The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “Going far, Tom?” asked an aged man, coming to the door of one of the many buildings of which the shed where the airship was kept formed one.

  “Not very far, Father,” answered the young inventor. “Mr. Damon and I are going for a little spin over to Camp Grant, to see some aircraft contests among the army birdmen.”

  “Oh, all right, Tom. I just wanted to tell you that I think I’ve gotten over that difficulty you found with the big carburetor you were working on. You didn’t say what you wanted it for, except that it was for a heavy duty gasolene engine, and you couldn’t get the needle valve to work as you’d like. I think I’ve found a way.”

  “Good, Dad! I’ll look at it when I come back. That Carburetor did bother me, and if I can get that to work—well, maybe we’ll have something soon that will—”

  But Tom did not finish his sentence, for Koku was getting the aircraft in operation and Mr. Damon was already taking his place behind the pilot’s seat, which would be occupied by Tom.

  “All ready, are you, Koku?” asked the young inventor.

  “All ready, Master,” answered the giant.

  There was a roar like that of a machine gun as the Hawk’s engine spun the propeller, and then, after a little run across the sod, it mounted into the air, carrying Tom and Mr. Damon with it.

  “Mind you, Tom, no stunts!” called the visitor to the young inventor through the speaking tube apparatus, which enabled a conversation to be carried on, even above the roar of the powerful engine. “Bless my overshoes! if you try, looping the loop with me—”

  “I won’t do anything like that!” promised Tom.

  Away they soared, swift as a veritable hawk, and soon, after there had unrolled below their eyes a succession of fields and forest, there came into view rows and rows of small brown objects, among which beings, like ants, seemed crawling about.

  “There’s the Camp!” exclaimed Tom.

  “I see,” and Mr. Damon nodded.

  As they approached, they saw, starting up from a green space amid the brown tents, what appeared to be big bugs of a dirty white color splotched with green.

  “The aircraft—and they have camouflage paint on,” said Tom. “We can watch ’em from up here!”

  Mr. Damon nodded, though Tom could not see him, sitting in front of his friend as he was.

  Up and up circled the army aircraft, and they seemed to bow and nod a greeting to the Hawk, which was soon in the midst of them. Tom and Mr. Damon, flying high, though at no great speed, looked at the maneuvers of the veterans and the learners—many of whom might soon be engaging the Boches in far-off France.

  “Some of ’em are pretty good!” called Tom, through the tube. “That one fellow did the loop as prettily as I’ve ever seen it done,” and Tom Swift had a right to speak as one of authority.

  Tom and his friend watched the aircraft for some time, and then started off in a long flight, attaining a high speed, which, at first, made Mr. Damon gasp, until he became used to it. He was no novice at flying, and had even operated aeroplanes himself, though at no great height.

  Suddenly the Hawk seemed to falter, almost as does a bird stricken by a hunter’s gun. The craft seemed to hang in the air, losing motion as though about to plunge to earth unguided.

  “What’s the matter?” cried Mr. Damon.

  “One of the control wires broken!” was Tom’s laconic answer. “I’ll have to volplane down. Sit tight, there’s no danger!”

  Mr. Damon knew that with so competent a pilot as Tom Swift in the forward seat this was true, but, nevertheless, he was a bit nervous until he felt the smooth, gliding motion, with now and then an upward tilt, which showed that Tom was coming down from the upper regions in a series of long glides. The engine had stopped, and the cessation of the thundering noise made it possible for Tom and his passenger to talk without the use of the speaking tube.

  “All right?” asked Mr. Damon.

  “All right,” Tom answered, and a little later the machine was rolling gently over the turf of a large field, a mile or so from the camp.

  Before Tom and Mr. Damon could get out of their seats, a man, seemingly springing up from some hollow in the ground, walked toward them.

  “Had an accident?” he asked, in what he evidently meant for a friendly voice.

  “A little one, easily mended,” Tom answered.

  He was about to take off his goggles, but at sight of the man’s face a change came over the countenance of Tom Swift, and he replaced the eye protectors. Then Tom turned to Mr. Damon, as if to ask a question, but the stranger came so close, evidently curious to see the aircraft at close quarters, that the young inventor could not speak without being overheard.

  Tom got out his kit of tools to repair the broken control, and the man watched him curiously. As he tinkered away, something was stirring among the past memories of the inventor. A question he asked himself over and over again was:

  “Where have I seen this man before? His face is familiar, but I can’t place him. He is associated with something unpleasant. But where have I seen this man before?”

  CHAPTER II

  TOM’S INDIFFERENCE

  “Did you make this machine yourself?” asked the stranger of Tom, as the young inventor worked at the damaged part of his craft.

  Mr. Damon had also alighted, taken off his goggles, and was looking aloft, where the army aircraft were going through various evolutions, and down below, where the young soldiers were drilling under such conditions, as far as possible, as they might meet with when some of their number went “over the top.” Mr. Damon was murmuring to himself such remarks as:

  “Bless my fountain pen! look at that chap turning upside down! Bless my inkwell!”

  “I beg your pardon,” remarked Tom Swift, following the remark of the man, whose face he was trying to recall. It was not that Tom had not heard the question, but he was trying to gain time before answering.

  “I asked if you made this machine yourself,” went on the man, as he peered about at the Hawk. “It isn’t like any I’ve ever seen before, and I know something about airships. It has some new wrinkles on it, and I thought you might have evolved them yourself. Not that it’s an amateur affair, by any means!” he added hastily, as if fearing the young inventor might resent the implication that his machine was a home-made product.

  “Yes, I originated this,” answered Tom, as he put a new turn-buckle in place; “but I didn’t actually construct it—that is, except for some small parts. It was made in the shop—”

  “Over at the army construction plant, I presume,” interrupted the man quickly, as he motioned toward the big factory, not far from Shopton, where aircraft for Uncle Sam’s Army were being turned out by the hundreds.

  “Might as well let him think that,” mused Tom; “at least until I can figure out who he is and what he wants.”

  “This is different from most of those up there,” and the stranger pointed toward the circling craft on high. “A bit more speedy, I guess, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, in a way,” agreed Tom, who was lending over his craft. He stole a side look at the man. The face was becoming more and more familiar, yet something about it puzzled Tom Swift.

  “I’ve seen him before, and yet he didn’t look like that,” thought the young inventor. “It’s different, somehow. Now why should my memory play me a trick like this? Who in the world can he be?”

  Tom straightened up, and tossed a monkey wrench into the tool box.

  “Get everything fixed?” asked the stranger.

  “I think so,” and the young inventor tried to make his answer pleasant. “It was only a small break, easily fixed.”

  “Then you’ll be on your way again?”

  “Yes. Are you ready?” called Tom to Mr. Damon.

  “Bless my timetable, yes! I didn’t think you’d start back again so soon. There’s one young fellow up there who has looped the loop three times, and I expect him to fall any minute.”

  “Oh, I guess he kn
ows his business,” Tom said easily. “We’ll be getting back now.”

  “One moment!” called the man. “I beg your pardon for troubling you, but you seem to be a mechanic, and that’s just the sort of man I’m looking for. Are you open to an offer to do some inventive and constructive work?”

  Tom was on his guard instantly.

  “Well, I can’t say that I am,” he answered. “I am pretty busy—”

  “This would pay well,” went on the man eagerly. “I am a stranger around here, but I can furnish satisfactory references. I am in need of a good mechanic, an inventor as well, who can do what you seem to have done so well. I had hopes of getting some one at the army plant.”

  “I guess they’re not letting any of their men go,” said Tom, as Mr. Damon climbed to his seat in the Hawk.

  “No, I soon found that out. But I thought perhaps you—”

  Tom shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he answered, “but I’m otherwise engaged, and very busy.”

  “One moment!” called the man, as he saw Tom about to start “Is the Swift Company plant far from here?”

  Tom felt something like a thrill go through him. There was an unexpected note in the man’s voice. The face of the young inventor lightened, and the doubts melted away.

  “No, it isn’t far,” Tom answered, shouting to be heard above the crackling bangs of the motor. And then, as the craft soared into the air, he cried exultingly:

  “I have it! I know who he is! The scoundrel! His beard fooled me, and he probably didn’t know me with these goggles on. But now I know him!”

  “Bless my calendar!” cried Mr. Damon. “What are you talking about?”

  But Tom did not answer, for the reason that just then the Hawk fell into an “air pocket,” and needed all his attention to straighten her out and get her on a level course again.

  And while Tom Swift is thus engaged in speeding his aircraft along the upper regions toward his home, it will take but a few moments to acquaint my new readers with something of the history of the young inventor. Those who have read the previous books in this series need be told nothing about our hero.

  Tom Swift was an inventor of note, as was his father. Mr. Swift was now quite aged and not in robust health, but he was active at times and often aided Tom when some knotty point came up.

  Tom and his father lived on the outskirts of the town of Shopton, and near their home were various buildings in which the different machines and appliances were made. Tom’s mother was dead, but Mrs. Baggert, the housekeeper, was as careful in looking after Tom and his father as any woman could be.

  In addition to these three, the household consisted of Eradicate Sampson, an aged colored servant, and, it might almost be added, his mule Boomerang; but Boomerang had manners that, at times, did not make him a welcome addition to any household. Then there was the giant Koku, one of two big men Tom had brought back with him from the land where the young inventor had been held captive for a time.

  The first book of this series is called “Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle,” and it was in acquiring possession of that machine that Tom met his friend Mr. Wakefield Damon, who lived in a neighboring town. Mr. Damon owned the motor cycle originally, but when it attempted to climb a tree with him he sold it to Tom.

  Tom had many adventures on the machine, and it started him on his inventive career. From then on he had had a series of surprising adventures. He had traveled in his motor boat, in an airship, and then had taken to a submarine. In his electric runabout he showed what the speediest car on the road Could do, and when he sent his wireless message, the details of which can be found set down in the volume of that name, Tom saved the castaways of Earthquake Island.

  Tom Swift had many other thrilling escapes, one from among the diamond makers, and another from the caves of ice; and he made the quickest flight on record in his sky racer.

  Tom’s wizard camera, his great searchlight, his giant cannon, his photo telephone, his aerial warship and the big tunnel he helped to dig, brought him credit, fame, and not a little money. He had not long been back from an expedition to Honduras, dubbed “the land of wonders,” when he was again busy on some of his many ideas. And it was to get some relief from his thoughts that he had taken the flight with Mr. Damon on the day the present story opens.

  “What are you so excited about, Tom?” asked his friend, as the Hawk alighted near the shed hack of the young inventor’s home. “Bless my scarf pin! but any one would think you’d just discovered the true method of squaring the circle.”

  “Well, it’s almost as good as that, and more practical,” Tom said, with a smile, as he motioned to Koku to put away the aircraft “I know who that man is, now.”

  “What man, Tom?”

  “The one who was questioning me when I was fixing the airship. I kept puzzling and puzzling as to his identity, and, all at once, it came to me. Do you know who he is, Mr. Damon?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do, Tom. But, as you say, there was something vaguely familiar about him. It seemed as if I must have seen him before, and yet—”

  “That’s just the way it struck me. What would you say if I told you that man was Blakeson, of Blakeson and Grinder, the rival tunnel contractors who made such trouble for us?”

  “You mean down in Peru, Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Damon started in surprise, and then exclaimed:

  “Bless my ear mufflers, Tom, but you’re right! That was Blakeson! I didn’t know him with his beard, but that was Blakeson, all right! Bless my foot-warmer! What do you suppose he is doing around here?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Damon, but I’d give a good deal to know. It isn’t any good, I’ll wager on that. He didn’t seem to know me or you, either—unless he did and didn’t let on. I suppose it was because of my goggles—and you were gazing up in the air most of the time. I don’t think he knew either of us.”

  “It didn’t seem so, Tom. But what is he doing here? Do you think he is working at the army camp, or helping make Liberty Motors for the aircraft that are going to beat the Germans?”

  “Hardly. He didn’t seem to be connected with the camp. He wanted a mechanic, and hinted that I might do. Jove! if he really didn’t know who I was, and finds out, say! won’t he be surprised?”

  “Rather,” agreed Mr Damon. “Well, Tom, I had a nice little ride. And now I must be getting back. But if you contemplate a trip anywhere, don’t forget to let me know.”

  “I don’t count on going anywhere soon,” Tom answered. “I have something on hand that will occupy all my time, though I don’t just like it. However, I’m going to do my best,” and he waved good-bye to Mr. Damon, who went off blessing various parts of his anatomy or clothing, an odd habit he had.

  As Tom turned to go into the house, the unsettled look still on his face, some one hailed him.

  “I say, Tom. Hello! Wait a minute! I’ve got something to show you!”

  “Oh, hello, Ned Newton!” Called back the young inventor. “Well, if it’s Liberty Bonds, you don’t need to show me any, for dad and I will buy all we can without seeing them.”

  “I know that, Tom, and it was a dandy subscription you gave me. I didn’t come about that, though I may be around the next time Uncle Sam wants the people to dig down in their socks. This is something different,” and Ned Newton, a young banker of Shopton and a lifelong friend of Tom’s, drew a paper from his pocket as he advanced across the lawn.

  “There, Tom Swift!” he cried, flipping out an illustrated page, evidently from some illustrated newspaper. “There’s the very latest from the other side. A London banker friend of mine sent it to me, and it got past the censor all right. It’s the first authentic photograph of the newest and biggest British tank. Isn’t that a wonder?”

  Ned held up the paper which had in it a fullpage photograph of a monster tank—those weird machines traveling on endless steel belts of caterpillar construction, armored, riveted and plated, with machine guns bristling here an
d there.

  “Isn’t that great, Tom? Can you beat it? It’s the most wonderful machine of the age, even counting some of yours. Can you beat it?”

  Tom took the paper indifferently, and his manner surprised his chum.

  “Well, what’s the matter, Tom?” asked Ned. “Don’t you think that great? Why don’t you say something? You don’t mean to say you’ve seen that picture before?”

  “No, Ned.”

  “Then what’s the matter with you? Isn’t that wonderful?”

  CHAPTER III

  NED IS WORRIED

  Tom Swift did not answer for several seconds. He stood holding the paper Ned had given him, the sun slanting on the picture of the big British tank. But the young inventor did not appear to see it. Instead, his eyes were as though contemplating something afar off.

  “Well, this gets me!” cried Ned, his voice showing impatience. “Here I go and get a picture of the latest machine the British armies are smashing up the Boches with, and bring it to you fresh from the mail—I even quit my Liberty Bond business to do it, and I know some dandy prospects, too—and here you look at it like a—like a fish!” burst out Ned.

  “Say, old man, I guess that’s right!” admitted Tom. “I wasn’t thinking about it, to tell you the truth.”

  “Why not?” Ned demanded. “Isn’t it great, Tom? Did you ever see anything like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did?” Cried Ned, in surprise. “Where? Say, Tom Swift, are you keeping something from me?”

  “I mean no, Ned. I never have seen a British tank.”

  “Well, did you ever see a picture like this before?” Ned persisted.

  “No, not exactly like that But—”

  “Well, what do you think of it?” cried the young banker, who was giving much of his time to selling bonds for the Government. “Isn’t it great?”

  Tom considered a moment before replying. Then he said slowly:

  “Well, yes, Ned, it is a pretty good machine. But—”

  “‘But!’ Howling tomcats! Say, what’s the matter with you, anyhow, Tom? This is great! ‘But!’ ‘But me no buts!’ This is, without exception, the greatest thing out since an airship. It will win the war for us and the Allies, too, and don’t you forget it! Fritz’s barbed wire and dugouts and machine gun emplacements can’t stand for a minute against these tanks! Why, Tom, they can crawl on their back as well as any other way, and they don’t mind a shower of shrapnel or a burst of machine gun lead, any more than an alligator minds a swarm of gnats. The only thing that makes ’em hesitate a bit is a Jack Johnson or a Bertha shell, and it’s got to be a pretty big one, and in the right place, to do much damage. These tanks are great, and there’s nothing like ’em.”