Chapter 3 Tom Swift and His Great Oil Gusher by Victor Appleton
AN ATTRACTIVE OFFER
With infinite care the three rescuers carried the injured airman to the car. They bestowed him in it with some difficulty, owing to the limited space, and then Tom took the wheel and began to back out of the woods. There was no room to turn around, and the process of getting back to the road was slow and tedious. It was fortunate that the man was unconscious, as otherwise the jolting over the rough woods trail would have been torture. But they reached the main road at last, and then Tom made up for lost time in a rapid spin to the doors of the hospital.
They carried the stranger in and gave a hurried description of the accident to the physicians in charge. Then they waited about until the doctors had made a thorough examination.
“He’ll pull through,” announced Dr. Sherwood, the head physician, at last. “But it’s a lucky thing you fellows got to him just when you did, or otherwise he would have soon died of shock and exhaustion. As far as we can see now, he has no internal injuries. The ribs and leg are clean breaks and probably they’ll mend without complications, though it’ll probably be a couple of months before he can leave the hospital. By the way, who set that leg bone?”
“I did,” replied Tom, in some alarm. “I hope it was all right, Doctor?”
“It was a nifty piece of work,” said the doctor, with a smile. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“Was anything found in his pockets that would identify him?” asked Ned. “We thought he said his name was Hillobie, but we couldn’t be quite sure.”
“Not a thing,” replied the doctor. “If he’d had any papers about him, they were shaken out during his fall. Or they may have been burned up with the plane. But probably some of his relatives or friends will read of the accident and communicate with us. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything.”
They thanked him and went out to the car.
“What a lucky thing it was that I didn’t feel like work this afternoon and went out for a spin in the plane,” remarked Tom, as they sped toward the Swift Construction plant.
“It sure was,” agreed Ned. “But don’t let it become a habit,” he added, with a grin. “After this, whenever you have an attack of spring fever, I suppose you’ll make the virtuous excuse that we’d better go out and see if there isn’t anybody we can rescue.”
“How well you size me up,” laughed Tom. “I guess after this I’ll have to leave you to your old figures while I sneak out alone. But here we are at the plant. I’ll drop you and Jackson here while I mosey along toward the house. I want to get a bath and slip into some clean clothes. I sure look like a hobo.”
“You haven’t anything on us,” replied Ned, as he looked somewhat ruefully at his torn and rumpled clothes and his scratched hands, due to their scramble through the branches. “But after all,” he added, “it’s a cheap price to pay for having saved that poor fellow’s life.”
Tom drove the roadster into its garage and then made his way over to his house. This was only a little distance away, as the plant had grown up around the old homestead. For that reason, it was not the most desirable location in the world, but it had associations connected with it that were precious and made Tom and his father reluctant to abandon it. In the summer they had a pleasant little cottage some distance away where they spent much of their time, but for the greater part of the year they lived in the old homestead. One great thing in its favor was its proximity to the plant, where Tom often worked until late in the night when he was engrossed with a new invention. Tom’s mother was dead and the household was presided over by Mrs. Baggert, a motherly, efficient woman, who handled all the help and kept the home in perfect shape.
As Tom approached the gate, two figures came hurrying forward to greet him. One was a giant of a man, who had been brought home from the jungles by Tom on one of his expeditions abroad and who had become devotedly attached to him. His strength was enormous and had frequently stood Tom in good stead in moments of peril. His native name had been Koku, and this had been retained for want of a better. His English was imperfect, though he could understand anything that was said to him.
Hobbling close behind him, and holding on to his arm so that the giant should not be the first to reach Tom, was an old negro who had been in the household for years as a man of all work. His name, of which he was inordinately proud because of its mouth-filling qualities, was Eradicate Sampson, which was usually shortened by others to Rad. Tom was his idol, and the old man would have died for him.
Rad had not been at all pleased at first when Koku was brought to the old homestead. He feared that the giant might supplant him in the affections of his young master. But gradually this feeling had worn away, and he and the good-natured giant had become close friends, although there was a constant rivalry between them as to who should serve Tom most and best.
“Doan you be in such a hurry, yo’ slamdacious ole hunk o’ beef,” panted Rad. “Ah saw him fust an’ it’s mah place to tell ’im. Marse Tom, they’s——”
“Men to see you,” bellowed Koku, getting the message out first.
Rad glared at him and was about to emit some withering blast when he caught sight of Tom’s scratched face and torn clothes.
“Wha’s matter, Marse Tom?” he ejaculated. “Been in fight or smash-up?”
“Me kill any one hurt him!” cried Koku.
“I’m all right,” laughed Tom, who was touched, however, by their evident concern. “Just a few scratches and nothing else. Did you say there’s somebody to see me?”
“T’ree men,” said Koku.
“Fo’ men,” corrected Rad, with a glance of scorn. “Beats all how ignoramuses some folks is. Yassah,” he went on, while Koku was temporarily squelched, “Marse Damon’s dere wid free udder gemmum an dey bin waitin’ some time, sah.”
“All right,” said Tom. “But I’ve got to slip upstairs and get into other clothes. You go in, Rad, and tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Rad shambled off with a triumphant look at Koku.
“As for you, Koku,” said Tom to the giant, who immediately brightened up, “you go down to the garage and wash the roadster. I’ve had a long ride in it this afternoon and it needs a good cleaning. You’re the only one I’d trust to do it right.”
Koku straightened up proudly and strode off. Tom looked after him for a moment with an amused smile and then slipped into the house by the back way and went up to his room. He could hear the voice of his eccentric friend, Wakefield Damon, in the living room as he fumed about and, as was his habit, blessed everything in sight.
Mr. Damon was a man much older than Tom, but from the time he had let the lad have the motor cycle that had nearly crushed out the man’s life and had started Tom on his inventive career, the two had been great friends. Mr. Damon was as adventurous as a boy, and had accompanied Tom on many wild trips to wilder parts of the earth.
Tom washed and dressed hurriedly and then went downstairs.
“Bless my timepiece, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, as the young man entered. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been ’phoning everywhere I could think of for the last hour.”
“Sorry,” replied Tom, as he shook hands with his excitable friend and glanced at the three other men in the room who had risen from their chairs. “I was out for a ride in the airplane and was detained longer than I expected.”
“Bless my excuses!” said Mr. Damon. “Tom, let me introduce these three gentlemen who have called with me to see you on a matter of business.”
Mr. Damon introduced to Tom in turn a Mr. Thompson, Mr. Bragden and Mr. Hankinshaw. The two former were tall, sharp-eyed men, whose every glance and movement indicated mental celerity and familiarity with business. They were immaculately dressed. Hankinshaw was fat and gross, was roughly dressed and as uncouth in his manners as he was in physical appearance. He was smoking villainous tobacco in a pipe at which he puffed incessantly.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Tom pleasantly, after the introductions had taken place and they had resumed their seats, “what can I do for you?”
“We called,” said Mr. Thompson, who seemed by common consent to be the spokesman of the party, “to see you about the manufacture of some special oil-drilling machinery. I happened to know Mr. Damon slightly, due to the fact that we have some investments in another line, and in a conversation with him we told him something about our project. He immediately suggested that we get in communication with you. Said you had the ability and facilities to make just what we had in mind. Of course, the moment he mentioned your name, we recognized it, for who hasn’t heard of Tom Swift, the famous inventor?”
“Oh, there are lots of people who haven’t,” said Tom. “I’ve knocked together a few little things, but——”
“Bless my modesty,” broke in Mr. Damon, “listen to Tom talk. ‘Knocked together a few little things!’ Why, he’s made airplanes and cannon and searchlights and war tanks. He’s dug tunnels and goodness knows what not. Why, he’s made the whole tribe of inventors look like a lot of also-rans! He’s run rings around the lot of them. He’s the king pin. He’s—he’s—” and here Mr. Damon, sputtering incoherently, stopped for lack of breath and glared reproachfully at Tom as he polished his glasses.
“It’s evident that my reputation hasn’t suffered at Mr. Damon’s hands,” laughed Tom.
“No,” put in Hankinshaw, with the faintest sneer in his tone. “He makes a mighty good press agent.”
Thompson warned his colleague with a look, and the latter subsided, puffing furiously at his pipe.
“Mr. Swift doesn’t need any press agent,” went on Thompson smoothly. “His inventions speak for themselves. But now let us get down to business. As I was saying——”
“Pardon me while I call up my business manager, Mr. Newton,” interrupted Tom. “I never transact any important business without his presence and advice. He’s over at the works, and I’ll have him here in a minute.”