The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “Oh, there must be some mistake, I’m sure,” returned his daughter. “Tom didn’t intend this.”

  “But, bless my insurance policy, look at that thing go! What in the world is it?” cried Mr. Damon.

  The “thing” was certainly going. It had careened from the road, tilted itself down into a ditch and gone on across the fields, lights shooting from it in eccentric fashion.

  “Maybe we’d better take after it,” suggested Mr. Nestor. “If Tom is—”

  “There, it’s stopping!” cried Ned. “Come on!”

  He sprang from the automobile, helped Mary to get out, and then the two, followed by Mr. Damon and Mr. Nestor, made their way across the fields toward the big object where it had come to a stop, the rumbling and roaring ceasing.

  Before the little party reached the strange machine—the “runaway giant,” as they dubbed it in their excitement—a bright light flashed from it, a light that illuminated their path right up to the monster. And in the glare of this light they saw Tom Swift stepping out through a steel door in the side of the affair.

  “Are you all right?” he called to his friends, as they approached.

  “All right, as nearly as we can be when we’ve been almost scared to death, Tom,” said Mr. Nestor.

  “I’m surely sorry for what happened,” Tom answered, with a relieved laugh. “Part of the steering gear broke and I had to guide it by operating the two motors alternately. It can be worked that way, but it takes a little practice to become expert.”

  “I should say so!” cried Mr. Damon. “But what in the world does it all mean, Tom Swift? You invite us out to see something—”

  “And there she is!” interrupted the young inventor. “You saw her a little before I meant you to, and not under exactly the circumstances I had planned. But there she is!” And he turned as though introducing the metallic monster to his friends.

  “What is she, Tom?” asked Ned. “Name it!”

  “My latest invention, or rather the invention of my father and myself,” answered Tom, and his voice showed the love and reverence he felt for his parent. “Perhaps I should say adaptation instead of invention,” Tom went on, “since that is what it is. But, at any rate, it’s my latest—dad’s and mine—and it’s the newest, biggest, most improved and powerful fighting tank that’s been turned out of any shop, as far as I can learn.

  “Ladies—I mean lady and gentlemen—allow me to present to you War Tank A, and may she rumble till the pride of the Boche is brought low and humble!” cried Tom.

  “Hurray! That’s what I say!” cheered Ned.

  “That’s what I have been at work on lately. I’ll give you a little history of it, and then you may come inside and have a ride home.”

  “In that?” cried Mr. Damon.

  “Yes. I can’t promise to move as speedily as your car, but I can make better time than the British tanks. They go about six miles an hour, I understand, and I’ve got mine geared to ten. That’s one improvement dad and I have made.”

  “Ride in that!” cried Mr. Nestor. “Tom, I like you, and I’m glad to see I’ve been mistaken about you. You have been doing your bit, after all; but—”

  “Oh, I’ve only begun!” laughed Tom Swift.

  “Well, no matter about that. However much I like you,” went on Mr. Nestor, “I’d as soon ride on the wings of a thunderbolt as in Tank A, Tom Swift.”

  “Oh, it isn’t as bad as that!” laughed the young scientist. “But neither is it a limousine. However, come inside, anyhow, and I’ll tell you something about it. Then I guess we can guide it back. The men are repairing the break.”

  The visitors entered the great craft through the door by which Tom had emerged. At first all they saw was a small compartment, with walls of heavy steel, some shelves of the same and a seat which folded up against the wall made of like powerful material.

  “This is supposed to be the captain’s room, where he stays when he directs matters.” Tom explained. “The machinery is below and beyond here.”

  “How’d you come to evolve this?” asked Ned. “I haven’t seen half enough of the outside, to say nothing of the inside.”

  “You’ll have time enough,” Tom said. “This is my first completed tank. There are some improvements to be made before we send it to the other side to be copied.

  “Then they’ll make them in England as well as here, and from here we’ll ship them in sections.”

  “I don’t see how you ever thought of it!” exclaimed the girl, in wonder.

  “Well, I didn’t all at once,” Tom answered, with a laugh. “It came by degrees. I first got the idea when I heard of the British tanks.

  “When I had read how they went into action and what they accomplished against the barbed wire entanglements, and how they crossed the trenches, I concluded that a bigger tank, one capable of more speed, say ten or twelve miles an hour, and one that could cross bigger excavations—the English tanks up to this time can cross a ditch of twelve feet—I thought that, with one made on such specifications, more effective work could be done against the Germans.”

  “And will yours do that?” asked Ned. “I mean will it do ten miles an hour, and straddle over a wider ditch than twelve feet?”

  “It’ll do both,” promptly answered Tom. “We did a little better than eleven miles an hour a while ago when I yelled to you to get out of the way just now. It’s true we weren’t under good control, but the speed had nothing to do with that. And as for going over a big ditch, I think we straddled one about fourteen feet across back there, and we can do better when I get my grippers to working.”

  “Grippers!” exclaimed Mary.

  “What kind of trench slang is that, Tom Swift?” asked Mr. Damon.

  “Well, that’s a new idea I’m going to try out It’s something like this,” and while from a distant part of the interior of Tank A came the sound of hammering, the young inventor rapidly drew a rough pencil sketch.

  It showed the tank in outline, much as appear the pictures of tanks already in service—the former simile of two wedge-shaped pieces of metal put together broad end to broad end, still holding good. From one end of the tank, as Tom drew it, there extended two long arms of latticed steel construction.

  “The idea is,” said Tom, “to lay these down in front of the tank, by means of cams and levers operated from inside. If we get to a ditch which we can’t climb down into and out again, or bridge with the belt caterpillar wheels, we’ll use the grippers. They’ll be laid down, taking a grip on the far side of the trench, and we’ll slide across on them.”

  “And leave them there?” asked Mr. Damon.

  “No, we won’t leave them. We’ll pick them up after we have passed over them and use them in front again as we need them. A couple of extra pairs of grippers may be carried for emergencies, but I plan to use the same ones over and over again.”

  “But what makes it go?” asked Mary. “I don’t want all the details, Tom,” she said, with a smile, “but I’d like to know what makes your tank move.”

  “I’ll be able to show you in a little while,” he answered. “But it may be enough now if I tell you that the main power consists of two big gasolene engines, one on either side. They can be geared to operate together or separately. And these engines turn the endless belts made of broad, steel plates, on which the tank travels. The belts pass along the outer edges of the tank longitudinally, and go around cogged wheels at either end of the blunt noses.

  “When both belts travel at the same rate of speed the tank goes in a straight line, though it can be steered from side to side by means of a trailer wheel in the rear. Making one belt—one set of caterpillar wheels, you know—go faster than the other will make the tank travel to one side or the other, the turn being in the direction of the slowest moving belt. In this way we can steer when the trailer wheels are broken.”

  “And what does your tank do except travel along, not minding a hail of bullets?” asked Mr. Nestor.

  “Well,” answer
ed Tom, “it can do anything any other tank can do, and then some more. It can demolish a good-sized house or heavy wall, break down big trees, and chew up barbed-wire fences as if they were toothpicks. I’ll show you all that in due time. Just now, if the repairs are finished, we can get back on the road—”

  At that moment a door leading into the compartment where Tom and his friends were talking opened, and one of the workmen said:

  “A man outside asking to see you, Mr. Swift.”

  “Pardon me, but I won’t keep you a moment,” interrupted a suave voice. “I happened to observe your tank, and I took the liberty of entering to see—”

  “Simpson!” cried Ned Newton, as he recognized the man who had been up the tree. “It’s that spy, Simpson, Tom!”

  CHAPTER XII

  BRIDGING A GAP

  Such surprise showed both on the face of Ned Newton and that of the man who called himself Walter Simpson that it would be hard to say which was in the greater degree. For a moment the newcomer stood as if he had received all electric shock, and was incapable of motion. Then, as the echoes of Ned’s voice died away and the young bank clerk, being the first to recover from the shock, made a motion toward the unwelcome and uninvited intruder, Simpson exclaimed.

  “I will not bother now. Some other time will do as well.”

  Then, with a haste that could be called nothing less than precipitate, he made a turn and fairly shot out of the door by which he had entered the tank.

  “There he goes!” cried Mr. Damon. “Bless my speedometer, but there he goes!”

  “I’ll stop him!” cried Ned. “We’ve got to find out more about him! I’ll get him, Tom!”

  Tom Swift was not one to let a friend rush alone into what might be danger. He realized immediately what his chum meant when he called out the identity of the intruder, and, wishing to clear up some of the mystery of which he became aware when Schwen was arrested and the paper showing a correspondence with this Simpson were found, Tom darted out to try to assist in the capture.

  “He went this way!” cried Ned, who was visible in the glare of the searchlight that still played its powerful beams over the stern of the tank, if such an ungainly machine can be said to have a bow and stern. “Over this way!”

  “I’m with you!” cried Tom. “See if you can pick up that man who just ran out of here!” he cried to the operator of the searchlight in the elevated observation section of what corresponded to the conning tower of a submarine. This was a sort of lookout box on top of the tank, containing, among other machines, the searchlight. “Pick him up!” cried Tom.

  The operator flashed the intense white beam, like a finger of light, around in eccentric circles, but though this brought into vivid relief the configuration of the field and road near which the tank was stalled, it showed no running fugitive. Tom and Ned were observed—shadows of black in the glare—by Mary and her friends in the tank, but there was no one else.

  “Come on!” cried Ned. “We can find him, Tom!”

  But this was easier said than done. Even though they were aided by the bright light, they caught no glimpse of the man who called himself Simpson.

  “Guess he got away,” said Tom, when he and Ned had circled about and investigated many clumps of bushes, trees, stumps and other barriers that might conceal the fugitive.

  “I guess so,” agreed Ned. “Unless he’s hiding in what we might call a shell crater.”

  “Hardly that,” and Tom smiled. “Though if all goes well the men who operate this tank later may be searching for men in real shell holes.”

  “Is this one going to the other side?” asked Ned, as the two walked back toward the tank.

  “I hope it will be the first of my new machines on the Western front,” Tom answered. “But I’ve still got to perfect it in some details and then take it apart. After that, if it comes up to expectations, we’ll begin making them in quantities.”

  “Did you get him?” asked Mr. Damon eagerly, as the two young men came back to join Mary and her friends.

  “No, he got away,” Tom answered.

  “Did he try to blow up the tank?” asked Mr. Nestor, who had an abnormal fear of explosives. “Was he a German spy?”

  “I think he’s that, all right,” said Ned grimly. “As to his endeavoring to blow up Tom’s tank, I believe him capable of it, though he didn’t try it tonight—unless he’s planted a time bomb somewhere about, Tom.”

  “Hardly, I guess,” answered the young inventor. “He didn’t have a chance to do that. Anyhow we won’t remain here long. Now, Ned, what about this chap? Is he really the one you saw up in the tree?”

  “I not only saw him but I felt him,” answered Ned, with a rueful look at his fingers. “He stepped right on me. And when he came inside the tank tonight I knew him at once. I guess he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.”

  “But what was his object?” asked Mr. Nestor.

  “He must have some connection with my old enemy, Blakeson,” answered Tom, “and we know he’s mixed up with Schwen. From the looks of him I should say that this Simpson, as he calls himself, is the directing head of the whole business. He looks to be the moneyed man, and the brains of the plotters. Blakeson is smart, in a mechanical way, and Schwen is one of the best machinists I’ve ever employed. But this Simpson strikes me as being the slick one of the trio.”

  “But what made him come here, and what did he want?” asked Mary. “Dear me! it’s like one of those moving picture plots, only I never saw one with a tank in it before—I mean a tank like yours, Tom.”

  “Yes, it is a bit like moving picture—especially chasing Simpson by searchlight,” agreed the young inventor. “As to what he wanted, I suppose he came to spy out some of my secret inventions—dad’s and mine. He’s probably been hiding and sneaking around the works ever since we arrested Schwen. Some of my men have reported seeing strangers about, but I have kept Shop Thirteen well guarded.

  “However, this fellow may have been waiting outside, and he may have followed the tank when we started off a little while ago for the night test. Then, when he saw our mishap and noticed that we were stalled, he came in, boldly enough, thinking, I suppose, that, as I had never seen him, he would take a chance on getting as much information as he could in a hurry.”

  “But he didn’t count on Ned’s being here!” chuckled Mr. Damon.

  “No; that’s where he slipped a cog,” remarked Mr. Nestor. “Well, Tom, I like your tank, what I’ve seen of her, but it’s getting late and I think Mary and I had better be getting back home.”

  “We’ll be ready to start in a little while,” Tom said, after a brief consultation with one of his men. “Still, perhaps it would be just as well if you didn’t ride back with me. She may go all right, and then, again, she may not. And as it’s dark, and we’re in a rough part of the field, you might be a bit shaken up. Not that the tank minds it!” the young inventor hastened to add “She’s got to do her bit over worse places than this—much worse—but I want to get her in a little better working shape first. So if you don’t mind, Mary, I’ll postpone your initial trip.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind, Tom! I’m so glad you’ve made this! I want to see the war ended, and I think machines like this will help.”

  “I’ll ride back with you, Tom, if you don’t mind,” put in Ned. “I guess a little shaking up won’t hurt me.”

  “All right—stick. We’re going to start very soon.”

  “Well, I’m coming over tomorrow to have a look at it by daylight,” said Mr. Damon, as he started toward his car.

  “So am I,” added Mary. “Please call for me, Mr. Damon.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Mr. Nestor, his daughter, and Mr. Damon went back to the automobile, while Ned remained with Tom. In a little while those in the car heard once more the rumbling and roaring sound and felt the earth tremble. Then, with a flashing of lights, the big, ungainly shape of the tank lifted herself out of the little ditch in which she had come to a
halt, and began to climb back to the road.

  Ned Newton stood beside Tom in the control tower of the great tank as she started on her homeward way.

  “Isn’t it wonderful!” murmured Mary, as she saw Tank A lumbering along toward the road. “Oh, and to think that human beings made that. To think that Tom should know how to build such a wonderful machine!”

  “And run it, too, Mary! That’s the point! Make it run!” cried her father. “I tell you, that Tom Swift is a wonder!”

  “Bless my dictionary, he sure is!” agreed Mr. Damon.

  Along the road, back toward the shop whence it had emerged, rumbled the tank. The noise brought to their doors inhabitants along the country thoroughfare, and some of them were frightened when they saw Tom Swift’s latest war machine, the details of which they could only guess at in the darkness.

  “She’ll butt over a house if it gets in her path, knock down trees, chew up barbed-wire, and climb down into ravines and out again, and go over a good-sized stream without a whimper,” said Tom, as he steered the great machine.

  There was little chance then for Ned to see much of the inside mechanism of the tank. He observed that Tom, standing in the forward tower, steered it very easily by a small wheel or by a lever, alternately, and that he communicated with the engine room by means of electric signals.

  “And she steers by electricity, too,” Tom told his friend. “That was one difficulty with the first tanks. They had to be steered by brute force, so to speak, and it was a terrific strain on the man in the tower. Now I can guide this in two ways: by the electric mechanism which swings the trailer wheels to either side, or by varying the speed of the two motors that work the caterpillar belts. So if one breaks down, I have the other.”

  “Got any guns aboard her—I mean machine guns?” asked Ned.

  “Not yet. But I’m going to install some. I wanted to get the tank in proper working order first. The guns are only incidental, though of course they’re vitally necessary when she goes into action. I’ve got ’em all ready to put in. But first I’m going to try the grippers.”