Chapter 11 Tom Swift and His Airline Express by Victor Appleton
THE EXPLOSION
David Knowlton, the farmer upon whom Tom had called so unceremoniously, was scarcely more surprised by the sudden falling over of the young man in a faint than he had been at his eager request for a telephone.
“Great bullfrogs!” cried Mr. Knowlton, as he hurried to pick Tom up and lay him on a lounge in the room. “What’s all this goings-on, anyhow? What’s it all mean?”
“Is he dead?” asked Mrs. Knowlton, who hurried into the room, having followed Tom and her husband when she saw the stranger come up to the house.
“I don’t know, Sarah,” was the answer. “But first hang that telephone back on the hook. The inspector told me never to leave it off when we weren’t using the line and I guess this fellow is through using it.”
So the telephone went back on the hook, which defeated the plans of frantic Ned Newton, on the other end, if not to hold further talk with Tom, at least to learn from what station he was telephoning his message of warning. In vain did Ned appeal to the central operator to re-establish the connection.
“Unless you know the number of the party who called I can’t connect you,” she reported, and Ned knew, from previous attempts, that it was useless to carry the effort further. He could only hope that Tom would call again to relieve their minds. All they knew now was that he was alive, but that something dire portended.
Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton, kindly souls that they were, ministered to Tom Swift. The farmer’s wife brought out her bottle of camphor, and a sniff of this potent spirit, with some rubbed on his forehead, soon brought Tom out of his faint. Then he was given a drink of water, which further helped in restoring his failing energies.
“If they come for me, don’t let them get me!” begged Tom, sitting up on the couch. “Help me to get back! I must travel fast!”
“You need a doctor, that’s what you need, young man!” decided Mr. Knowlton. “You aren’t fit to travel. You’ve done too much of that already, from the looks of you, and that foot of yours is in bad shape,” he added, as he saw the swollen ankle. Tom’s shoe laces were almost bursting from the pressure of the swelled flesh, and the farmer had to cut them to loosen them. This gave Tom some relief, but the hardships he had gone through, the anxiety, and being without proper food so long, had so weakened him that he went off in another faint before he could tell his story.
“Call Doctor Prouty,” advised Mrs. Knowlton. “We’ll never get to the bottom of this until this young man is in his right mind.”
Luckily the physician was in his office in the village and drove out in his car as soon as the farmer had telephoned. A hasty examination showed that Tom was suffering from exhaustion more than from anything else, and a little warm milk, followed later by more substantial food, soon gave the youth energy enough to tell the main points of his story.
“And if these men come after me—which they may do,” he said to Mr. Knowlton, “you won’t let them get me, will you?”
“I should say not!” cried Mrs. Knowlton before her husband could answer. “The idea! You poor boy!”
While the doctor was giving some directions as to what should be done for Tom, one of the hired men on the place came to the door of the room and reported:
“There’s a couple of men outside who want to see you, Mr. Knowlton.”
“All right—I’ll see them,” answered the farmer grimly. “Now don’t you worry!” he told Tom, as the youth started to say something. “Just leave ’em to me.”
Mr. Knowlton found two unprepossessing characters awaiting him on the side porch. He recognized them at once from Tom’s description.
“Have you seen a young man passing here?” asked one of the twain. “He has escaped from an insane asylum and we want to take him back before he can do any damage. He has a delusion that he is a great inventor, named Tom Swift, and he will likely tell a very plausible story. Have you seen him?”
“Tom Swift is in my house now,” said the farmer slowly.
“Is he? That’s good! We’re glad you have him safe!” cried the taller of the two men, with a quick glance at his companion. “Poor fellow—he needs care. We’ll look after him. Much obliged for having taken him in.”
“Wait a minute,” went on the farmer, as the two men endeavored to push past him into the house. “Where are you going?”
“To get the patient and take him back to the asylum.”
“Well, I’d wait a bit about that if I were you,” went on Mr. Knowlton grimly. “Now look here,” he went on, producing a shotgun from behind one of the porch pillars. “I’ll give you fellows just one minute to run down the road and make yourselves scarce in any direction you like. Just one minute, and several seconds of that have already passed!” he added significantly, as he raised the gun.
“But I say—look here!” broke out one of the men.
“Half a minute gone!” said the inexorable farmer.
“You don’t understand!” began the other plotter.
“I understand how to use a shotgun!” said Mr. Knowlton. “There’s about fifteen seconds of that minute left and——” He cocked the gun.
But the two men did not stay to argue longer. With black looks and shaking their fists at the imperturbable farmer, they ran out of the gate, and with a grim chuckle Mr. Knowlton returned to Tom to tell what had happened.
“Thank you—a whole lot,” said the young inventor. “They are desperate men. They are going to blow up my factory. I must get back at once and look after my father. He is an old man—he may not take my telephone warning seriously. Nor may Ned. I must go there myself!”
“But you aren’t fit to travel!” expostulated Mrs. Knowlton. “One of the hired men could go.”
“No, I must make the trip,” decided Tom. “I’m all right now—except for my ankle. Have you an auto?”
“Oh, yes, we have a flivver,” said the farmer.
“Then lend it to me—or sell it to me!” cried Tom. “I must make this trip at once—before night. Where is this place, anyhow?”
“You’re in Birchville,” was the answer. “It’s about thirty miles to Shopton from here.”
“I can make it!” cried Tom. “I can hobble along and make the trip in the auto. You’ll let me go, won’t you, Doctor?”
“Well, since you’re so set on it, I reckon I’ll have to. As you say, there’s nothing much the matter except a sprained ankle, and if some one will drive the car for you——”
“I’ll drive!” cried the farmer. “I want to see this thing through now. I didn’t like the looks of those fellows with their lie about an escaped crazy man. I’ll drive you home, Tom Swift!”
A little later they were on the road, and though the flivver made good time, still to Tom it seemed only to crawl. It was evening now, and rapidly getting dark.
Just before setting out he had again called Ned on the wire, telling his manager where he was, briefly relating what had happened, and again warning about the danger of bombs.
“Don’t worry, Tom,” Ned had ’phoned back. “We’re so glad you’re safe; nothing else matters. But we’ll be on our guard.”
The lights of Shopton were in view. Mr. Knowlton drove his car down the slope that led to the Swift plant, the electric gleams of which could be made out now.
“I guess everything’s all right,” Tom said, with a note of relief in his voice.
But he had hardly spoken than there came the sound of a loud explosion.
“There goes something!” cried the farmer.
“I’m afraid so!” exclaimed Tom. “I wonder if that was at my plant? Oh, I do hope Ned and my father took all precautions!”
As the echoes of the explosion died away the little car carrying Tom and the farmer lurched forward.