Tom Swift and his Wireless Message
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Victor Appleton >> Tom Swift and his Wireless Message
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"So am I," spoke Tom, with a smile.
"Are you, indeed? Then, if the cook I hope to get now will make
them, I'll invite you over to have some, and--also meet my friends."
"I'd rather come when just you, and the turnovers and the cook are
there," declared Tom, boldly, and Mary, with a blush, made ready to
leave the electric car.
"Thank you," she said, in a low voice.
"If I can't help you select a cook," went on Tom, "at least let me
call and take you home when you have engaged one."
"Oh, it will be too much trouble," protested Miss Nestor.
"Not at all. I have only to send a message, and get some piano wire,
and then I'll call back here for you. I'll take you and the new cook
back home flying."
"All right, but don't fly so fast. The cook may get frightened, and
leave before she has a chance to make an apple turnover."
"I'll go slower. I'll be back in fifteen minutes," called Tom, as he
swung the car out away from the curb, while Mary Nestor went into
the intelligence office.
Tom wrote and sent this message to Mr. Hostner Fenwick, of
Philadelphia:
"Will come on to-morrow in my aeroplane, and aid you all I can. Will
not promise to make your electric airship fly, though. Father sends
regards."
"Just rush that, please," he said to the telegraph agent, and the
latter, after reading it over, remarked:
"It'll rush itself, I reckon, being all about airships, and things
like that," and he laughed as Tom paid him.
Selecting several sizes of piano wire of great strength, to use as
extra guy-braces on the Butterflv, Tom re-entered his electric car,
and hastened back to the intelligence office, where he had left his
friend. He saw her standing at the front door, and before he could
alight, and go to her, Miss Nestor came cut to meet him.
"Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed, with a little tragic gesture, "what do you
think?"
"I don't know," he answered good-naturedly. "Does the new cook
refuse to come unless you do away with apple turnovers?"
"No, it isn't that. I have engaged a real treasure, I'm sure, but as
soon as I mentioned that you would take us home in the electric
automobile, she flatly refused to come. She said walking was the
only way she would go. She hasn't been in this country long. But the
worst of it is that a rich woman has just telephoned in for a cook,
and if I don't get this one away, the rich lady may induce her to
come to her house, and I'll be without one! Oh, what shall I do?"
and poor Mary looked quite distressed.
"Humph! So she's afraid of electric autos; eh?" mused Tom. "That's
queer. Leave it to me, Mary, and perhaps I can fix it. You want to
get her away from here in a hurry; don't you?"
"Yes, because servants are so scarce, that they are engaged almost
as soon as they register at the intelligence office. I know the one
I have hired is suspicious of me, since I have mentioned your car,
and she'll surely go with Mrs. Duy Puyster when she comes. I'm sorry
I spoke of the automobile."
"Well, don't worry. It's partly my fault, and perhaps I can make
amends. I'll talk to the new cook," decided the young inventor.
"Oh, Tom, I don't believe it will do any good. She won't come, and
all my girl friends will arrive shortly." Miss Nestor was quite
distressed.
"Leave it to me," suggested the lad, with an assumed confidence he
did not feel. He left the car, and walked toward the office.
Entering it, with Miss Nestor in his wake, he saw a pleasant-faced
Irish girl, sitting on a bench, with a bundle beside her.
"And so you don't want to ride in an auto?" began Tom.
"No, an' it's no use of the likes of you askin' me, either,"
answered the girl, but not impudently. "I am afeered of thim things,
an' I won't work in a family that owns one."
"But we don't own one," said Mary.
The girl only sniffed.
"It is the very latest means of traveling," Tom went on, "and there
is absolutely no danger. I will drive slowly."
"No!" snapped the new cook.
Tom was rather at his wits' ends. At that moment the telephone rang,
and Tom and Mary, listening, could hear the proprietress of the
intelligence office talking to Mrs. Duy Puyster over the wire.
"We must get her away soon," whispered Mary, with a nod at the Irish
girl, "or we'll lose her."
Tom was thinking rapidly, but no plan seemed to come to him. A
moment later one of the assistants of the office led out from a rear
room another Irish girl,--who, it seems, had just engaged herself to
work in the country.
"Good-by, Bridget," said this girl, to the one Mary Nestor had
hired. "I'm off now. The carriage has just come for me. I'm goin'
away in style."
"Good luck, Sarah," wished Bridget.
Tom looked out of the window. A dilapidated farm wagon, drawn by two
rusty-looking horses, just drawing up at the curb.
"There is your employer, Sarah," said the proprietress of the
office. "You will have a nice ride to the country and I hope you
will like the place."
A typical country farmer alighted from the wagon, leaving a woman,
evidently his wife, or the seat. He called out:
"I'll git th' servant-gal, 'Mandy, an' we'll drive right out hum.
Then you won't have such hard work any more."
"An' so that's the style you was tellin' me of; eh, Sarah?" asked
the cook whom Miss Nestor had engaged. "That's queer style, Sarah."
Sarah was blushing from shame and mortification. Tom was quick to
seize the advantage thus offered.
"Bridget, if YOU appreciate style," he said, "you will come in the
automobile. I have one of the very latest models, and it is very
safe. But perhaps you prefer a farm wagon."
"Indade an' I don't!" was the ready response. "I'll go wid you now
if only to show Sarah Malloy thot I have more style than her! She
was boastin' of the fine place she had, an' th' illigant carriage
that was comin' t' take her to the counthry. If that's it I want
none of it! I'll go wid you an' th' young gintleman. Style indade!"
and, gathering up her bundle she followed Tom and Mary to the
waiting auto.
They entered it and started off, just as Mrs. Duy Puyster drove up
in her elegantly appointed carriage, while Sarah, with tears of
mortification in her eyes, climbed up beside the farmer and his
wife.
"You saved the day for me, Tom," whispered Miss Nestor, as the young
inventor increased the speed of his car. "It was only just in time."
"Don't forget the apple turnovers," he whispered back.
Once she had made the plunge, the new cook seemed to lose her fears
of the auto, and enjoyed the ride. In a short time she had been
safely delivered at Miss Nestor's home, while that young lady
repeated her thanks to Tom, and renewed her invitation for him to
come and sample the apple turnovers, which Tom promised faithfully
to do, saying he would call on his return from Philadelphia.
Musing on the amusing feature of his trip, Tom was urging his auto
along at moderate speed, when, as he turned down a country road,
leading to his home, he saw, coming toward him, a carriage, drawn by
a slow-moving, white horse, and containing a solitary figure.
"Why, that looks like Andy Foger," spoke Tom, half aloud. "I wonder
what he's doing out driving? His auto must be out of commission. But
that's not strange, considering the way he abuses the machine. It's
in the repair shop half the time."
He slowed down still more, for he did not know but that Andy's horse
might be skittish. He need have no fears, however, for the animal
did not seem to have much more life than did Eradicate's mule,
Boomerang.
As Tom came nearer the carriage, he was surprised to see Andy
deliberately swing his horse across the road, blocking the highway
by means of the carriage and steed.
"Well, Andy Foger, what does that mean?" cried Tom, indignantly, as
he brought his car to a sudden stop. "Why do you block the road?"
"Because I want to," snarled the bully, taking out a notebook and
pencil, and pretending to make some notes about the property in
front of which he had halted. "I'm in the real estate business now,"
went on Andy, "and I'm getting descriptions of the property I'm
going to sell. Guess I've got a right to stop in the road if I want
to!"
"But not to block it up," retorted Tom. "That's against the law.
Pull over and let me pass!"
"Suppose I don't do it?"
"Then I'll make you!"
"Huh! I'd like to see you try it!" snapped Andy. "If you make
trouble for me, it will be the worse for you."
"If you pull to one side, so I can pass, there'll be no trouble,"
said Tom, seeing that Andy wished to pick a quarrel.
"Well, I'm not going to pull aside until I finish putting down this
description," and the bully continued to write with tantalizing
slowness.
"Look here!" exclaimed Tom Swift, with sudden energy. "I'm not going
to stand for this! Either you pull to one side and let me pass, or--"
"Well, what will you do?" demanded the bully.
"I'll shove you to one side, and you can take the consequences!"
"You won't dare to!"
"I won't, eh? Just you watch."
Tom threw forward the lever of his car. There was a hum of the
motor, and the electric moved ahead. Andy had continued to write in
the book, but at this sound he glanced up.
"Don't you dare to bunk into me!" yelled Andy. "If you do I'll sue
you for damages!"
"Get out of the way, or I'll shove you off the road!" threatened
Tom, calmly.
"I'll not go until I get ready."
"Oh, yes you will," responded our hero quietly. He sent his car
ahead slowly but surely. It was within a few feet of the carriage
containing Andy. The bully had dropped his notebook, and was shaking
his fist at Tom.
As for the young inventor he had his plans made. He saw that the
horse was a quiet, sleepy one, that would not run away, no matter
what happened, and Tom only intended to gently push the carriage to
one side, and pass on.
The front of his auto came up against the other vehicle.
"Here, you stop!" cried Andy, savagely.
"It's too late now," answered Tom, grimly.
Andy reached for the horsewhip. Tom put on a little more power, and
the carriage began to slide across the road, but the old horse never
opened his eyes.
"Take that!" cried Andy, raising his whip, with the intention of
slashing Tom across the face, for the front of the auto was open.
But the blow never fell, for, the next instant, the carriage gave a
lurch as one of the wheels slid against a stone, and, as Andy was
standing up, and leaning forward, he was pitched head first out into
the road.
"By Jove! I hope I haven't hurt him!" gasped Tom, as he leaped from
his auto, which he had brought to a stop.
The young inventor bent over the bully. There was a little cut on
Andy's forehead, and his face was white. He had been most
effectually knocked out entirely by his own meanness and fault, but,
none the less, Tom was frightened. He raised up Andy's head on his
arm, and brushed back his hair. Andy was unconscious.
CHAPTER IV
MR. DAMON WILL GO ALONG
At first Tom was greatly frightened at the sight of Andy's pale
face. He feared lest the bully might be seriously hurt. But when he
realized that the fall from the carriage, which was a low one, was
not hard, and that Andy had landed on his outstretched hands before
his head came in contact with the earth, our hero was somewhat
reassured.
"I wish I had some water, with which to bathe his head," Tom
murmured, and he looked about in vain for some. But it was not
needed, for, a moment later, Andy opened his eyes, and, when he saw
Tom bending over, and holding him, the bully exclaimed:
"Here! You let me go! Don't you hit me again, Tom Swift, or I'll
punch you!"
"I didn't hit you," declared Tom, while Andy tore himself away, and
struggled to his feet.
"Yes, you did, too, hit me!"
"I did not! You tried to strike me with your whip, as I was shoving
your carriage out of the way, which I had a perfect right to do, as
you were blockading the highway. You lost your balance and fell. It
was your own fault."
"Well, you'll suffer for it, just the same, snarled Andy, and then,
putting his hand to his head, and bringing it away, with some drops
of blood on it, he cried out:"
"Oh, I'm hurt! I'm injured! Get a doctor, or maybe I'll bleed to
death!" He began blubbering, for Andy, like all bullies, was a
coward.
"You're not hurt," asserted Tom, trying not to laugh. "It's only a
scratch. Next time don't try to blockade the whole street, and you
won't get into trouble. Are you able to drive home; or shall I take
you in my car?"
"I wouldn't ride in your car!" snapped the ugly lad. "You go on, and
mind your business now, and I'll pay you back for this, some day. I
could have you arrested!"
"And so could I have you locked up for obstructing traffic. But I'll
not. Your rig isn't damaged, and you'd better drive home."
The old white horse had not moved, and was evidently glad of the
rest. A glance satisfied Tom that the carriage had not been damaged,
and, getting into his car, while Andy was brushing the dust from his
clothes, our hero started the motor.
There was now room enough to pass around the obstructing carriage,
and soon Tom was humming down the road, leaving a much discomfited
bully behind him.
"Tom Swift is too smart--thinking he can run everybody, and
everything, to suit himself," growled Andy, as he finished dusting
off his clothes, and wiping the blood from his face. As Tom had
said, the wound was but a scratch, though the bully's head ached,
and he felt a little dizzy. "I wish I'd hit him with the horsewhip,"
he went on, vindictively. "I'll get square with him some day."
Andy had said this many times, but he had never yet succeeded in
permanently getting the best of Tom. Pondering on some scheme of
revenge the rich lad--for Mr. Foger, his father, was quite wealthy--
drove on.
Meanwhile Tom, rather wishing the little encounter had not taken
place, but refusing to blame himself for what had occurred, was
speeding toward home.
"Let's see," he murmured, as he drove along in his powerful car.
"I've got quite a lot to do if I make an early start for
Philadelphia, in my airship, to-morrow. I want to tighten the
propeller on the shaft a trifle, and give the engine a good try-out.
Then, too, I think I'd better make the landing springs a little
stiffer. The last time I made a descent the frame was pretty well
jarred up. Yes, if I make that air trip to-morrow I'll have to do
some tall hustling when I get home."
The electric runabout swung into the yard of the Swift house, and
Tom brought it to a stop opposite the side door. He looked about for
a sight of his father, Mrs. Baggert or Garret Jackson. The only
person visible was Eradicate Sampson, working in the garden.
"Hello, Rad," called Tom. "Anybody home?"
"Yais, Massa Tom," answered the colored man. "Yo' dad an' anodder
gen'mans hab jest gone in de house."
"Who's the other gentleman, Rad?" asked Tom, and the negro, glad of
an excuse to cease the weeding of the onion bed, came shuffling
forward.
"It's de gen'mans what is allers saying his prayers," he answered.
"Saying his prayers?" repeated Tom.
"Yep. Yo' knows what I means, Massa Tom. He's allers askin' a
blessin' on his shoes, or his rubbers, or his necktie."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Wakefield Damon."
"Yais, sah, dat's who I done means. Mr, Wakefull Lemon--dat's sho'
him."
At that moment there sounded, within the house, the voices of Mr.
Swift, and some one else in conversation.
"And so Tom has decided to make a run to the Quaker City in the
BUTTERFLY, to-morrow," Mr. Swift was saying, "and he's going to see
if he can be of any service to this Mr. Fenwick."
"Bless my watch chain!" exclaimed the other voice. "You don't say
so! Why I know Mr. Fenwick very well--he and I used to go to school
together, but bless my multiplication tables--I never thought he'd
amount to anything! And so he's built an airship; and Tom is going
to help him with it? Why, bless my collar button, I've a good notion
to go along and see what happens. Bless my very existence, but I
think I will!"
"That's Mr. Damon all right," observed Tom, with a smile, as he
advanced toward the dining-room, whence the voices proceeded.
"Dat's what I done tole you!" said Eradicate, and, with slow and
lagging steps he went back to weed the onion bed.
"How are you, Mr. Damon," called our hero, as he mounted the steps
of the porch.
"Why, it's Tom--he's back!" exclaimed the eccentric man. "Why, bless
my shoe laces, Tom! how are you? I'm real glad to see you. Bless my
eyeglasses, but I am! I just returned from a little western trip,
and I thought I'd ran over and see how you are. I came in my car--
had two blowouts on the way, too. Bless my spark plug, but the kind
of tires one gets now-a-days are a disgrace! However, I'm here, and
your father has just told me about you going to Philadelphia in your
monoplane, to help a fellow-inventor with his airship. It's real
kind of you. Bless my topknot if it isn't! Do you know what I was
just saying?"
"I heard you mention that you knew Mr. Fenwick," replied Tom, with a
smile, as he shook hands with Mr. Damon.
"So I do, and, what's more, I'd like to see his airship. Will your
BUTTERFLY carry two passengers?"
"Easily. Mr. Damon."
"Then I'll tell you what I'm going to do. If you'll let me I'll take
that run to Philadelphia with you!"
"Glad to have you come along," responded Tom, heartily.
"Then I'll go, and, what's more, if Fenwick's ship will rise, I'll
go with you in that--bless my deflection rudder if I don't, Tom!"
and puffing top his cheeks, as he exploded these words, Mr. Damon
fairly raised himself on his tiptoes, and shook Tom's hand again.
CHAPTER V
VOL-PLANING TO EARTH
For a moment after Mr. Damon's announcement Tom did not reply. Mr.
Swift, too, seemed a little at a loss for something to say. They did
not quite know how to take their eccentric friend at times.
"Of course I'll be glad of your company, Mr. Damon," said Tom: "but
you must remember that my BUTTERFLY is not like the RED CLOUD. There
is more danger riding in the monoplane than there is in the airship.
In the latter, if the engine happens to stop, the sustaining gas
will prevent us from falling. But it isn't so in an aeroplane. When
your engine stops there--"
"Well, what happens?" asked Mr. Damon, impatiently, for Tom
hesitated.
"You have to vol-plane back to earth."
"Vol-plane?" and there was a questioning note in Mr. Damon's voice.
"Yes, glide down from whatever height you are at when the engine
stalls. Come down in a series of dips from the upper currents. Vol-
planing, the French call it, and I guess it's as good a word as
any."
"Have you ever done it?" asked the odd character.
"Oh, yes, several times."
"Then, bless my fur overcoat! I can do it, too, Tom. When will you
be ready to start?"
"To-morrow morning. Now you are sure you won't get nervous and want
to jump, if the engine happens to break down?"
"Not a bit of it. I'll vol-plane whenever you are ready," and Mr.
Damon laughed.
"Well, we'll hope we won't have to," went on Tom. "And I'll be very
glad of your company. Mr. Fenwick will, no doubt, be pleased to see
you. I've never met him, and it will be nice to have some one to
introduce me. Suppose you come out and see what sort of a craft you
are doomed to travel in to-morrow, Mr. Damon. I believe you never
saw my new monoplane."
"That's right, I haven't, but I'd be glad to. I declare, I'm getting
to be quite an aviator," and Mr. Damon chuckled. A little later,
Tom, having informed his father of the sending of the message. took
his eccentric friend out to the shop, and exhibited the BUTTERFLY.
As many of you have seen the ordinary monoplane, either on
exhibition or in flight, I will not take much space to describe
Tom's. Sufficient to say it was modeled after the one in which
Bleriot made his first flight across the English channel.
The body was not unlike that of a butterfly or dragon fly, long and
slender, consisting of a rectangular frame with canvas stretched
over it, and a seat for two just aft of the engine and controlling
levers. Back of the seat stretched out a long framework, and at the
end was a curved plane, set at right angles to it. The ends of the
plane terminated in flexible wings, to permit of their being bent up
or down, so as to preserve the horizontal equilibrium of the craft.
At the extreme end was the vertical rudder, which sent the monoplane
to left or right.
Forward, almost exactly like the front set of wings of the dragon
fly, was the large, main plane, with the concave turn toward the
ground. There was the usual propeller in front, operated by a four
cylinder motor, the cylinders being air cooled, and set like the
spokes of a wheel around the motor box. The big gasolene tank, and
other mechanism was in front of the right-hand operator's seat,
where Tom always rode. He had seldom taken a passenger up with him,
though the machine would easily carry two, and he was a little
nervous about the outcome of the trip with Mr. Damon.
"How do you like the looks of it?" asked the young inventor, as he
wheeled the BUTTERFLY out of the shed, and began pumping up the
tires of the bicycle wheels on which it ran over the ground, to get
impetus enough with which to rise.
"It looks a little frail, compared to the big RED CLOUD, Tom,"
answered the eccentric man, "but I'm going up in her just the same;
bless my buttons if I'm not."
Tom could not but admire the grit of his friend.
The rest of the day was busily spent making various adjustments to
the monoplane, putting on new wire stays, changing the rudder
cables, and tuning up the motor. The propeller was tightened on the
shaft, and toward evening Tom announced that all was in readiness
for a trial flight.
"Want to come, Mr. Damon?" he asked.
"I'll wait, and see how it acts with you aboard," was the answer.
"Not that I'm afraid, for I'm going to make the trip in the morning,
but perhaps it won't work just right now."
"Oh, I guess it will," ventured Tom, and in order to be able to know
just how his BUTTERFLY was going to behave, with a passenger of Mr.
Damon's weight, the young inventor placed a bag of sand on the extra
seat.
The monoplane was then wheeled to the end of the starting ground.
Tom took his place in the seat, and Mr. Jackson started the
propeller. At first the engine failed to respond, but suddenly with
a burst of smoke, and a spluttering of fire the cylinders began
exploding. The hat of Mr. Damon, who was standing back of the
machine, was blown off by the wind created by the propeller.
"Bless my gaiters!" he exclaimed, "I never thought it was as strong
as that!"
"Let go!" cried Tom to Mr. Jackson and Eradicate, who were holding
back the monoplane from gliding over the ground.
"All right," answered the engineer.
An instant later the explosions almost doubled, for Tom turned on
more gasolene. Then, like some live thing, the BUTTERFLY rushed
across the starting ground. Faster and faster it went, until the
young inventor, knowing that he had motion enough, tilted his planes
to catch the wind.
Up he went from earth, like some graceful bird, higher and higher,
and then, in a big spiral, he began ascending until he was five
hundred feet in the air. Up there he traveled back and forth, in
circles, and in figure eights, desiring to test the machine in
various capacities.
Suddenly the engine stopped, and to those below, anxiously watching,
the silence became almost oppressive, for Tom had somewhat
descended, and the explosions had been plainly heard by those
observing him. But now they ceased!
"His engine's stalled!" cried Garret Jackson.
Mr. Swift heard the words, and looked anxiously up at his son.
"Is he in any danger?" gasped Mr. Damon.
No one answered him. Like some great bird, disabled in mid flight,
the monoplane swooped downward. A moment later a hearty shout from
Tom reassured them.
"He shut off the engine on purpose," said Mr. Jackson. "He is vol-
planing back to earth!"
Nearer and nearer came the BUTTERFLY. It would shoot downward, and
then, as Tom tilted the planes, would rise a bit, losing some of the
great momentum. In a series of maneuvers like this, the young
inventor reached the earth, not far from where his father and the
others stood. Down came the BUTTERFLY, the springs of the wheel
frame taking the shock wonderfully well.
"She's all right--regular bird!" cried Tom, in enthusiasm, when the
machine had come to a stop after rolling over the ground, and he had
leaped out. "We'll make a good flight to-morrow, Mr. Damon, if the
weather holds out this way."
"Good!" cried the eccentric man. "I shall be delighted."
They made the start early the next morning, there being hardly a
breath of wind. There was not a trace of nervousness noticeable
about Mr. Damon, as he took his place in the seat beside Tom. The
lad had gone carefully over the entire apparatus, and had seen to it
that, as far as he could tell, it was in perfect running order.
"When will you be back, Tom?" asked his father.
"To-night, perhaps, or to-morrow morning. I don't know just what Mr.
Fenwick wants me to do. But if it is anything that requires a long
stay, I'll come back, and let you know, and then run down to
Philadelphia again. I may need some of my special tools to work
with. I'll be back to-night perhaps."
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