Chapter 7 Tom Swift and His Talking Pictures by Victor Appleton
A WILD CHASE
Tom Swift was the first of the four searchers to rush out of the old brick farmhouse, ready to take up the trail once more in the search. Mr. Damon followed, then came Bill Tagg, and lastly the big, lumbering Koku.
“Me find nobody can smash,” the giant complained as he clenched his immense fists. “Master say maybe I fight. No fight?” and he looked at Tom questioningly.
“There may be a fight yet, if we can catch them,” said the young inventor, pausing a moment in the front to look back at the house. “They’ve given us the slip. If it hadn’t been for the accident to my electric runabout we’d have been here sooner and we’d have caught them.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Damon. “It looks, Tom, as if the somebody who tried to wreck your machine had an interest in preventing your getting here sooner. They, whoever it was, wanted to delay you so word could be sent here to get Ned out of the way.”
“That’s very probable,” admitted the young inventor.
Again he looked up at the window of what had been his chum’s prison room, and Tom tried to picture how Ned, in his desperation, had secretly constructed the kite of wrapping paper, whittled sticks and string. Then the young manager had waited until a stiff wind was blowing and had loosed the silent messenger into the air.
The electric runabout was in the road a short distance away from the deserted farmhouse. Tom wished he had time to repair it so the machine would show some of the former speed, but this was out of the question. They would have to go along as best they could.
The vicinity of the farmhouse was lonesome and no other building was in view save a tumbledown barn. Tom, therefore, and his companions were rather surprised when, on coming out of the yard, they saw a ragged boy in the road walking around the runabout and admiring it.
“Hello!” called Tom genially. “Do you live near here?”
“Just down the road a piece.” The boy dug his dirty, bare toes into the soft dust of the road.
“Know anybody who lives in here?” went on the young inventor, seeing a possible chance to get some information.
“Don’t nobody live here,” the boy replied. “But there’s been some men in here the last few days, only they’re gone now. They went away a little while ago in an auto, but it was bigger’n what yours is.”
“Oh, so some men went away from here a little while ago in a big auto, did they?” asked Tom. “We’re on the track!” he whispered to Mr. Damon. Then to the boy again: “What kind of men were they and how many of them were there?”
“They was just men,” the boy replied. “Men like you,” and he comprised the four in a roving glance. “But they wasn’t dressed so good as what you are—you three I mean,” and he indicated Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku. He seemed to omit Tagg, and a moment later the reason was obvious. For the boy added: “They was dressed more like what he is,” and he pointed directly at the tramp. In spite of the fact that Bill Tagg had been freshened up considerably since he shuffled to Tom with Ned’s message, there was still an air of vagrancy about the wanderer. It stuck out all over him. He did not seem to mind being made use of for this not very flattering comparison.
“How many men were there?” asked Tom.
“Three well ones and a sick one,” the boy answered.
“A sick man!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “What do you mean?”
“Well, his head was tied up in rags and the other men carried him out on a cot. He didn’t say nothin’, the sick man didn’t.”
“That was Ned!” murmured Mr. Damon. “Bless my doctor’s bill, Tom, but do you think they’ve done for poor Ned?”
“No, I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I think they gagged Ned so he couldn’t call for help, and they probably bound him with rope. Naturally he couldn’t walk, and they had to carry him out. So he would appear to be a sick person. Well, we know how many we have to fight—three men,” he concluded. “Can you tell me anything more about the men who were here, son?” asked Tom, tossing the boy a quarter which the lad picked up in his toes after it had fallen in the dust near him. “Did you see them often?”
“I sneaked down here pretty near every day after they come to this old house,” the boy answered. “They didn’t see me, ’cause I hid in the bushes. But they was funny men.”
“How do you mean—funny?”
“They used to fly kites out of the window—anyhow, one of ’em did. But I couldn’t see him plain, ’cause there’s iron bars over that window—up there,” and he pointed to the casement of the room where Tom had found Ned’s stick pin.
“So one of the men flew kites out of that window, did he?” encouraged Tom. “What happened to them?”
“Most of ’em fell in the weeds,” the boy said. “They wasn’t very good kites—just made of old, brown-bag paper. I can make better kites ’n them. They was made of old sticks. I picked some of ’em up, but they wasn’t any good. One flew a long way off, though. I couldn’t find that.”
“I can see just what happened,” Tom spoke in a low voice to Mr. Damon. “Poor Ned tried two or three kite messengers before he finally got one into a stiff breeze that carried it to Cherry Valley. But we are losing valuable time. Which way did the three well men take the sick man in their big auto?” Tom asked the barefooted lad.
“Down there,” and he pointed to the western road.
“Where does that lead to?”
“Lake Carlopa, ’bout ten miles farther on.”
“Lake Carlopa!” cried Tom. “That’s where they’re heading for. Come on! We may catch them yet!”
Tossing the lad another quarter, Tom led his friends toward his car and they were soon off again on the wild chase. They had a definite object now, for the lad had given them such a description of the other auto as to make it easy for them to inquire about it along the way.
Their inquiries were fruitful to the extent that at several garages and hot-dog stands along the highway the pursuers learned that the machine in question, containing three men and one who appeared to be ill or injured had passed not long before.
“We’re catching up to them!” Tom exulted, when they had covered half the distance to Lake Carlopa. This was evident by the information given at different garages. Whereas at first the fleeing car had been half an hour ahead, it was now but ten minutes. “We’ll get them!” cried the young inventor.
Though Tom got every inch of speed possible out of his crippled runabout, when Lake Carlopa was reached they found the kidnappers’ car abandoned on the shore of the lake.
“Just too late again!” sighed Mr. Damon. “We’ll never get Ned!”
“We may!” shouted Tom. “Look!” He pointed across the lake, and about half a mile out was discerned a motorboat containing three men. “There they are—I’m sure of it!” cried Tom. “Now if we only had another boat to chase them!”
“There’s a feller a little farther on who rents motorboats,” volunteered Bill Tagg.
“Good!” cried Tom. “We’ll chase them in their own way. Where’s that motorboat chap?”
The tramp pointed out the dock, and in a short time, leaving his runabout in charge of the boat proprietor, Tom and his friends were in a sturdy gasoline craft giving chase to the other, which was now but a speck amid the blue waters of Lake Carlopa.
“Do you think they have Ned with them?” asked Mr. Damon while Tom hastily adjusted the motor so as to get the maximum speed from the boat.
“I hope so,” was the reply. “We’ll soon find out, if this old tub can stand the pace.”
“Have we a chance?” asked Bill, who was taking quite an interest in this pursuit.
Tom looked at the fleeing boat. Then he calculated the speed of the craft he had hired. A few minutes of observation caused him to make this remark:
“We’re gaining on them—slowly. Whether we catch up to them before they get to the other side is a question. We’ll do our best to catch ’em, however.”
He made a slight adjustment in the carburetor to get a few more revolutions per minute from the flywheel and then the four settled back for the chase.
Tom’s statement about their speed proved true. In a short time it was discerned that his craft was overhauling the other. The three men could be plainly seen now, and a muffled object could be made out in the bottom of the boat.
“Bless my cranberry sauce, there’s Ned!” cried Mr. Damon.
“I hope so,” murmured Tom.
The chase was now becoming exciting. Every moment they were drawing nearer the fleeing boat.
“Hold on there, you fellows!” shouted Tom. “We want to speak to you!”
“Haven’t got time!” sneered one of the three rascals. “See you later!”
Suddenly the boat in front swerved off to one side. But Tom was ready for this and shifted his own wheel to intercept the other craft.
“Look out! Rocks!” suddenly cried Mr. Damon.