuted for the attempted robbery of Tom, as it was considered
difficult to fix the guilt on them, but they received such a long additional
sentence for breaking jail, that it will be many years before they are released.
When Tom reached home that night he found some mail from the officials of the Touring
Club of America.
It was to the effect that arrangements for the big contest had been completed, and
that contesting cars must be on the ground by September first.
"That gives me two weeks yet," thought our hero.
He read further of the regulations covering the race.
Each car must proceed from the home town or city of the owner, and go to the track
under its own power.
This was a new regulation, it was stated, and was adopted to better develop the
industry of building electric autos.
Two passengers, or one in addition to the driver, must be carried, it was stated, and
this one would also be expected to be in the car during the entire race.
Regarding the race proper it was stated that at first it had been decided to make
it a twenty-four hour endurance contest, but that for certain reasons this was
changed, as it was found that few storage
batteries could go this length of time without a number of rechargings.
Therefore the race was to be one for distance--five hundred miles, on the new
Long Island track, and the car first covering that distance would win.
Cars were allowed to change their batteries as often as they needed to, but all time
lost would count against them. There were other rules and regulations of
minor importance.
"Well," remarked Tom, as he read through the circulars, "I must get my car in shape.
It will be quite a trip to Long Island, and I think my best plan will be to go direct
to the cottage we had when we were building the submarine, and from there proceed to
the track.
That will comply with the rules, I think. But who will I get to go with me?
I suppose Mr. Damon or Mr. Sharp will be willing.
I'll ask them."
He broached the matter to his two friends that night, and they both agreed to go to
Long Island in the car, though only Mr. Sharp would accompany Tom in the race.
The next two weeks were busy ones for Tom.
He worked night and day over his car, getting it in shape for the big event.
The young inventor made some changes in his battery, and also adopted a new gear, which
would give greater speed.
He also completed the exterior of the auto, giving it several coats of purple paint and
varnish, so that when it was finished, though it was different in shape from most
autos, it was as fine an appearing car as one could wish.
He arranged to carry two extra wheels, with tires inflated, and, under the rear seats,
or tonneau, as he called it, Tom fitted up a complete tire-repairing outfit.
Mr. Sharp agreed to ride there, and in case there was need to use more than two spare
wheels during the race, the rubber shoes or inner tubes could be mended while the car
was swinging around the track.
Mr. Damon would ride in front with Tom on the cross-country trip, and occasionally
relieve him at steering, or would help to manage the electrical connections.
Spare fuses, extra parts, wires and different things he thought he might need,
the young inventor stored in his car.
He also found means to install a small additional storage battery, to give added
power in case of emergency.
Tom learned from the racing officials that if he made a trip from Shopton to the
cottage on the coast, near the city of Atlantis, and later traveled from there to
the track, it would fulfill the conditions of the contest.
Finally all was in readiness, and one morning, having spent the better part of
the night going over his machine, to see that he had forgotten nothing, Tom invited
Mr. Damon and Mr. Sharp to enter, and prepare for the trip to Long Island.
"Well, Tom, I certainly hope you win that race," remarked Mrs. Baggert, as she stood
in the doorway, waving a farewell.
"If I do I'll buy you a pair of diamond earrings to match the diamond ring I gave
you from the money I got from the wreck," promised the lad with a laugh.
"An' ef yo' sees dat Andy Foger," added Eradicate Sampson, while he rubbed the long
ears of Boomerang, his mule, "ef yo' sees him, jest run ober him once or twice fer
mah sake, Mistah Swift."
"I'll do it for my own, too," agreed Tom. The youth shook hands with his father, who
wished him good luck, and then, after a final look at his car, he climbed to his
seat, and turned on the power.
There was a low hum from the motor and the electric started off.
Would it return a winner or loser of the big race?
>
CHAPTER XXII IN A DITCH
Through the streets of Shopton went Tom Swift and his friends.
News of the big contest the young inventor was about to take part in, had circulated
around town, and there were not wanting many to wish him good luck.
The lad responded smilingly to the farewells he received.
As they passed the bank, Ned Newton came out on the steps.
"Wish I was going along," he called.
"So do I," replied Tom. "How's everything?
Is the bank all right since the run?" for he had not had time to pay much attention
to the institution since his memorable race against time, to get the money.
"Stronger and better than ever," was Ned's answer, as he came to the curb, where Tom
slowed up.
"I hear," he added in a whisper, "that the other fellows are going out of business--
Foger and his crowd you know.
They loaned money on unsecured notes to make a good showing, and now they can't get
it back But we're all right. Hope you win the race."
"So do I."
"What will a certain person do while you're away?" went on Ned, with a wink.
"I don't know what you mean," replied Tom, trying not to blush.
"Do you mean my dad or Mrs. Baggert?"
"Neither, you old hypocrite you! I meant Miss Mary Nestor."
"Oh, hadn't you heard?" inquired Tom innocently.
"She is going to Long Island to visit some friends, and she'll be at the race."
"You lucky dog," murmured Ned with a laugh, as he went into the bank.
Once more the electric auto started off, and was soon on the quiet country road,
where Tom speeded it up moderately.
He hoped to be able to make the entire distance to the shore cottage on the single
charge of current he had put into the battery at home, and, as there was no
special need for haste, he wanted to save his power.
The machine was running smoothly, and seemed able to make a long race against
time.
The travelers ate lunch that day at Pendleton, a town some distance from
Shopton. They had covered a substantial part of
their trip.
After a brief rest they started on again. Tom had planned to spend two days and one
night on the road, hoping to be able to reach the shore cottage on the evening of
the second day.
There, after recharging the battery, he would spend a night, or two, and proceed to
the track, ready for the race.
They found the roads fairly good, with bad stretches here and there, which made it
necessary for them to slow down.
This delayed them, and they found the shadows lengthening, and darkness
approaching, when they were still several miles from Burgfield, where they intended
to sleep.
"Will it be all right to travel at night?" asked Mr. Damon, a bit nervously.
"Why, are you thinking of hold-up men?" inquired Mr. Sharp.
"No, but I was wondering about the condition of the roads," replied the
eccentric man. "We don't want to run into a rock, or
collide with something."
"I guess this will light up the road far enough in advance, so that we can see where
we are going," suggested Tom, as he switched on the powerful electric search-
light.
Though it was not dark enough to illuminate the highway to the best advantage, the
powerful gleam shone dazzlingly in front of the swiftly moving auto.
"I guess that will show up every pebble in the road," commented the balloonist.
"It's very powerful."
Tom turned off the light, as, until it was darker, he could see to better advantage
unaided by it. He slowed down the speed somewhat, but was
still going at a good rate.
"There's a bridge somewhere about here," remarked the lad, when they had gone on a
mile further. "I remember seeing it on my road map.
It's not very strong, and we'll have to run slow over it."
"Bless my gizzard, I hope we don't go through it!" cried Mr. Damon.
"Is your car very heavy, Tom?"
"Not heavy enough to break the bridge. Ah, there it is.
Guess I'll turn on the light so we can see what we're doing."
Just ahead of them loomed up the super- structure of a bridge, and Tom turned the
searchlight switch.
At the instant he did so, whether he did not keep a steady hand on the steering
wheel, or whether the auto went into a rut from which it could not be turned, did not
immediately develop, but the car suddenly
shot from the straight road, and swerved to one side.
There was a lurch, and the front wheels sank down.
"Look out!
We're going into the river!" yelled Mr. Damon.
Tom jammed on the brakes and shut off the current.
The auto came to a sudden stop.
The young inventor turned the searchlight downward, to illuminate the ground directly
in front of the car. "Are we in the river?" asked Mr. Sharp.
"No," replied Tom in great chagrin.
"We're in a muddy ditch. One at the side of the road.
Wheels in over the hubs! There should have been a guard rail here.
We're stuck for fair!"
>
CHAPTER XXIII THE POWER GONE
"Bless my overshoes!" cried Mr. Damon. "Stuck in the mud, eh?"
"Hard and fast," added Tom, in disgust. "What's to be done?" inquired Mr. Sharp.
"I should say we'll have to stay here until daylight, and wait for some other auto to
come along and pull us out," was Mr. Damon's opinion.
"It's might unpleasant, too, for there doesn't seem to be any place around here
where we can spend the night in any kind of comfort.
If we had the submarine or the airship, now, it wouldn't so much matter."
"No, and this won't matter a great deal," remarked the young inventor quickly.
"We'll soon be out of this, but it will be hard work."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Sharp.
"I mean that we've got to pull ourselves out of this mud hole," explained the lad,
as he prepared to descend. "I was afraid something like this would
happen, so I came prepared for it.
I've got ropes and pulleys with me, in the car.
We'll fasten the rope to the machine, attach one pulley to the bridge, another to
the car, and I guess we can get out of the mud.
We'll try, anyhow."
"Well, I must say you looked pretty far ahead," complimented Mr. Damon.
From a box under the tonneau Tom took out a thin but strong rope and two compound
pulleys, which would enable considerable force to be applied.
Mr. Sharp detached one of the powerful oil lamps, and the three travelers took a look
at the auto.
It was indeed deep in the mud and it seemed like a hopeless task to try to get it out
unaided.
But Tom insisted that they could do it, and the rope was soon attached, the hook of one
pulley being slipped around one of the braces of the bridge.
"Now, all together!" cried the lad, as he and his friends grasped the long rope.
They gave a great heave. At first it seemed like pulling on a stone
wall.
The rope strained and the pulleys creaked. "I--guess--we--will--pull--the--bridge--
over!" gasped Mr. Sharp. "Something's got to give way!" puffed Tom.
"Now, once more!
All together!" Suddenly they felt the rope moving.
The pulleys creaked still more and, by the light of the lamp, they could see that the
auto was slowly being pulled backward, out of the mud, and onto the hard road.
In a few minutes it was ready to proceed again.
The rope and pulleys were put away, and, after Tom had made an examination of the
car to see that it had sustained no damage, they were off again, making good time to
the hotel in Burgfield, where they spent the night.
They had an early breakfast, and, as Tom went out to the barn to look at his car, he
saw it surrounded by a curious throng of men and boys.
One of the boys was turning some of the handles and levers.
"Here! Quit that!" yelled Tom, and the meddlesome
lad leaped down in fright.
"Do you want to start the car and have it smash into something?" demanded the young
inventor. "Aw, nothin' happened," retorted the lad.
"I pulled every handle on it, an' it didn't move."
"Good reason," murmured Tom, for he had taken the precaution to remove a connecting
plug, without which the machine could not be started.
The three were soon under way again, and covered many miles over the fine country
roads, the weather conditions being delightful.
On inquiry they found that by taking an infrequently used highway, they could save
several miles.
It was over an unoccupied part of country, rather wild and desolate, but they did not
mind that.
They were whizzing along, talking of Tom's chances for winning the race when, after
climbing a slight grade, the auto came to a sudden stop on the summit.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Sharp.
"Why are you stopping here, Tom?" "I didn't stop," was the surprising answer,
and the lad shoved the starting lever back and forth.
But there was no response.
There was no hum from the motor. The machine was "dead."
"That's ***," murmured the young inventor
"Maybe a fuse blew out," suggested Mr. Damon, that seeming to be his favorite form
of trouble. "If it had you'd have known it," remarked
Mr. Sharp.
"There's plenty of current in the battery, according to the registering gauge,"
murmured the lad. "I can't understand it."
He reversed the current, thinking the wires might have become crossed, but the machine
would move neither backward nor forward, yet the dial indicated that there was
enough power stored away to send it a hundred miles or more.
"Perhaps the dial hand has become caught," suggested Mr. Sharp.
"That sometimes happens on a steam gauge, and indicates a high pressure when there
isn't any. Hit it slightly, and see if the hand swings
back."
Tom did so. At once the hand fell to zero, indicating
that there was not an ampere of current left.
The battery was exhausted, but this fact had not been indicated on the gauge.
"I see now!" cried Tom. "It was those fellows at the hotel barn!
They monkeyed with the mechanism, short circuited the battery, and jammed the gauge
so I couldn't tell when my power was gone.
If I had known there wasn't enough to carry us I could have recharged the battery at
the hotel.
But I figured that I had enough current for the entire trip, and so there would have
been, if it hadn't leaked away. Now we're in a pretty pickle."
"Bless my hat band!" cried Mr. Damon.
"Does that mean we can't move?" "Guess that's about it," answered Mr.
Sharp, and Tom nodded.
"Well, why can't we go on to some place where they sell electricity, and get enough
to take us where we want to go?" asked the odd character, whose ideas of machinery
were somewhat hazy.
"The only trouble is we can't carry the heavy car with us," replied Tom.
"It's too big to pick up and take to a charging station."
"Then we've got to wait until some one comes along with a team of horses, and tows
us in," commented Mr. Sharp. "And that will be some time, on this lonely
road."
Tom shook his head despondently.
He went all over the car again, but was forced to the first conclusion, that the
reserve current had leaked away, in consequence of the meddling prank of the
youth at the hotel.
The situation was far from pleasant, and the delay would seriously interfere with
their plans.
Suddenly, as Tom was pacing up and down the road, he heard from afar, a peculiar
humming sound. He paused to listen.
"Trolley car," observed Mr. Sharp.
"Maybe one of us could go somewhere on the trolley and get help.
There it is," and he pointed to the electric vehicle, moving along about half a
mile away, at the foot of a gentle slope.
At the sight of the car Tom uttered a cry. "I have it!" he exclaimed.
"None of us need go for help! It's right at hand!"
His companions looked curiously, as the young inventor pointed triumphantly to the
fast disappearing electric.
>
CHAPTER XXIV ON THE TRACK
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Damon. "Will the electric trolley pull us to a
charging station?" "No, we'll not need to go to a station,"
answered the youth.
"If we can get my car to the trolley tracks I can charge my battery from there.
And I think we can push the auto near enough.
It's down hill, and I've got a long wire so we won't have to go too close."
"Good!" cried Mr. Sharp. "But attach the rope to the front of the
car, Tom.
Mr. Damon and I will pull it. You'll have to ride in it to steer it."
"We can take turns at riding," was Tom's answer, for he did not want his companions
to do all the work.
"Nonsense! You ride," said Mr. Damon.
"You're lighter than we are, and can steer better.
It won't be any trouble at all to pull this car down hill."
It proved to be an easy task, and in a short time the "dead" auto was near enough
to the electric line to permit Tom to run his charging wire over to it.
"Why bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, looking up.
"There's no overhead trolley wire. The car must run on storage batteries."
"Third rail, more likely," was the opinion of Mr. Sharp and so it proved.
"I can charge from either the third rail or the trolley wire," declared Tom, who was
insulating his hands in rubber gloves, and getting his wires ready.
In a short time he had the proper connections made, and the much-needed
current was soon flowing into the depleted battery, or batteries, for there were
several sets, though the whole source of
motive power was usually referred to as a "storage battery."
"How long will it take?" asked Mr. Damon. "About two hours," answered the lad.
"We'll probably have to disconnect our wires several times, whenever a trolley car
comes past. By my system I can recharge the battery
very quickly.
"Do you suppose the owners of the road will make any objection?" asked the balloonist.
"I'm going to pay for the current I use," explained the young inventor.
"I have a meter which tells how much I take."
The hum of an approaching car was heard, and Tom took the wires from the third rail.
The car came to a stop opposite the automobile, the passengers, as well as the
crew, looking curiously at the *** racing machine.
Tom explained to the conductor what was going on, and asked the fare-collector to
notify those in charge of the power station that all current used would be paid for.
The conductor said this would be satisfactory, he was sure, and the car
proceeded, Tom resuming the charging of his battery.
Allowing plenty of reserve power to accumulate, and making sure that the gauge
would not stick again, and deceive him, the owner of the speedy electric was soon ready
to proceed again.
They had been delayed a little over three hours, for they had to make several shifts,
as the cars came past.
They reached their shore cottage late that night, and, after seeing that the runabout
was safely locked in the big shed where the submarine had been built, they all went to
bed, for they were very tired.
Tom sent word, the next day, to the managers of the race, that he would be on
hand at the time stipulated, and announced that he had made part of the trip, as
required, under the power of the auto itself.
The next day was spent in overhauling the machinery, tightening up some loose
bearings, oiling different parts, and further charging the battery.
Tires were looked to, and the ones on the spare wheels were gone over to prepare for
any emergency that might arise when the race was started.
On the third day, Tom, Mr. Sharp and Mr. Damon, leaving the cottage completed the
trip to Havenford, Long Island, where the new track had been constructed.
They reached the place shortly before noon, and, if they had been unaware of the
location they could not have missed it, for there were many autos speeding along the
road toward the scene of the race, which would take place the following day.
Several electric cars passed Tom and his friends, whizzing swiftly by, but the young
inventor was not going to show off his speed until the time came.
Besides, he did not want to run any risks of an accident.
But some of the contestants seemed anxious for impromptu "brushes," and more than one
called to our hero to "speed up and let's see what she can do."
But Tom smiled, and shook his head.
There were many gasolene and some steam autos going out to the new track, which was
considered a remarkable piece of engineering.
It was in the shape of an octagon, and the turns were considered very safe.
It was a five mile track, and to complete the race it would be necessary to make a
hundred circuits.
Through scores of autos Tom and his friends threaded their way, the young inventor
keeping a watchful eye on the various types of machine with which he would soon have to
compete.
There were many kinds. Some were larger and some smaller than his.
Many obviously carried very large batteries, but whether they had the speed
or not was another question.
Some, in spurts, seemed to Tom, to be fully as fast as his own, and he began to have
some doubts whether he would win the race.
"But I'm not going to give up until the five hundredth mile is finished," he
thought, grimly. They were now in sight of the track, and
noted many machines speeding around it.
"Go on in and try your car, Tom," urged Mr. Sharp.
"Yes, do," added Mr. Damon. "Let's see how it travels."
"I will, after I notify the proper officials that I have arrived," decided the
lad. The formalities were soon complied with.
Tom received his entry card, after paying the fee, made affidavit that he had
completed the entire trip from home under his own power, save for the little stretch
when the car was pulled, which did not
count against him, and was soon ready to go on the track.
Only electric cars were allowed there.
As the young inventor guided his latest effort in the machine line onto the big
track there were murmurs of surprise from the throngs.
"That's a *** machine," said one.
"Yes, but it looks speedy," was another's opinion.
"There's the car for my money," added a third, pointing to a big red electric which
was certainly whizzing around the track.
Tom noted the red car. Behind it was a green one, also moving at a
fast rate of speed.
"Those will be my nearest rivals," thought the lad, as he guided his car onto the
track.
A moment later he was sending the auto ahead at moderate speed, while the other
contestants looked at the new arrival, as if trying to discover whether in it they
would have a dangerous competitor.
>
CHAPTER XXV WINNING THE PRIZE
After making two circuits of the track at moderate speed, Tom turned on more power,
deciding to see how the machine would behave on the turns, going at a fast speed.
As it happened he forged ahead just as the big red car was coming up behind him.
The driver of it took this for a challenge and threw his controller handle forward.
"Come on!" he cried to our hero, when even with him.
Tom did not want to decline the invitation, and the impromptu race was under way.
Soon the green car came rushing up, and for two miles the three kept almost in line.
It was evident that neither the green nor the red car drivers wanted to "open out,"
until they saw Tom do so.
He was willing to oblige them, and suddenly increased his speed.
They did the same, and went ahead of him.
Then Tom turned on a little more juice and got the lead, but the two men were right
after him, and they see-sawed like this for two more miles.
Then, with a cry the man in the red car, with a sudden burst of speed, left Tom and
the green car behind. The green car was soon up to its rival, but
Tom decided he would not spurt.
The lad and his friends spent the early part of the night in making a final
inspection of the machinery, finding it in good order.
Then, with his head filled with visions of the race on the morrow Tom went to bed.
He had made inquiries, by telephone, of the friends of Miss Nestor, and learned that
she had not arrived.
Tom felt a distinct sense of disappointment.
The day of the race could not have been better.
It was ideal weather, and conditions at the track were just right.
Tom was up early, and went over every inch of his car with a nervous dread that he
might find something the matter.
The final details of the race were completed, and the entrants given their
numbers and places. Tom drew a good position, not the best, but
he had no reason to complain.
Half an hour before the start he again telephoned to see if Miss Nestor had
arrived, but she had not, and it was with rather gloomy thoughts that the lad entered
his car, in which Mr. Sharp had already taken his place.
Mr. Damon went to the grandstand to watch the race.
"I wanted Mary to see me win," thought our hero, for he had grimly set his mind on
coming in ahead.
There was a great crowd in the grandstand and scattered about the big track, which
took in a large extent of territory.
In spite of its size--five miles around-- it seemed solidly packed for the entire
length with autos, containing gay parties who had come to see the electric contest.
There was a band playing gay airs, as Tom guided his machine through the entrance
gate, and onto the track. The judges made their final inspection.
There were twenty cars entered, but it was obvious that some of them would not last
long, as their battery capacity was not large enough.
Their owners might have relied on recharging, but how they could do this
under the usual slow system, and hope to win, Tom could not see.
He hoped to run the entire distance on the single charge, but, if by some accident
part of his current should leak away, his battery could be charged in a short time,
by means of his new system, to run for a
considerable distance, or he could install a new one already charged, for he had two
sets on hand. Tom glanced over the cars of his
competitors.
They were to be sent away in batches, the affair being a handicap one, with time
allowance for the smaller powered cars. Tom noted that his car and the red and the
green ones were in the same bunch.
Tom's car was purple. "Are you all ready?" asked the starter of
the first group of races. "Ready," was the low-voiced response.
"Crack!" went the pistol, and there followed the hum of the motors as the
current set the mechanism to work. Forward went the cars, amid the crash of
the band and the cheers of the crowd.
The big race was under way. "Do you feel nervous, Tom?" asked Mr.
Sharp. "Not a bit," replied the lad.
Around and around the track flew the speedy electrics.
It was evident that the holding of a meet solely for cars of this character had
brought out many new ideas that would be to the benefit of the industry.
Some cars were "freaks" and others, like Tom's, showed a distinct advance over
previous styles of construction.
A five-hundred mile race around a track is rather a monotonous affair, except for what
happens, and things very soon began to happen at this race.
As Tom had expected, several of the machines were forced to withdraw.
Tire troubles beset some, and others found that they were hopelessly out of it because
of low power, or lack of battery capacity.
Tom determined not to let the red or the green car gain any advantage over him, and
so he watched those two vehicles narrowly.
On the other hand, the red and the green electrics were evidently afraid of one
another and of Tom. They all three kept pretty much together
for the first thirty miles.
By this time the race had settled down into a steady grind.
There was some excitement when the steering gear of one car broke, and it crashed Into
the fence, injuring the driver, but the race went on.
The young inventor was holding his own with his two chief rivals, and was feeling
rather proud of his car, when there came from it a report like a pistol shot.
"Blow out!" yelled Tom desperately, steering to one of the several repair
stations on the inner side of the track. "Be ready with the extra wheel, Mr. Sharp!"
"Right you are!" cried the balloonist.
The car was scarcely stopped when he had leaped out, and had the lifting jack under
the left rear wheel, where the tire had gone to the bad.
He and Tom labored like Trojans to take off the wheel, and put on the other.
They lost five minutes, and when they got under way again the red and the green cars
were three quarters of a lap ahead.
"You've got to catch them!" declared Sharp firmly.
But the red and the green car drivers saw their advantage, and were determined to
hold it.
Tom could not catch them without going his limit, and he did not want to do this just
yet. However, he had his opportunity when about
two hundred miles had been covered.
Both the red and the green cars had tire troubles, but the red one was delayed
scarcely two minutes as there was a corps of mechanics on hand to take off the
defective wheel and put on another.
Still Tom regained his lost ground, and once more the race between those three cars
was even.
In the rear of Tom's car Mr. Sharp was mending the blown-out tire, though there
was still one spare wheel on reserve. Tom, in front, peered eagerly at the track.
Nearly side by side raced the red and the green cars, the latter somewhat to the
rear. It was at the three hundred and fiftieth
mile that Tom had another blow-out.
This time it took a little longer to change the wheel, and the red and green cars
gained a full lap on him. The track was now so dusty that it was
difficult to see the contesting cars.
Many had dropped out, and more were on the verge of giving up.
With the odds against him, Tom started in to regain the lost ground.
Narrowly he watched his electric power.
Slowly he saw it dropping. Would he have enough left to finish out the
race? He feared not.
The hours were passing.
Still there was a hundred miles yet to go twenty circuits of the track.
Some of the spectators were getting weary and leaving.
The band played spasmodically.
Suddenly Tom saw the red car shoot to one side of the track, toward a charging
station; The green car followed.
"That's our cue!" cried the young inventor "We need a little more 'juice' and now is
the time to get it."
The lad ran to the shed where his charging wires were, and they were connected in a
trice.
He allowed twenty-five minutes for the charging, as he knew with his improved
battery he could get enough current in that time to finish the contest.
Before the red and green car drivers had finished installing new batteries, for they
could not recharge as quickly as could our hero, Tom was on the track again.
But, in a little while, his two rivals were after him.
It was now a spectacular race. Around and around swept the three big cars.
All the others were practically out of it.
The crowd became lively airs. Mile after mile was reeled off.
The day was passing. Tired and covered with dust from the track,
Tom still sat at the steering wheel.
"Two laps more!" cried Mr. Sharp, as the starter's pistol gave this warning.
"Can you get away from 'em, Tom?" The red and the green cars were following
closely.
The young inventor looked back and nodded. He turned on more power, almost to the
limit--that he was saving for the final spurt.
But after him still came the two big cars.
Suddenly the red car shot ahead, just as the last lap was beginning.
The green tried to follow, but there was a flash of fire, a loud report, and Tom knew
a fuse had blown out.
There was no time for his rival to put in a new one.
The race was now between Tom and the red car.
Could the lad catch and pass it?
They were now only a mile from the finish. The red car was three lengths ahead.
With a quick motion Tom turned on the last bit of power.
There seemed to come a roar from his Motor and his car shot ahead.
It was on even terms with the red car when what Tom had been fearing for the last five
minutes happened: his fuse blew out.
"Too bad! It's all up with us!" cried Mr. Sharp.
"No!" cried Tom in a ringing voice. "I've got an emergency fuse ready!"
He snapped a switch in place, putting into commission another fuse.
The motor that had lost speed began to pick it up again.
Tom had pulled back the controller handle, but he now shoved it forward again, notch
by notch, until it was at the limit.
He had fallen back from the red car, and the occupants of that, with a yell of
triumph, prepared to cross the line a winner.
But, like a race horse that nerves himself for the last desperate spurt, Tom's machine
fairly leaped ahead.
With his hands gripping the rim of the steering wheel, until it seemed that the
bones of his fingers would protrude, Tom sent his car straight for the finishing
tape.
There was a yell from the spectators. Men were standing up, waving their hats and
shouting. Women were fairly screaming.
Mr. Damon was blessing everything within sight.
Mr. Sharp, in his excitement, was pushing on the back of the front seats as if to
shove the car ahead.
Then, as the pistol announced the close of the race, Tom's car, with what seemed a
mighty leap, like a hunter clearing a ditch, forged ahead, and crossed the line a
length in advance of the red car.
Tom Swift had Won. Amid the cheers of the crowd the lad slowed
up, and, at the direction of the judges, wheeled back to the stand, to receive the
prize.
A certified check for three thousand dollars was handed him, and he received the
congratulations of the racing officials. The driver of the red car also generously
praised him.
"You won fair and square," he said, shaking hands with Tom.
The young inventor and his friends drove their car to their shed.
As Tom was descending, weary and begrimed with dust he heard a voice asking:
"Mayn't I congratulate you also?" He wheeled around, to confront Mary Nestor,
immaculate in a summer gown.
"Why--why," he stammered. "I--I thought you didn't come."
"Oh, yes I did," she answered, laughing. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything.
I arrived late, but I saw the whole race.
Wasn't it glorious. I'm so glad you won!"
Tom was too, now, but he shrank back when Miss Nestor held out both daintily gloved
hands to him.
His hands were covered with oil and dirt. "As if I cared for my gloves!" she cried,
and she took possession of his hands, a proceeding to which Tom was nothing loath.
"Are you going to race any more?" she asked, as he walked along by her side, away
from the gathering crowd. "I don't know," he replied.
"My car is speedier than I thought it was.
Perhaps I may enter it in other contests."
But what Tom Swift did later on will be told in another volume, to be called, "Tom
Swift and His Wireless Message; or, The Castaways of Earthquake Island"--a strange
tale of ship-wreck and mystery.
The run back home was made without incident, save for a broken chain, easily
repaired, the day following the race, and Tom later received a number of invitations
to give exhibitions of speed.
Several automobile manufacturers wanted to secure the rights to his machine, but he
said he desired to consider the matter before acting.
He did not forget his promise to Mrs. Baggert, regarding the diamond earrings,
and bought her the finest pair he could find.
"Come on, Mr. Sharp," proposed Tom, a week or so after the big race, "let's go for a
spin in the airship.
I want to see how it feels to be among the clouds once more," and they were soon
soaring aloft. The new bank, started by Mr. Foger, did not
flourish long.
It closed its doors in less than six months, but the old institution was
stronger than ever.
Mr. Berg disappeared, and Tom never learned whether the agent really was the man he had
chased, and whose watch charm he tore loose, though he always had his suspicions.
Nor did it ever develop who crossed the electric wires, so that Tom was so nearly
fatally shocked.
Andy Foger disliked our hero more than ever, and on several occasions caused him
not a little trouble, but Tom was able to look after himself.
THE END
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