Chapter 14 Tom Swift and His Airline Express by Victor Appleton
THE AIRLINE EXPRESS
Like a flash Tom Swift realized that this warning had come from those daring enemies of his who were still at large—the same men, Kenny and Schlump and the two masked ones, who had kidnapped him. He could realize their rage at his escape, their anger at the foiling of their plot to blow the place up by bombs, or, if their intention was not to cause serious damage, but only confusion, during which they might rob—this, too, had been frustrated.
For a moment the sinister character of all that had taken place stunned the young inventor. The danger under which he was, came to him with a sickening realization and he sat for a moment holding the receiver in his nerveless hand.
He was brought back to a sense of realities by hearing the somewhat distant voice of the operator asking:
“What number, please?”
That stirred Tom into action.
“Look here!” he cried into the instrument. “You don’t realize how important this is! I’ve received a threat over the wire! I must trace——”
“Hold the line,” interrupted the girl in a matter-of-fact tone, and, for a moment, Tom felt hopeful that he could thus get on the trail of those who sought to injure him. But while he was even thus hoping another voice broke in on his thoughts saying:
“This is the manager, have you any complaint to make?”
“Oh—no!” exclaimed Tom in despair, realizing how useless it was to try to trace the call thus. He was going through much the same experience Ned had gone through the time Tom called him from the farmhouse and then fainted. “I’ll call and explain. This is Tom Swift speaking,” he told the manager. “I want to trace a call that came over my private wire, but I can do it best by a personal visit, I believe.”
“We will do all we can for you,” the manager said, for she knew the Swift concern was a large and important one. “It is often difficult to trace stray calls that may be made from any of a hundred pay stations. But I will help you all I can.”
“Thank you,” said Tom, and hung up the receiver. Then he fell into deep thought.
As he had feared, the danger was not over. His enemies were only biding their time. They had failed in their first efforts, but they were not going to give up. The sinister threat was enough to disclose that.
Deciding that quick action was the best way to trace the mysterious call, Tom at once summoned Ned and they visited the local telephone exchange. There the records were gone over, but aside from establishing the fact that the call was put through from the Waterfield central, nothing was established. From just what station the threatening man had spoken, Tom could not find out. That it was a man’s voice he was certain, but whether or not it was one of the four or five who had held him prisoner in the lonely house Tom could not decide.
“But there’s something in the fact that the call came from Mr. Damon’s town,” said Ned. “And he overheard men talking about you the time he was eating in the lunch wagon. It begins to look, Tom, as if the headquarters of the gang was in or near Waterfield.”
“Yes, it does,” agreed Tom. “I think we’ll take a run over there. I want to see Mr. Damon on business, anyhow. And we can take in that old house where they had me tied up. I want to see if I can get any clews there.”
However, a visit to the lonely shack, which Tom located after some difficulty, was without result. It had long been uninhabited, and the owner, when found, said he knew nothing of the men who had been in it. This Tom and Ned could well believe. A search through the premises revealed nothing of any value as a clew. The ropes which Tom had discarded when he made his escape had been taken away, or it might have been possible to trace the place where they had been bought.
“I guess Waterfield is our next and best hope,” remarked Ned, as he and Tom came away from the lonely house.
“I think so,” agreed the young inventor. “Mr. Damon may have heard something more.”
They found the odd man contemplating his new plane, which had been repaired and taken back to his own private hangar.
Mr. Damon led his visitors to his private office, and there Tom told the latest happenings. But Mr. Damon was unable to throw any light on this new development, nor was he able to trace the men he had overheard talking in the lunch wagon. He had tried to get the police to locate them, but without avail.
“Well, we’ll let that go for the present,” decided Tom. “Now for something else—my latest idea, so to speak. I heard you say, the other day, Mr. Damon, that you had some loose funds you wished you could invest in a paying undertaking.”
“That’s right, Tom, so I have, bless my bank-book!”
“Well, I’m thinking of forming a company to exploit my airline express. I find that a large part of Father’s funds and mine are tied up in such a way, in our other inventions, that I can’t get enough ready cash in a hurry, and I need considerable to start this new method of travel. I thought perhaps you might be interested.”
“I think I may be, Tom,” said Mr. Damon. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, it’s like this,” began the young inventor. “You know over in Europe and here, too, though to a much more limited extent, great interest is being manifested in travel by aeroplane—I mean travel by private parties. They have aeroplanes now that carry ten or twelve at a time over the English Channel. You can also fly from Paris to Berlin and between other European cities. In fact, they have regular routes of travel there. But here we have only a few which might be called experimental if we exclude the air mail which is a great success between New York and Chicago and western points. Now what I plan is this: An airline express from New York to San Francisco, a straight-across-the-continent flight by daylight—say from sunrise to sunset.”
“What do you mean, Tom?” cried Wakefield Damon. “Do you mean to tell me you can build an aeroplane that will cross the continent in twelve hours?”
“Not in twelve hours, perhaps,” replied Tom, with a smile. “Though I’m not ready to admit that’s impossible. But there are more than twelve hours from sunrise to sunset—or rather, from dawn until dark. I’ll set the time at sixteen hours. That ought to be easy.”
“But you spoke of making the trip continuously—without change,” said Mr. Damon, to whom Tom’s idea was not altogether new. “None of the aeroplanes we have at present can do that—it’s all of three thousand miles. The British transatlantic fliers didn’t make as long a journey as that, though of course they were in more danger, flying over the ocean.”
“Probably it wouldn’t be a non-stop flight,” said Tom. “The air mail doesn’t do that—different planes are used. It’s just the same in making a transcontinental trip in a railroad train. No one engine makes the entire trip, nor does a single train crew. But it is possible to get in a sleeping car in New York and stay in the same car until you get to San Francisco. The car is merely coupled to different engines, made up into different trains at certain designated places.”
“Is that your plan?” asked the odd man. “I thought you said you were going to run aeroplanes, not railroad cars.”
“I am, if I can make a go of it,” replied the young inventor. “But it will be a combination aeroplane and railroad coach. Here is my idea in a rough form.”
He laid before Ned and Mr. Damon a sketch of a large and powerful plane and also a sort of coach on wheels. The two were shown separately and in combination.
“You see,” went on Tom, pointing out the different features, “the passengers would take their places in this coach—a sort of glorified automobile—at the first landing field, on Long Island. There this car, which will hold half a dozen or more, will be fastened to the aeroplane by clamps. The aeroplane will take off, and make an airline for Chicago, which will be the first of two stops to be made between New York and the Pacific coast. Landing on the Chicago field, the autocar will be detached and rolled, under its own power, to the second aeroplane which will be in waiting. It will be clamped fast to the chassis, and if the passengers happen to be asleep they will not be awakened, any more than they would when a Pullman sleeper is taken off one train and put on another.
“As soon as the car is clamped to the second plane that one starts and flies to Denver. There it descends, the car is rolled to the third plane, in waiting, and that sets off, landing in San Francisco about sixteen hours from the time the start was made—a daylight trip across the continent.”
“Can it be done?” asked Mr. Damon.
“I think so,” Tom answered. “I plan now on making one trip each way every week. There will be three laps of approximately one thousand miles each. Figure five hours to a lap, that would mean a flying rate of two hundred miles an hour—not at all impossible. We’ll charge a fare of one thousand dollars each way. There’ll be money in it, Mr. Damon. Do you want to go in with us?”
Instead of answering Mr. Damon rose and tiptoed his way softly to the door, where he stood intently listening.