Chapter 25 Tom Swift and His Airline Express by Victor Appleton
A GLORIOUS FINISH
“Stand by, Ned!” ordered Tom, in a low voice. “Get ready to follow me up above,” and the young inventor made ready to ascend the enclosed ladder to the cockpit overhead.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ned.
“I don’t know; but it looks like dirty work. I’m afraid they’ve got us, after all!”
“How could they?”
Tom did not stop to answer, but quickly ascended the ladder. Ned, in a few words, told the others the alarming news that had come down from the cockpit, and then stood ready to carry out Tom’s orders.
The young inventor, crowding into the narrow space of the after cockpit, found Wright managing the machinery, for the planes had a dual control system. In the forward cockpit Ted Dolan was slumped down in a heap.
“What’s the matter?” cried Tom, when he reached Dolan’s side.
“I don’t know,” the mechanician answered weakly. “It’s something I ate—or else I’ve been doped. My stomach seems caved in and I can’t see. I’ll have to quit, Mr. Swift—sorry——”
“Don’t worry about that!” exclaimed Tom. “Ned and I can finish the trip—if the engine’s all right.”
“But that’s just the trouble,” went on Dolan, in a weak voice. “She isn’t acting properly.”
“Seems to be some obstruction in the oil feed line,” said Wright.
“Use the other,” Tom promptly advised.
“They’re both feeding slowly,” was the answer. “If the oil stops, we stop too!” Tom well knew that.
“You get down to the cabin, Dolan,” advised the young inventor. “Mr. Damon will look after you—he’s a traveling medicine chest. But have you been eating or drinking with strangers?”
“Nothing like that, Mr. Swift—no, sir! I only ate meals I was sure of, and at the hangar too. I never drank anything but water—not even sodas, for I know they can knock you out in hot weather. I think somebody got in the hangar and doped my food.”
“It’s possible,” admitted Tom. “How about you?” he asked the assistant.
“I’m all right—I can stick.”
“Well, we may need you later. You go down now with Dolan and look after him, and send Mr. Newton up here.”
Having given these orders, Tom began looking over the machinery. He was engaged in this when Ned came up to help, reporting that Mr. Damon was looking after the ill mechanician.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ned.
“Oil feed supply,” was the short answer. “You run the plane, Ned, and I’ll take the pipe down and clean it. We can run on one line while I’m working on the other.”
It was a few minutes later, when Tom had the pipe uncoupled, that he uttered an exclamation of anger and surprise.
“What is it?” cried Ned.
Tom held out a piece of cork. It had been stuffed into the pipe in such a way that for a time enough oil would pass to keep the motors running, but the cork would gradually swell and eventually would completely clog the pipe, shutting off all oil.
Without oil an engine will soon heat up, until, because of friction, the bearings, slide rods, pistons and cylinder walls may become red-hot. When that occurs the engine naturally stops. And when the engine of an aeroplane stops the plane falls. It is not like a dirigible that can sustain itself.
“Dirty work!” bitterly murmured Tom, as he worked with all possible speed to replace the pipe, for the secondary oil supply was fast failing. The plane was losing speed rapidly.
“Somebody must have got in, put some sort of dope in Dolan’s food or water, and also clogged the pipes,” said Ned.
“Right!” snapped out Tom. “But we aren’t beaten yet!”
And they were not. By hard work the young inventor got the other oil line cleaned, and then the Osprey at once picked up speed. However, much valuable time had been lost, and Tom was anxious lest the motors might have been permanently damaged by running without sufficient oil.
But they must carry on now, at all hazards, for they were within striking distance of their goal. They at last settled down into the San Francisco landing field after dark—a poor record, nearly twenty hours having been consumed since starting.
“Lucky I’m not on a strict time limit for these six trips,” commented Tom as, tired and exhausted from work and worry, he climbed out of the cockpit, followed by Ned. “Jacks didn’t stipulate that we must keep to the sixteen-hour schedule for these six trips. His only condition was that we must fly continually from coast to coast, with landings only at Chicago and Denver, and we’ve done that.”
“Through good luck and management,” commented Ned. “But we’ve got to be mighty careful, Tom, on the last trip back. They’ll be out to do us if they can and spoil our chances of getting that hundred thousand dollars from Jacks.”
“You said it! Well, we’ll do the best we can.”
Extraordinary precautions were taken about the hangar that night. Men continually patrolled the place, and even newspaper reporters and photographers were looked upon with suspicion. None but those with unquestionable credentials were allowed within the enclosure.
Tom had intended starting back to New York about three days after his arrival, but the accident to the oil line decided him to have the cylinders reground and new pistons put in.
“We want to make the last lap a record,” he said.
The delay was nerve-racking but it could not be helped. Tom was in communication with his father and Mary, and they, too, were eager for his success. All was well at home, Mary reported, and close guard was being kept on the Long Island hangar.
“They may try to blow us up when we make our last landing,” said Tom grimly, to his manager.
“They’re equal to it,” was Ned’s answer. “What about Chicago and Denver?”
“I’m wiring the men there to be on the watch.”
At last the overhauling of the Osprey’s motor was finished, and after a test preparations for the trip back were made. Word that this was to be the final test of the airline express had been broadcast, and the papers all over the country were on the alert for news. It was almost like a presidential election.
In the half-light of a cold dawn Tom and his friends took the air from the San Francisco field. As they mounted upward Ned happened to glance at a calendar hanging on the wall of the car.
“Did you know that, Tom?” he asked.
“Know what?”
“That this is Friday the thirteenth?”
“Well, what of it?” asked the inventor.
“Don’t you believe in luck?”
“Yes, when it’s with me!” Tom said, with a chuckle. “Not otherwise. I saw a black cat as we were taking off, and I guess that will neutralize Friday the thirteenth. Don’t worry!”
There seemed to be no cause for worry on the first leg of the final trip. They got off very well, and under the care of Dolan, who had recovered from his indisposition, the Osprey winged her way across the mountains like the bird whose name she bore.
They were well ahead of their schedule when they landed in Denver, and luck was with them on the second lap, when Stone and his helper, with occasional relief from Tom and Ned, piloted the Eagle on its eastern journey.
“Well, Tom, old scout, it looks as if we were going to come through with flying colors!” cried Ned, as preparations to land in Chicago were being made.
“I hope so,” was the answer.
There was a quick change of the car from the Eagle to the Falcon at the Chicago field, and Tom was about to give the signal to take off when a man with a reflex camera came dashing across the field. There had been a score of newspaper pictures taken, as well as many feet of movies, and Tom and Ned thought this man was a late-comer.
“Just a moment, Mr. Swift—please!” he cried, as he ran forward, his head almost inside the camera.
Tom was used to this plea from the hard-working newspaper picture-takers, and though he was anxious to be off he delayed a moment. He knew it might mean the discharge of a man if he came back without a picture he had been ordered to get.
A reflex camera, as those interested in photography know, is one with a focal plane shutter, exceedingly rapid in action. It is much used in news photography. The operator raises a hood, which serves the same purpose as the black focusing cloth in the photograph gallery. To get sharp pictures it is necessary to focus up to the last moment. In the reflex camera the operator can see the image of the picture he is about to take on a ground glass. When the focal plane shutter is released this ground glass automatically drops out of the way.
Something in the actions of this man aroused the suspicions of Tom. He looked at him keenly for a moment as the fellow ran forward, his head almost inside his camera. Then, with a cry, Tom leaped out of the window of the car, and, like a football tackler, threw himself on the man. He knocked the fellow down, grabbed the camera and threw it as far as he could in a direction where there were no spectators.
“Look out!” yelled Tom. “It’s a bomb!”
So it proved, for when the “camera” landed there was a sharp report and a puff of smoke, followed by a shower of dirt.
“I’ve got you, Schlump!” yelled the young inventor. Tom twisted the fellow’s hands up on his own back as he rolled him over on his face and sat on the scoundrel.
Schlump it proved to be. He had hoped to get close enough not to be recognized by holding his face down in the fake camera. And he almost succeeded, adopting the guise of a newspaper photographer. The camera was but an empty black box with a fake lens. Inside Schlump held a bomb with a slight charge of powder in it. He dared not use much for he, himself, would be close when he hurled it.
But Tom had sensed the danger in time, and by his prompt action had saved himself and his friends from injury, if not death, and had saved the plane from damage.
“Hold him! I’ll prefer charges against him after I reach New York!” cried Tom, as police officers hurried up and took the plotter in charge.
“You’ll never get to New York!” boasted the prisoner.
But Tom did not let this threat worry him. Making a hurried explanation to the police captain in charge of the squad of officers, Tom saw the prisoner led away and then he took his place again.
“A narrow squeak, that,” commented Ned.
“Just a little,” admitted Tom, with a smile. “And now for the last lap.”
The Falcon roared her way into the air amid the cheers of the throng, and the final stage of the journey was begun. At first it was feared lest some hidden defect might develop in the motor. But none did, the machinery working perfectly.
“They didn’t get a chance this time,” Tom decided. “And from the fact that Schlump tried so desperately at the last minute to disable us with a bomb, shows, I think, that they have fired their last shot.”
But there was danger still in store for the daring aviator and his friends. They had made exceptionally good time from Chicago and were approaching the Long Island field. Tom was jubilant, for the record showed the best time yet made.
“There’s the field!” cried Ned, from the after cockpit where he was helping manage the plane. Tom had decided, as was his right, to pilot the last stage of the journey himself.
“You’re right!” admitted the young inventor as he gave a glance downward. “And there’s a big crowd on hand to welcome us.”
As they swung around into the wind, a puff of smoke was seen to arise from the hangar.
“Look at that!” cried Ned.
“Fire!” exclaimed Tom. “They may be trying to burn the place!”
Lower and lower the machine dropped, and those aboard could see the men in charge of the hangar making frantic signals for them not to drop too close to the big building. Tom heeded this advice, and swung down well away from the increasing volume of smoke. The Falcon came to a stop, and the young inventor and Ned climbed out of the cockpit.
“What’s going on?” cried Ned to some of the workmen.
“Two masked men set the place on fire,” was the answer. “But we’ve caught them, and the fire will soon be out. We were afraid you would come too close.”
“Whew!” whistled Tom. “They’re keeping up the fight until the last minute. So you caught the masked men, did you? Good! I’ll have a look at them in a moment. But what’s our time, Ned? We’ve completed our schedule and fulfilled our contract, but I’d like to know what actual running time we made this last trip in.”
Ned did some rapid figuring. Then he uttered a cry of delight.
“What is it?” asked Tom.
“Fifteen hours and forty-six minutes!” was the answer. “The best time ever made! You’ve broken all records, Tom!”
“I’m glad of it,” was the modest reply.
“And so am I!” cried a voice, and Mary pressed her way through the milling throng to—well, what she did to Tom is none of your business nor mine, is it?
“Well, young man, you did what you said you would,” came in the rasping voice of Jason Jacks. “Any time you want that hundred thousand dollars, or two hundred thousand, just let me know. I didn’t believe much in this thing when you started, but you have proved that you can run an airline express between New York and San Francisco. There’s a big future in it, I believe!”
“So do I,” said Tom quietly. “And now I’d like to see who those masked men are.”
When the men were brought before the young inventor and stripped of black face-coverings, they proved to be none other than Renwick Fawn and the man who variously called himself Blodgett and Barsky—the men who had endeavored to steal Tom’s Chest of Secrets.
“I thought so!” said the young inventor. “So it was you who were back of this, with Kenny and Schlump. Well, we have both of them and now we have you.”
“But I thought these two were in jail,” said Ned wonderingly.
“They either escaped or bribed their way to a parole,” returned Tom. “But they’ll go back now.”
And back went Fawn and Barsky to the prison from which, by means of political influence, they had been paroled. They had wanted revenge and had also tried, by corrupting Kenny and Schlump, to steal the airline express patents. But their plans had been frustrated.
“Did you really suspect, Tom, that the two masked plotters were Fawn and Barsky?” asked Ned.
“Not at first,” was the answer. “Fawn has gotten over that queer trick of throwing out his elbow that surely would have given him away, and both men disguised their voices when they talked. They wanted to escape recognition, for they knew they might be sent back to jail on the old charges. Well, they’ll do double time now—on the old charge, and for trying to kidnap me, as well as setting fire to the hangar.”
“They played a desperate game,” commented Ned. “To think of digging that tunnel and going to all that work to get your patents.”
“They didn’t dig the tunnel,” Tom answered. “It’s a natural one. They just made an entrance to it near our fence—that much of the digging alone was new. The rest was natural. I may find a use for that same tunnel, too. It’s a good thing to know about. And now, Ned, I’m going to take a little vacation.”
“You deserve it!” answered the manager.
Thus the last of Tom’s enemies were caught and sent away. Mr. Jacks was as good as his word, and not only invested largely in the new enterprise himself, but got his friends to do so, so that the money Ned and Mary had put in to bolster the sinking fortunes at the last minute was fully repaid them.
“I’d never have let you risk your savings, Ned, or you either, Mary, if I had known it,” said Tom, when the story was told him. “Suppose I had failed?”
“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t fail!” answered Ned.
“So did I,” whispered Mary.
And that’s that!
THE END