Chapter 6 Tom Swift and his Chest of Secrets by Victor Appleton
FIRE
“Sit down,” said Tom, realizing that he had not as yet extended this ordinary courtesy to his visitor. “What can I do for you?” he went on.
“You are the one I want to see—yes?” inquired Ivan Barsky, in laborious English, halting for many of his words.
“Well, I’m Tom Swift,” was the answer.
“I have documents to Tom Swift,” went on the man. “But I had—what you say—expected to see an older personage.”
“Oh, I guess I’m old enough,” replied Tom, with a smile. “But my father is older. However, he has retired from the active business of the concern, so I reckon you’ll have to deal with me.”
“It is of a pleasure to do so, I assure you,” and the man smiled, showing his white teeth amid the blackness of his beard. “Please to read these.”
He extended to Tom a sheaf of letters and documents, which appeared to be epistles of introduction. Some were written in what Tom recognized as Russian and bore imposing stamps. These last, with a smile, the inventor passed back to Mr. Barsky saying:
“These don’t mean anything to me.”
“They vouch for me in my country—Russia,” was the reply. “They are from—what shall I call heem—the Central Committee.”
“I don’t know much about Russian affairs,” said Tom. “But I’ll see what these letters in English have to say. But before I go on, what is it you want of me? If it is to help you finance an invention, I tell you now I will take on nothing new. If it is to work on some machine you have started, that, too, is out of the question. So it may save your time, and mine, also, if I tell you this.”
“Thank you, I have nothing of these,” said the visitor. “Eet is that I wish to work for you. I am an expert—what you call—mecheechanic,” and he put several unneeded syllables in the word. “Also I make those what you call—models.”
“Oh, a pattern-maker!” exclaimed Tom. “I understand. Well, excuse me and I’ll look over your credentials.”
He found several letters from well known firms in the United States, saying that Ivan Barsky had worked for them and had been most satisfactory. He was spoken of as a good mechanic and model-maker.
One letter rather raised Tom’s suspicions, for at the conclusion it stated:
“We do not vouch for the morals of Ivan Barsky, though, as far as we have observed, he has a quiet, orderly disposition.”
“I reckon that was written by some secretary who feared he was dealing with a Bolshevist,” thought Tom. “Well, we may have some of that ilk in the shop, but as long as they mind their own business I can’t say anything. It’s a part of their religion, I guess; and I don’t believe Bolshevism will ever get a hold here. However, if I do take on this chap—and I may, for I need a model-maker—I’ll keep my eye on him.”
Turning to his visitor, Tom handed back the letters and said:
“These speak very well of you—as a workman.”
The man may have caught Tom’s hidden meaning, for he burst out with:
“That is all I am offering you—my talents as a worker. For the rest, eet is my own affair!”
“Exactly,” agreed Tom. “Well, I’m inclined to give you a trial, for we need some extra help just now. Wait, I’ll see if my father is up yet.”
Going to the telephone that was connected with his father’s own room, Tom noticed that the door leading into the small room where he had stored his chest of secrets was open, leaving the heavy box in full view. Tom closed the door, though not before he had caught the dark and snapping eyes of his visitor fixed on the chest.
“Rad must have opened that door,” thought Tom, a trifle put out by the incident. “I must tell him to be more careful. He is getting old and careless. But I hate to get rid of the faithful fellow.”
Mr. Swift was up, and he told Tom that he would come down and talk to the Russian. In spite of the latter’s labored English—he pronounced all save a few words very well, except for a peculiar intonation—Ivan Barsky was able to give a good account of himself. He answered Mr. Swift’s questions intelligently and showed that he had been well apprenticed in machinist work and in the making of models and patterns.
“A model-maker is what I’d really take him on for, if you think it’s wise to hire him,” said Tom to his father in a low voice as they discussed the matter in the far end of the office. “I am working on the new automatic stop invention, and a great many models will be needed. Our men are busy on other matters. We might give this fellow a trial.”
“Well, Tom, you know I don’t usually interfere in the shop matters,” said Mr. Swift. “I appreciate the fact that you want to get your new invention started. But I would think twice before I hired this man once.”
“Why Dad?”
“Well, for one thing, I don’t like his looks.”
“I don’t, either. But we have just as dangerous and anarchistic-looking fellows out in the other shops.”
“I know, Tom, but they have been with us for years.”
“Yes. But when they first came their appearance was against them. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll put this Barsky to work. But I’ll tell Jackson to keep an eye on him.”
“All right. But it’s against my better judgment,” and Mr. Swift shook his head as he glanced toward the foreigner. “Still, he may do good work for you, and speed is essential just now. But have him watched.”
“I will, Dad. And now I won’t trouble you and further. Here comes Ned, and we’ll get started on the daily grind.”
Mr. Swift, who was writing a book on certain mechanical principles, was glad to be released so he could go to his literary labors. After his father’s departure Tom called a man from the shop and sent his strange caller out to be put to work.
“Who is his Royal Whiskerisky?” asked Ned, as he put on his office coat and took his place at his desk.
“His name is Barsky—Ivan Barsky,” replied Tom. “I’ve just hired him,” and he gave a brief story of the caller.
“Hum—Barsky,” mused Ned, with a smile. “Well, all I have to say is that I hope his bite isn’t as bad as his bark-sky!” and he put his arm in front of his face to ward off a missile which he expected Tom would throw at him following this atrocious joke.
“Men have been shot at sunrise for less than that,” chuckled the young inventor. “However, that reminds me, I must tell Jackson to keep his weather eye peeled for this chap. I don’t want him walking off with any valuable templates.”
He sent for the foreman, giving him some instructions about the new employee, and Mr. Jackson said:
“I’ll look after him, Tom. I saw him go into the pattern shop and sized him up as a tough customer. Though sometimes those fellows do mighty good work. And, as you say, we do need an extra man or two.”
Then while Ned plunged into the financial affairs of the company, which was his department, Tom and his foreman went over certain matters that needed looking after. For the Swift Construction Company did a certain amount of manufacturing, and orders were heavy at this season of the year. So it was not until nearly noon that Tom found a chance to ask his chum:
“How’s your father? Did he get over the shock?”
“Somewhat,” answered Ned.
“Of course he isn’t going back there to work?” went on Tom.
“I should say not! He doesn’t know yet what to do. In fact, he’s like a man without a country.”
“Why not bring him here?” suggested Tom quickly. “Jackson tells me that they are rushed out in the shop on certain lines. This will mean more office work, Ned, and I’m sure you’ve already got all you can handle. I’d be glad to have your father here—that is, if he’d like to come.”
“Oh, I’m sure he would, Tom, only——”
“Only what?”
“I know he wouldn’t like to think that you’d taken him on out of charity.”
“Stow that talk!” broke in Tom. “That’s all nonsense! We need an expert accountant in addition to you, Ned. And while I can’t offer your father as responsible a position as he held with the investment concern, still I’d be glad to have him come here.”
“He’ll come, Tom, I’ll guarantee that. I’ll telephone him.”
So it was arranged, and that afternoon Mr. Newton was given a desk near that of his son in the office.
For several days wheels were rapidly humming in the Swift shops. As Tom had said, orders were coming in with a rush, and this, together with work on new inventions, kept the whole place busy.
“How’s your Bolshevist coming on, Tom?” asked Ned one day.
“Oh, Barsky? Why, he seems to be doing very well, so Jackson tells me,” was the answer. “He minds his own business and he’s a regular wizard at pattern making. He hasn’t had a chance to show what sort of a machinist he is, but I reckon he’ll do. In fact, Jackson says, in spite of his rather terrorizing appearance, that the man is a find.”
“Glad of it,” replied the young manager. “It’s always a sort of satisfaction to find you’ve misjudged a man on the right side. Now in regard to this order from the Simplex Supply Company, if we ship them a hundred gross of those dashers that ought to keep them supplied for a month, and we can then use the machinery to turn out those candy-wrapping machines for the Cocoa Company.”
“All right, Ned, I’ll leave that to you. I’ve got troubles of my own here. Hello, that can’t be the noon whistle, can it?” cried Tom, as a blast smote the air. He looked up at the clock on the wall, noting it was barely eleven, and then Ned, after a glance from the window, cried:
“It’s the fire alarm, Tom! There’s a blaze in the pattern shop!”
A moment later several voices took up the shouts of:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”