The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “What is it, Koku? What is it?” cried Tom, plunging down into the little chamber.

  As he reached it, a door leading to the outer air flew open, and out rushed a man, badly torn as to his clothes, and scratched and bleeding as to his face. On he ran, across the space back of the barbette, toward the lower tier of seats that had been erected for the spectators.

  “It’s von Brunderger’s servant!” gasped Ned, recognizing the fellow.

  “What did he do, Koku?” demanded the young inventor.

  “Him sneak in here—have some of that stuff you call ‘dope.’ I sent up powder, and I come back here to see him try to put some dope in Master’s ammunition.”

  “The scoundrel!” cried Tom. “They’re trying to break me, even at the last minute! Come on, Ned.”

  They raced outside to behold a curious sight. Straight toward von Brunderger rushed the man as if in a frenzy of fear. He called out something in German to his master, and the latter’s face went first red, then white. He was observed to look about quickly, as though in alarm, and then, with a shout at his servant, the German officer rushed from the stand, and the two disappeared in the direction of the barracks.

  “What does it mean?” cried Ned.

  “Give it up,” answered Tom, “except that Koku spoiled their trick, whatever it was. It looks as if this was the end of it, and that the mystery has been cleared up.”

  “Mr. Swift! Where’s Mr. Swift?” shouted the wireless operator. “Where are you?”

  “Yes; what is it?” demanded Tom, so excited that he hardly knew what he was doing.

  “The longest shot on record!” cried the man. “Thirty-three miles, and it struck, exploded, and blew the top off a mountain on an island out there!” and he pointed across the sun-lit sea.

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE LONG-LOST MINE

  There was a silence after the inspiring words of the operator, and then it seemed that everyone began to talk at once. The record-breaking shot, the effect of it and the struggle that had taken place in the powder room, together with the flight of von Brunderger and his servant, gave many subjects for excited conversation.

  “I’ve got to get at the bottom of this!” cried Tom, making his way through the press of officials to where the wireless operator stood. “Just repeat that,” requested Tom, and they all gave place for him, waiting for the answer.

  The operator read the message again.

  “Thirty-three miles!” murmured Tom. “That is better than I dared to hope. But what’s that about blowing the top off an island?”

  “That’s what you did, with that explosive shell, Mr. Swift. The operator on the firing-zone ship saw the top fly off when the shell struck. The ship was about half a mile away, and when they heard that shell coming the officers thought it was all up with them. But, instead, it passed over them and demolished the top of the mountain.

  “Anybody hurt?” asked Tom, anxiously.

  “No, it was an uninhabited island. But you have made the record shot, all right. It went farther than any of the others.”

  “Then I suppose I ought to be satisfied,” remarked Tom, with a smile.

  “What was that disturbance, Mr. Swift?” asked the chief ordnance officer, coming forward.

  “I don’t understand it myself,” replied the young inventor. “It appeared that someone went into the ammunition room, and Koku, my giant servant, attacked him.”

  “As he had a right to do. But who was the intruder?”

  “Herr von Brunderger’s man.”

  “Ha! That German officer’s! Where is he, he must explain this.”

  But Herr von Brunderger was not to be found, nor was his man in evidence. They had fled, and when a search was made of their rooms, damaging evidence was found. Before a board of investigating officers Koku told his story, after the gun tests had been declared off for the day, they having been most satisfactory.

  The German officer’s servant, it appeared, had managed to gain entrance to the ammunition chamber by means of a false key to the outer door. There were two entrances, the other being from the top of the platform where the cannon rested. Koku had seen him about to throw something into one of the ammunition cases, and had grappled with him. There was a fight, and, in spite of the giant’s strength, the man had slipped away, leaving part of his garments in the grasp of Koku.

  An investigation of some of the powder showed that it had been covered with a chemical that would have made it explode prematurely when placed in the gun. It would probably have wrecked the cannon by blowing out the breech block, and might have done serious damage to life as well as property.

  “But what was the object?” asked Ned.

  “To destroy Tom’s gun,” declared Mr. Damon.

  “Why should von Brunderger want to do that?”

  They found the answer among his papers. He had been a German officer of high rank, but had been dismissed from the secret service of his country for bad conduct. Then, it appeared, he thought of the plan of doing some damage to a foreign country in order to get back in the good graces of his Fatherland.

  He forged documents of introduction and authority, and was received with courtesy by the United States officials. In some way he heard of Tom’s gun, and that it was likely to be so successful that it would be adopted by the United States government. This he wanted to prevent, and he went to great lengths to accomplish this. It was he, or an agent of his, who forged the letter of invitation to General Waller, and who first tried to spoil Tom’s test by doping the powder through Koku.

  Later he tried other means, sending a midnight visitor to Tom’s house and even going to the length of filing the cables in the storm, so the gun would roll off the warship into the sea. All this was found set down in his papers, for he kept a record of what he had done in order to prove his case to his own government. It was his servant who tried to get near the gun while it was being cast.

  That he would be restored to favor had he succeeded, was an open question, though with Germany’s friendliness toward the United States it is probable that his acts would have been repudiated. But he was desperate.

  Failing in many attempts he resolved on a last one. He sent his servant to the ammunition room to “dope” the powder, hoping that, at the next shot, the gun would be mined. Perhaps he hoped to disable Tom. But the plot failed, and the conspirators escaped. They were never heard of again, probably leaving Panama under assumed names and in disguise.

  “Well, that explains the mystery,” said Tom to Ned a few days later. “I guess we won’t have to worry any more.”

  “No, and I’m sorry I suspected General Waller.”

  “Oh, well, he’ll never know it, so no harm is done. Oh, but I’m glad this is over. It has gotten on my nerves.”

  “I should say so,” agreed Ned.

  “Bless my pillow sham!” cried Mr. Damon. “I think I can get a good night’s sleep now. So they have formally accepted your giant cannon, Tom?”

  “Yes. The last tests I gave them, showing how easily it could be manipulated, convinced them. It will be one of the official defense guns of the Panama Canal.”

  “Good! I congratulate you, my boy!” cried the odd man. “And now, bless my postage stamp, let’s get back to the United States.”

  “Before we go,” suggested Ned, “let’s go take a look at that island from which Tom blew the top. It must be quite a sight—and thirty-three miles away! We can get a launch and go out.”

  But there was no need. That same day Alec Peterson came to Colon inquiring for Tom. His face showed a new delight.

  “Why,” cried Tom, “you look as though you had found your opal mine.”

  “I have!” exclaimed the fortune-hunter. “Or, rather, Tom, I think I have you to thank for finding it for me.”

  “Me find it?”

  “Yes. Did you hear about the top of the island-mountain you blew to pieces?”

  “We did, but—”

  “That was my island!” exclaimed Mr. Pe
terson. “The mine was in that mountain, but an earthquake had covered it. I should never have found it but for you. That shot you accidentally fired ripped the mountain apart. My men and I were fortunately at the base of it then, but we sure thought our time had come when that shell struck. It went right over our heads. But it did the business, all right, and opened up the old mine. Tom, your father won’t lose his money, we’ll all be rich. Oh, that was a lucky shot! I knew it was your cannon that did it.”

  “I’m glad of it!” answered the young inventor, heartily. “Glad for your sake, Mr. Peterson.”

  “You must come and see the mine—your mine, Tom, for it never would have been rediscovered had it not been for your giant cannon, that made the longest shot on record, so I’m told.”

  “We will come, Mr. Peterson, just as soon as I close up matters here.”

  It did not take Tom long to do this. His type of cannon was formally accepted as a defense for the Panama Canal, and he received a fine contract to allow that type to be used by the government. His powder and projectiles, too, were adopted.

  Then, one day, he and Ned, with Koku and Mr. Damon, visited the scene of the great shot. As Mr. Peterson had said, the whole top of the mountain had been blown off by the explosive shell, opening up the old mine. While it was not quite as rich as Mr. Peterson had glowingly painted, still there was a fortune in it, and Mr. Swift got back a substantial sum for his investment.

  “And now for the good old U. S. A.!” cried Tom, as they got ready to go back home. “I’m going to take a long rest, and the only thing I’m going to invent for the next six months is a new potato slicer.” But whether Tom kept his words can be learned by reading the next volume of this series.

  “Bless my hand towel!” cried Mr. Damon. “I think you are entitled to a rest, Tom.”

  “That’s what I say,” agreed Ned.

  “I’ll take care ob him—I’ll take care ob Massa Tom,” put in Eradicate, as he cast a quick look at Koku. “Giants am all right fo’ cannon wuk, but when it comes t’ comforts Massa Tom gwine t’ ’pend on ole ’Radicate; ain’t yo’ all, Massa Tom?”

  “I guess so, Rad!” exclaimed the young inventor, with a laugh. “Is dinner ready?”

  “It suah am, Massa Tom, an’ I ’specially made some oh dat fricasseed chicken yo’ all does admire so much. Plenty of it, too, Massa Tom.”

  “That’s good, Rad,” put in Ned. “For we’ll all be hungry after that trip to the island. That sure was a great shot Tom—thirty-three miles!”

  “Yes, it went farther than I thought it would,” replied Tom. And now, as they are taking a closing meal at Panama, ready to return to the United States, we will take leave of Tom Swift and his friends.

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE

  Or, THE PICTURE THAT SAVED A FORTUNE

  CHAPTER I

  A MAN ON THE ROOF

  “Tom, I don’t believe it can be done!”

  “But, Dad, I’m sure it can!”

  Tom Swift looked over at his father, who was seated in an easy chair in the library. The elderly gentleman—his hair was quite white now—slowly shook his head, as he murmured again:

  “It can’t be done, Tom! It can’t be done! I admit that you’ve made a lot of wonderful things—things I never dreamed of—but this is too much. To transmit pictures over a telephone wire, so that persons cannot only see to whom they are talking, as well as hear them—well, to be frank with you, Tom, I should be sorry to see you waste your time trying to invent such a thing.”

  “I don’t agree with you. Not only do I think it can be done, but I’m going to do it. In fact, I’ve already started on it. As for wasting my time, well, I haven’t anything in particular to do, now that my giant cannon has been perfected, so I might as well be working on my new photo telephone instead of sitting around idle.”

  “Yes, Tom, I agree with you there,” said Mr. Swift. “Sitting around idle isn’t good for anyone—man or boy, young or old. So don’t think I’m finding fault because you’re busy.”

  “It’s only that I don’t want to see you throw away your efforts, only to be disappointed in the end. It can’t be done, Tom, it can’t be done,” and the aged inventor shook his head in pitying doubt.

  Tom only smiled confidently, and went on:

  “Well, Dad, all you’ll have to do will be to wait and see. It isn’t going to be easy—I grant that. In fact, I’ve run up against more snags, the little way I’ve gone so far, than I like to admit. But I’m going to stick at it, and before this year is out I’ll guarantee, Father, that you can be at one end of the telephone wire, talking to me, at the other, and I’ll see you and you’ll see me—if not as plainly as we see each other now, at least plainly enough to make sure of each other.”

  Mr. Swift chuckled silently, gradually breaking into a louder laugh. Instead of being angry, Tom only regarded his father with an indulgent smile, and continued:

  “All right, Dad. Go ahead, laugh!”

  “Well, Tom, I’m not exactly laughing at you—it’s more at the idea than anything else. The idea of talking over a wire and, at the same time, having light waves, as well as electrical waves passing on the same conductor!”

  “All right, Dad, go ahead and laugh. I don’t mind,” said Tom, good-naturedly. “Folks laughed at Bell, when he said he could send a human voice over a copper spring; but Bell went ahead and today we can talk over a thousand miles by wire. That was the telephone.”

  “Folks laughed at Morse when he said he could send a message over the wire. He let ’em laugh, but we have the telegraph. Folks laughed at Edison, when he said he could take the human voice—or any other sound—and fix it on a wax cylinder or a hard-rubber plate—but he did it, and we have the phonograph. And folks laughed at Santos Dumont, at the Wrights, and at all the other fellows, who said they could take a heavier-than-air machine, and skim above the clouds like a bird; but we do it—I’ve done it—you’ve done it.”

  “Hold on, Tom!” protested Mr. Swift. “I give up! Don’t rub it in on your old dad. I admit that folks did laugh at those inventors, with their seemingly impossible schemes, but they made good. And you’ve made good lots of times where I thought you wouldn’t. But just stop to consider for a moment. This thing of sending a picture over a telephone wire is totally out of the question, and entirely opposed to all the principles of science.”

  “What do I care for principles of science?” cried Tom, and he strode about the room so rapidly that Eradicate, the old colored servant, who came in with the mail, skipped out of the library with the remark:

  “Deed, an’ Massa Tom must be pow’fully preragitated dis mawnin’!”

  “Some of the scientists said it was totally opposed to all natural laws when I planned my electric rifle,” went on Tom. “But I made it, and it shot. They said my air glider would never stay up, but she did.”

  “But, Tom, this is different. You are talking of sending light waves—one of the most delicate forms of motion in the world—over a material wire. It can’t be done!”

  “Look here, Dad!” exclaimed Tom, coming to a halt in front of his parent. “What is light, anyhow? Merely another form of motion; isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, Tom, I suppose it is.”

  “Of course it is,” said Tom. “With vibrations of a certain length and rapidity we get sound—the faster the vibration per second the higher the sound note. Now, then, we have sound waves, or vibrations, traveling at the rate of a mile in a little less than five seconds; that is, with the air at a temperature of sixty degrees. With each increase of a degree of temperature we get an increase of about a foot per second in the rapidity with which sound travels.”

  “Now, then, light shoots along at the rate of 186,000,000 miles a second. That is more than many times around the earth in a second of time. So we have sound, one kind of wave motion, or energy; we have light, a higher degree of vibration or wave motion, and then we come to electricity—and nobody has ever yet exactly measured the intensity or s
peed of the electric vibrations.”

  “But what I’m getting at is this—that electricity must travel pretty nearly as fast as light—if not faster. So I believe that electricity and light have about the same kind of vibrations, or wave motion.”

  “Now, then, if they do have—and I admit it’s up to me to prove it,” went on Tom, earnestly—”why can’t I send light-waves over a wire, as well as electrical waves?”

  Mr. Swift was silent for a moment. Then he said, slowly:

  “Well, Tom, I never heard it argued just that way before. Maybe there’s something in your photo telephone after all. But it never has been done. You can’t deny that!”

  He looked at his son triumphantly. It was not because he wanted to get the better of him in argument, that Mr. Swift held to his own views; but he wanted to bring out the best that was in his offspring. Tom accepted the challenge instantly.

  “Yes, Dad, it has been done, in a way!” he said, earnestly. “No one has sent a picture over a telephone wire, as far as I know, but during the recent hydroplane tests at Monte Carlo, photographs taken of some of the events in the morning, and afternoon, were developed in the evening, and transmitted over five hundred miles of wire to Paris, and those same photographs were published in the Paris newspapers the next morning.”

  “Is that right, Tom?”

  “It certainly is. The photographs weren’t so very clear, but you could make out what they were. Of course that is a different system than the one I’m thinking of. In that case they took a photograph, and made a copper plate of it, as they would for a half-tone illustration. This gave them a picture with ridges and depressions in copper, little hills and valleys, so to speak, according to whether there were light or dark tints in the picture. The dark places meant that the copper lines stood up higher there than where there were light colors.”

  “Now, by putting this copper plate on a wooden drum, and revolving this drum, with an electrical needle pressing lightly on the ridges of copper, they got a varying degree of electrical current. Where the needle touched a high place in the copper plate the contact was good, and there was a strong current. When the needle got to a light place in the copper—a depression, so to speak—the contact was not so good, and there was only a weak current.”