Chapter 10 Tom Swift and His Airline Express by Victor Appleton
TOM’S PLIGHT
Desperation gave Tom Swift unusual strength as he lay bound and seemingly helpless in that upper story of the lonely cabin. Though the ropes about his wrists and ankles seemed very tight, he had a feeling as he strained his arms that he was going to get free. That talk he heard, floating up from the room below where, through the crack, he could see the conspirators gathered, gave him fierce energy.
“So that’s their game, is it?” mused Tom, as he heard the plot to blow up the plant. “They want to put me out of the way so they will have a free hand to wreck my plant and get the plans and models of the airline express cars and airships. I don’t believe they ever thought of inventing that sort of combination craft themselves. They are trying to steal my ideas. Kenny and Schlump must have hatched the plot. Oh, but I’ve got to get loose and warn Dad and Ned!”
It was this very necessity for quick action that emboldened Tom and gave him the fierce energy to struggle to get free of his bonds. He was glad the gag had come loose, for with that in his mouth, hindering his breathing, he could not have worked as hard as he did—he would have suffocated.
But now he could breathe easily, and he had need of all his spare wind in the exertions that followed the overhearing of the plot of the men who had captured him.
Luckily ropes, however strong, are capable of being stretched if one pulls on them long enough and often enough. And though it hurt Tom to force his bare wrists against the hemp strands, he kept at it until he found he could move his hands more freely. He wished he might find a projecting nail or some sharp object in his prison, against which he could rub his bonds to sever them. But he dared not roll about much for fear of making a noise and so bringing his captors upstairs. Once they discovered that he was making an attempt to escape, they might chain him fast or move him to some other prison whence it would not be so easy to get away.
“Once I’m free of these ropes I know I can get out,” Tom told himself. “I’m only on the second floor, I can tell that, for I counted the stairs as they carried me up. And if I can get a window open I can jump to the ground, if I don’t find some sort of a vine or a rain-water pipe that I can climb down. But the first thing to do is to get these ropes off my hands and feet.”
Tom knew that once his hands were freed it would be a comparatively easy matter to loosen the ropes on his ankles. All his energies, then, must center on his hands. They were tied behind his back, with several coils of rope wound about the wrists. Again and again Tom strained on these until, at last, he felt that he could draw out one hand.
It was not easy, even when he had done this much, but he kept at it, and finally had one hand altogether freed. The exertion had made him sweat and had tired him greatly. He panted for breath as he lay there, while below him he could hear the murmuring voices of the plotters.
A little rest brought back Tom’s breath and gave him renewed strength for what he had yet to do, which was to free his ankles. But he had accomplished the hardest part, which was to get his hands loose. It was not easy, however, to loosen the knots in the ropes about his feet, and it was several hours before he managed to free himself completely. One reason for this was the tightness of the knots, and another was that, occasionally one or more of the men below would come upstairs and flash a gleam from an electric torch into the room where Tom was a prisoner, to make sure he was still safe.
But the young man could tell, by the movement of chairs below, when this inspection was coming, and each time he was ready for it. He assumed on the floor the same position he had held when still bound and he wound the ropes back again on his wrists so it could not be seen, from a casual inspection, that they were loose. And he also placed the gag in his mouth.
Because of the necessity for stopping work every now and then to assume the position of a bound prisoner, Tom was longer engaged in freeing his feet than otherwise would have been the case.
Consequently it was almost morning when he was able to stand up and move about freely. Cautiously he crossed the room, pausing at every board to make sure it would not squeak and betray him, and at last he reached a window through which the faint rosy streaks of dawn were coming—the second morning that Tom had been away from home.
“Now to see if I can get this window open,” mused Tom. He scarcely hoped to find that it would open readily, and he was not greatly disappointed when he found it fastened. By the morning light, now growing stronger, and by feeling, he ascertained that the sash was held down by nails driven over the edges of it into the frame.
A claw hammer would have taken these nails out in a second of time, but Tom had no claw hammer, and the files by which he had removed the chain from his leg had been taken from him.
“But maybe by bending the nail back and forth often enough I can either loosen it enough to pull it out or I can break it off,” he told himself.
He felt that he must now work quickly. For some time there had been silence in the rooms below him, and he guessed that his captors were sleeping, thinking him securely bound and locked in.
“But they’ll awake soon and start getting breakfast,” Tom decided. “They’ll bring me up some, and then they’ll see that I have loosened the ropes. I’ve got to get away before they come up to feed me.”
His fingers sought a wedging nail and began to bend it back and forth. At first it gave only a little, but eventually it moved more and Tom’s hopes rose.
It was now getting lighter every minute. Tom felt that each moment was precious. Unless he got the window open soon and could manage to escape through it, he would be discovered.
“There!” he exclaimed with a breath of relief as he at last broke off one nail. “Now for the other.” The second proved easier, for after working it backward and forward a number of times and twisting it about, Tom pulled it out. Now the window could be raised, and this he did cautiously.
He waited a moment after lifting the sash and listened. There was no sound from below, and he thought that the men were still sleeping. He put his head out and looked down. To his dismay the window was higher above the ground than he had hoped, and there was on that side of the house neither a vine nor a rain-water pipe that he could descend.
“I’ve got to jump for it!” he grimly decided. “But that grass below looks soft.” There was a big clump of green below the window. Tom climbed out, sat down on the sill, edged himself over and then hung by his hands a moment. This reduced the length of his drop by his own height. He hung there a moment and then let go.
Down he plunged, coming to a stop on the earth with a thud that shook him greatly. He seemed to lose his breath and a sharp pain shot through his left ankle.
“Guess I’ve sprained it,” he mused. The pain was actually sickening, and made him feel faint. Through an open window on the first floor he heard some one exclaim:
“What was that noise?”
“What noise?” asked another.
“It sounded like some one falling.”
“Guess you were dreaming! Get up and make some coffee. I’m half starved.”
“All right,” said the one who had first spoken. “But I’ll just have a look at that bird upstairs. He’s cute—maybe he’s got away. I’ll have a look at him before I get breakfast!”
“I’ve got to run for it—and right away!” thought Tom desperately. “Though how I’m going to do it with a sprained ankle is more than I know. But it will never do to let them catch me again.”
The grass was tall and rank under the window. It would afford the fugitive cover until he could get to some better shelter. He began crawling through it, deeming this safer than trying to stand up and run. His concealment would be better in this position and it would take the strain off his hurt ankle. He hoped it was only a sprain and not a break.
He had not crawled more than a hundred feet from the old house before he heard coming from it shouts that told that his escape had been discovered.
“Now I’m in for it!” he mused. Just ahead of him he saw a brook, not very deep but rather wide. “If I stand up and run they’re sure to see me,” he reasoned. “And if I crawl I’ll leave a trail in the grass like a big snake. If I can get to the brook and crawl along in that I may throw them off the trail for a while.”
It seemed the best thing to do, and while the men back at the house were running about “in circles,” so to speak, Tom crawled to the brook, and then, having no particular choice, since he did not know where he was, he began crawling upstream. He did not hope to throw his enemies off his trail long in this way, nor did he. They were soon shouting as they ran down the grass-covered and weed-grown yard, for the open window had told them which way he had gone.
The trick of going into the brook confused them for a while, but Tom knew they would separate into two parties and soon trace him. He was desperate and at his wits’ end when he saw just ahead of him on the edge of the stream an old barrel, partly embedded in the sandy shore. He could get into this without leaving the water, and as its open end was turned rather upstream he might escape observation.
It did not take him long to get into the barrel. He took care to leave no tell-tale trail, and his strategy was well carried out, for a little later, splashing their way upstream, ran two of the men—Tom could see them through a hole in the closed end of the barrel.
“But I’d better not stay here,” the lad mused. “They’re sure to come back, and the next time they might take a notion to investigate this barrel. I’ll strike across country until I get to a house. There must be people living around here.”
Tom never liked, afterward, to recall that journey. It was a painful one because of his injured ankle. He got a tree branch, which he used as a crutch and hobbled along on that. Once or twice he fainted and sank to earth in a stupor. How long these periods of unconsciousness lasted he could not tell. He dared not call out for fear of bringing the men on his trail.
Through the woods and across a swamp he pulled himself along, and at last, in the afternoon, as he could tell by the sun, he dragged himself out on a road and saw a white farmhouse a little way down it.
“I—I guess I’m all right now,” faltered the exhausted youth.
It was a much surprised farmer who a little later saw a tall young man, obviously hurt, almost crawling up the front walk. Before the farmer could ask any questions Tom shot one at him.
“I’ve got to get an important message off at once. Have you a telephone? I’ll pay for using it!” There was something businesslike in Tom’s voice, weak and weary as it was, that impelled the farmer’s respect in spite of Tom’s rather disreputable appearance.
“Come in,” the man invited. “Looks to me like you’d better telephone for a doctor while you’re at it!”
“That can wait,” gasped Tom. “Something else is more important. Show me the telephone!”
A little later he was gasping to Ned his message:
“Just escaped! Watch the plant! Get Father to safety. Look out for bombs. I’ll try——”
Then Tom Swift fell over in a faint.