Chapter 6 Tom Swift and His Talking Pictures by Victor Appleton
TOO LATE
“This is a pretty slick little car, boss,” said Tagg when they had passed the confines of Shopton and were heading out into the country. “She sure can go! Beats old Shanks’ mare,” and he looked down at his legs which had carried him to Tom’s home with the mysterious message.
The tramp had been provided with some decent clothes, he had taken a bath and shaved, and was quite a different looking man from the one who first encountered Mr. Damon and Tom.
“Yes,” admitted the young inventor as he listened to the hum of the small but powerful motors as they received their impulses from the storage battery Tom had evolved. “At one time this was the speediest car on the road, but I have some now that can beat this.”
“And they aren’t in it with some of the airships Mr. Swift has,” remarked Mr. Damon.
“That’s what I want to do before I die, boss,” murmured the tramp. “I want to ride in an airship.”
“Well, if we rescue my friend through your help, I’ll see that you have your wish,” promised the head of the Swift plant. “It’s easily done.”
“Gee, boss, but I sure would love that!” murmured Bill Tagg.
“Airship—him lots good!” grunted Koku, who sat stolidly on the rear seat with the tramp, listening to the talk. Koku was not much given to conversation, but when it came to fighting he was as wide awake and as lively as heart could wish. Tom had brought the giant along in case there should be a fight, which seemed likely. Men who go to the length of kidnapping seldom stop there in their desperate ventures. “Lots good—airships!” rumbled Koku in his deep voice.
“You ought to know. You came from your country of giants in one,” chuckled Mr. Damon, for he well remembered that exciting trip, the details of which will be found set down in another volume.
Tom knew the road to Cherry Valley, and it did not take long, in his speedy car, to arrive in the vicinity. The entrance to the valley led up a long hill, and the car was half way over this rather stiff climb when there was a sudden grinding noise from the machinery and the runabout stopped.
“Something wrong!” cried Mr. Damon.
“Sounds that way,” admitted Tom as he made a quick turn and let the car back slowly down against a tree at the side of the road where it was held safely from rolling farther in case the brakes did not hold. In an instant the young inventor was out and peering into the interior of his runabout.
“Dirty work here!” he exclaimed as he pulled out a twisted piece of metal. “See what was in the gears!”
“What?” asked Mr. Damon, who did not know much about machinery, as you can guess when you read how he managed the first motorcycle he bought. “What is it?”
“A screw driver!” exclaimed Tom. “It was put in here, suspended on a piece of rope in such a manner that the rope would gradually wear through, letting the screw driver drop into the gears. And that’s just what happened! One set of gears is chewed to nothing!”
“That’s bad!” said Mr. Damon. His scant knowledge of machinery was sufficient for him to understand that something vitally wrong had happened to the car, even if the serious look on Tom’s face had not informed him of the same fact. “How did it happen?”
“It didn’t happen—it was caused!” was the answer. “Some one, just before we started out, suspended this screw driver in the gear box knowing that after we had run a few miles the rope would wear through and the thing would drop. Dirty work!”
“You seem to be getting a lot of bad breaks lately, Tom,” said the odd man. “Who do you suppose did this?”
“I think it’s the same man I suspect of other things,” was the reply. “I’m going to find out.”
“Are we stuck, Tom? Can’t we go on and rescue Ned?” Mr. Damon inquired.
“Oh, yes, we can go on, but we can’t make much speed. I’ll have to run in third. Fourth and fifth gears are all chewed up.” It was because of its five selective speeds that the electric runabout was such a wonderful machine.
“Whoever did this made a little mistake,” chuckled Tom, for he had a saving sense of humor. “If they’d fixed it so the screw driver dropped into the lower gears we never could have started again once we stopped. As it is, we can go on, but we can’t make speed.”
It did not take him long to cut out the two higher gearing mechanism attachments, and then the runabout proceeded again. Even at the lowered rate its speed was better than that of many gasoline automobiles. And in due time the head of the slope was reached. Before the searchers lay Cherry Valley which, they hoped, contained the Smith place and the captive Ned Newton.
“Now, Tagg, show us the field where you saw the kite come down,” requested Tom when they were driving along a level road.
“It’s about a mile farther on,” the tramp said, looking about for landmarks. “Yes, just about a mile.”
This distance was soon covered, and when the car was stopped Tagg led the way into the field and showed where he had built a fire to roast ears of corn. The blackened ashes and the remains of his feast proved that, so far, he had spoken the truth. Then he showed just where he had picked up the broken kite, and some fragments of the brown-bag paper which bore Ned’s message were found among the hills of corn.
“It looks as if we were on the right track,” said Mr. Damon.
“I hope so,” murmured Tom. “Now to locate the Smith place.”
“It’s south of here, about a mile and a half,” said the tramp. “ ’Tisn’t a very good road, though.”
“That won’t keep us back,” declared Tom, and once more they were on the way. The runabout was doing fairly well in spite of the handicap of two stripped gears.
Cherry Valley was rather a sparsely settled part of the country and as Tom and his friends advanced they noticed that it grew more and more deserted. They passed one ramshackle farmhouse and learned, on inquiry, that they were headed right for the old Smith homestead.
“But they don’t nobody live there now, mister,” said a slattern of a woman who shuffled to the door in response to Tom’s knock. “They ain’t been nobody livin’ in the Smith place nigh onto four years now.”
“That’s all right—we’ll find it I guess,” responded the young inventor, and once more he drove his electric car onward.
Near the end of the valley and adjoining a patch of dense woods, they came upon the Smith house. It had once been the home of a prosperous farmer, but he had fallen upon evil days and the place had long been deserted.
“That’s it!” cried Mr. Damon, catching sight of the old brick house. “There it is, three cherry trees, old stone well, and everything just as Ned described it.”
“Hush, please! Not so loud!” begged Tom, slowing up his car and guiding it behind a clump of trees not far from the house. “If we’re going to make a rescue it might be well to take these kidnappers by surprise.”
“Bless my ear trumpet, I never thought of that!” whispered the odd man. “Of course! Certainly! Yes! Quiet does it!”
“Can you use a gun?” asked Tom curtly of the tramp.
“Well, boss, I’m not a very good shot, but——”
“I don’t believe there’ll be any need of shooting,” interrupted Tom, “but there’s no use taking any chances. Here,” and he handed the tramp an automatic pistol, reserving one for himself and giving Mr. Damon another. “We may have an easy time and we may have a hard one,” said Tom. “But, whatever it is, I’m going to rescue Ned!”
“Doesn’t Koku want a gun?” asked the tramp, noting that the giant carried no weapon.
“Me no shoot. Me scrunch um in my hands me catch!” muttered the giant, opening and closing his immense fists. It was answer enough.
“We’ll approach from four sides at once,” decided Tom as they began to creep cautiously toward the old farmhouse. “Separate now. You to the east, Mr. Damon; you west, Tagg; you south, Koku; and I’ll take the north side. When I whistle we’ll rush the place.”
“Correct!” said Mr. Damon in a low voice.
Waiting until he was sure they were in their places, Tom looked toward the old house. It seemed deserted, quiet and lonely. But from behind the sagging shutters of the grimy and broken windows evil eyes might be peering out.
Tom gave a low whistle. On his left he could hear Mr. Damon beginning to run forward and on his right he caught the sound of the advance of Tagg. Then Tom began to run, and beyond the house he caught a glimpse of the giant lurching forward.
Together the four searchers reached the four sides of the old house, but still there was no sign of life. The front door was on Tom’s side and, his weapon ready, he ran up the steps. He tried the door. To his surprise, it gave and he pushed it open. At the same time he heard Koku crash through the open door on the south.
“This way!” cried Tom to Mr. Damon and the tramp. “Rush ’em!”
An instant later they were in the house.
“Surrender!” yelled Tom, though he saw no one. “You’re surrounded! Surrender!”
Still no reply.
A hurried search of the first floor revealed no one. A look through the second floor was likewise unsuccessful. The attic revealed not a soul and the cellar was tenantless.
“We’re too late!” exclaimed Tom Swift. “They’ve gone! But they have been here!” he declared, pointing into a room with iron bars over the only window. “They’ve been here and I believe Ned was a prisoner here. Yes, he was!” he cried, picking something up in a corner.
“How do you know Ned was here?” asked Mr. Damon.
“This is his stickpin,” Tom replied, showing a scarf ornament of silver and jade. “Ned’s been here all right. But they have taken him away. We’re too late!”
“What’s to be done now?” asked Tagg.
“Follow them!” cried Tom. “We’ve got to get Ned back. Let’s have another look around.”
They looked, but found little to aid them in their search.
“They haven’t been gone long!” cried Tom, as they came out of the kitchen.
“How do you know?” asked Mr. Damon.
“The stove is still warm,” was the answer. “Come on! We’ve got to trail them and get Ned!”