Tom Swift and His Airline Express E-Book

Victor Appleton

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Tom Swift
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 225

Beschreibung

Tom is waylaid, drugged, shackled, and beaten by a couple of disgruntled ex-employees, who mistakenly believe that Tom's latest invention, The AirLine Express, is their idea. They will try to prevent Tom's success by any means—legal or not!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRLINE EXPRESS

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRLINE EXPRESS

or, From Ocean to Ocean by Daylight

VICTOR APPLETON

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in 1926.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION

Tom Swift is the main character of six series of American juvenile science fiction and adventure novels that emphasize science, invention, and technology. First published in 1910, and still being published today, the series now totals more than 100 volumes.

The hero of the first series was Tom Swift. His son took over with the second series, the Tom Swift II books. Most of the various series emphasized Tom’s inventions. The books generally describe the effects of science and technology as wholly beneficial, and the role of the inventor in society as admirable and heroic.

The character of Tom Swift was created by Edward Stratemeyer, the founder of the Stratemeyer Syndicate, a book-packaging firm. The Stratemeyer Syndicate is also responsible for many other series, including The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, The Bobbsey Twins, and dozens of others.

Tom’s adventures have been written by various ghostwriters, beginning with Howard Garis. Modern volumes have been written by science fiction writers such as William Rotsler, Mike McQuay, Bob Vardeman, and Greg Cox. (I even co-wrote one). Most of the Tom Swift books are credited to the collective pseudonyms “Victor Appleton” or “Victor Appleton II.”

Translated into many languages, the books have sold more than 30 million copies worldwide. New titles have been published as recently as last year.

—John Betancourt

Cabin John, Maryland

CHAPTER I

SOMETHING STRANGE

“Ours is sure a great plant!” murmured Tom Swift to himself, with justifiable pride. “It would be a credit to anybody. No wonder dad loves it, and so do I. Yes, it sure is a great plant! We’ve had our troubles—our ups and downs—and our enemies have tried their hardest to wipe it out.”

Darkness was slowly gathering over the landscape, shrouding in velvety black the trees which were faintly stirring in the summer breeze. Tom, following an old-time cowpath across the green meadow on his way home from town, topped a little rise and caught a glimpse of the high board fence surrounding the Swift Construction Company’s plant which he and his father had built up after many years of hard work.

Tom paused for a moment to trace, in the fast-gathering shadows of the night, the outlines of the various buildings—the foundry, the wood-working mill, the electrical shop, the hangars where many types of aircraft were housed.

From some of the tall chimneys faint clouds of smoke arose, for certain of the industries carried on by the Swift Construction Company required that furnaces be kept going day and night.

“A great plant—a wonderful plant!” mused Tom. It gave him a certain sense of pleasure to dwell thus in introspection on the accomplishments of his father and himself. And it buoyed him up for the work in prospect—for Tom Swift had a great plan in mind, a plan so great and daring that, as yet, he had said but little of it even to his father or to Ned Newton, his old chum who was now an officer of the concern.

“But it can be done! I know it can be done!” declared Tom. “And I’m going to do it! I’m going to—”

In his mental energy he had unconsciously spoken the last words in a low voice, but the sight of something just ahead of him in the gathering darkness caused him to break off abruptly and halt suddenly. Concentrating his gaze, Tom Swift looked eagerly at a clump of bushes.

“It’s a man,” murmured Tom Swift. “A man, sure enough, and it isn’t one of our workers, either. None of them would sneak around as he is doing.”

For that described exactly the movements of the stranger of whom Tom had caught sight in the darkness as he approached the big fence which surrounded his plant.

“What’s he up to?” mused Tom. “No good, that’s sure. He wouldn’t sneak along like that if he were on the level.”

Through Tom’s mind flashed remembrances of times when attempts had been made by enemies of himself and his father to fire the plant. To prevent this, and to keep strangers away, a high fence had been erected around the buildings. This fence was protected by wires on the plan of a burglar alarm, so that, no matter at what point the barrier was climbed, a bell would ring in the main office and on an indicator would appear a number to show at what part of the fence an attempt was being made to scale it.

An effort to break down the barrier, or burrow beneath it, would also sound the alarm in like manner. So Tom had no fear that the sneaking stranger, crouching along in the darkness, could get into the midst of the buildings without notice being given.

“But what’s his game?” thought Tom.

Almost at the instant he asked himself this question he saw the man crawl behind a clump of bushes. In the natural course of events the man should have appeared on the other side of the clump. But he did nothing of the sort.

“He may be hiding there,” mused Tom. “Perhaps waiting for a confederate. I’ll just have a closer look at this!”

He advanced boldly toward the bushes. There was nothing between him and the shrubbery, and it was still light enough to see fairly well. Besides, Tom had extraordinarily good eyes. His astonishment can be imagined when, on reaching the bush off which he had not taken his gaze and behind which he had seen the crawling man disappear he found—no one!

“That’s the queerest thing I’ve seen yet!” exclaimed Tom, rubbing his organs of vision.

Standing beside the bush which came about to his shoulders, Tom looked on all sides of it. There was no hollow in the ground, as far as he could make out, no depression and no other clumps of shrubbery and no boulders behind which a man might be hidden. Some distance away there were all of these things in profusion, for the land was wild and uncultivated outside the plant fence. But there was not a hole, boulder, or bush near enough to the one beside which Tom stood to have enabled a man to gain their protection while the young inventor was watching.

“He just crawled back of his bush and then vanished!” said Tom, in a half whisper to himself. “If only I had a flashlight now—” He was startled by hearing some one walking toward him out of the darkness which was now quite dense. “Here he comes!” thought Tom. “Appearing as queerly as he disappeared. Or else it’s one of his confederates.” He could see no one, and his hand clutched something in his pocket that might be used in case he was attacked.

But a moment later, just as Tom’s nerves and muscles were getting tense in anticipation of a struggle, a cheery whistle broke out in the darkness, mingling with the now louder sounds of the footsteps, and Tom, with a cry of relief, called:

“That you, Ned?”

“Sure, old scout!” was the reply. “Oh, there you are!” went on Ned Newton, as he caught sight of Tom at the same moment the young inventor glimpsed his friend and financial manager.

“You’re a bit late,” went on Ned. “I waited for you, and when you didn’t show up I thought I might as well walk in toward town and maybe I’d meet you.”

“Yes, I couldn’t get just what I wanted until I had tried two or three places,” Tom answered. “And then I met a man—”

Ned broke into a laugh.

“What’s the idea?” Tom wanted to know.

“Tell that to Mary!” advised his chum. “She may believe that and then you can tell her another.”

“Whew!” shrilly whistled Tom. “I forgot all about Mary. I promised to call on her tonight.”

“Sure you did,” laughed Ned. “And I’ve got a date with Helen. You said we’d go over together and—”

“Clean forgot it!” broke in Tom. “And I can’t go now. I’ve got something to do.” Quickly he made up his mind to say nothing to Ned of what he had seen until he investigated a little on his own account. “Here, I tell you what to do,” went on Tom. “Go on, keep your date with Helen, but when you get to her house telephone to Mary for me and say I’ll be a little late. Will you?”

“Pull your chestnuts out of the fire? Is that it, Tom? I reminded you myself before supper!” laughed Ned. “Well, I don’t mind, for you’ve done the same for me. I guess Mary Nestor knows you by this time, or, if she doesn’t, she never will. But what’s the big idea?”

“Oh, I’ve just got a notion in my head,” said Tom. “I want to go to the office a moment to jot down some memoranda before I forget them. ’Phone Mary I’ll be over as soon as I can. See you later.”

“Cheek!” exclaimed Ned, and with his merry whistle he hurried off in the darkness. “I only hope Mary speaks to you when you finally get to see her,” floated back to Tom.

“Don’t you worry about Mary,” advised the young inventor. “I’ll explain to her. And tell her I’ll be along in about half an hour. I really forgot all about the engagement.”

“I’ll say you did!” playfully mocked Ned.

Then, with his chum out of the way, Tom gave himself to trying to solve the mystery. For mystery he believed it to be. Seeing a man step behind a bush and, on arriving at the bush, to find nothing of the man there was surprising, to say the least.

Sensing that it would soon be so dark that it would be useless to investigate without an illuminant of some sort, Tom made haste to gain what advantage he could from the fast-fading light. He looked sharply about without moving from his place behind the bush on the other side of which he had seen the man disappear. Then, as he could pick up here no clue to the strange happening, the young inventor moved around to the other side.

The light was a little better here and Tom saw something that made him fairly gasp with astonishment. He had moved somewhat away from the bush and almost at his feet was an opening in the ground.

“This explains it!” murmured Tom, half aloud. “A hole in the ground! He went down there. I knew he couldn’t have dug himself in as quickly as that. But that hole! I never saw it before. It isn’t any of our doing. I’d have known about it if it were.”

All the land there belonged to Tom and his father. It was a big field surrounding the fenced-in plant, and often the smooth part of the field was used as a landing place for aeroplanes.

Cautiously approaching the opening in the ground and wondering more and more how it had gotten there without his knowledge, Tom saw that it had been closed by some planks placed over it. These were now tossed to one side, as if they had been hurriedly displaced. Scattered about was loose earth which had evidently covered the planks, thus hiding them from the view of a casual observer.

“A secret opening!” murmured Tom. “This is certainly the queerest thing I’ve ever seen! What does it mean?”

His surprise increased when, as he drew near to the edge of the opening, he saw a rough flight of plank steps going down into the hole. The young man caught his breath sharply, it was so astounding. But with Tom Swift to see and think was to act, and a moment later he began a descent of the steps into the mysterious hole. It might have been the part of discretion to wait until daylight, but a secret opening like this, so near the Swift plant, could mean but one thing, Tom reasoned.

“Some one is trying to put up a game on us,” he decided. “Unknown to us he has made a tunnel under our plant. There’s something funny here! I’m going to see what it is.”

Tom had fairly to feel his way down the flight of plank steps. They were rough and uneven, but solidly built. The young inventor counted them as he descended so he would know how to come back. Now that his head was below the level of the ground it was so dark that it was as if a velvet robe had been wrapped about him.

He counted ten steps down, and was cautiously feeling about with his right foot extended to ascertain if there were any more, when suddenly he felt the presence of some one near him. He caught the sound of breath fiercely drawn in, as if his unknown and unseen companion, there in the darkness, was nerving himself for an attack.

Instinctively Tom drew back, his hands pressed to the planked sides of the opening down which he had descended. He could feel, rather than see, some one leaning toward him. A sweet, sickening odor came to his nostrils. He felt a hand pressed over his face—a hand that held a damp rag which gave off that overpowering perfume.

“Here! What’s this? Who—who—” But Tom Swift’s voice became a mere gurgle in his throat. His legs became limp. His head whirled and he seemed lifted up and carried through measureless miles of space on the wings of some great bird.

Then Tom’s senses left him. He knew no more.

CHAPTER II

WAITING IN THE DARK

Just how long Tom Swift remained unconscious he himself did not know. It may have been several hours, for when he came to himself he felt a curious stiffness about his muscles as if he had lain for some time on the damp ground.

And he was on the ground—a fact he ascertained by feeling about with his hands, his fingers encountering damp, packed earth and the smooth surface of stones set in the soil.

“Where in the world am I, and what happened?” thought Tom, as soon as he could collect his senses enough to do any thinking. “Gee, but I sure do feel queer!”

There was a sickish taste in his mouth—a sense of sweetness, such as he remembered followed a slight operation he had undergone some years before when an anæsthetic had been given him.

“They doped me all right—that’s what they did,” mused Tom. “Ether, chloroform, or something like that. It knocked me out. But I’m beginning to feel all right again—no headache or anything like that. But what does it all mean, and where am I?”

Those were questions not easily answered.

While Tom Swift is trying to collect his senses and to remember, in their sequence, the events which led up to his queer predicament, may I take just a moment of your time, if you are a new reader, to tell you who Tom was?

The first book of this series, “Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle,” introduces you to the young inventor. His father, Barton Swift, was a widower, living in the old homestead at Shopton on Lake Carlopa. The Swift home was on the outskirts of the town and in a building not far from the house Barton Swift began work on a series of inventions which were destined to make him and his son famous. Tom’s mother was dead, but Mrs. Baggert, the housekeeper, looked well after the material welfare of Tom and his father.

In due time Tom began to follow in his father’s footsteps, working at small inventions until, when a sturdy youth, he became possessed of a motorcycle. He bought the machine of an eccentric individual named Wakefield Damon, who lived in the neighboring town of Waterfield. Mr. Damon set out to learn to ride his new machine.

“But bless my porous plaster!” the queer man would exclaim in telling the story, “I never thought the contraption was going to climb trees!”

Which it did, or tried to, because Mr. Damon did not know how to manage it. The result was that the rider was injured and the motorcycle badly smashed and Tom, near whose home the accident occurred, became the owner of the machine.

How he repaired it, added some improvements, and what he did with the machine are fully set forth in the book. It was the beginning of a long friendship with Mr. Damon, and also the real start of Tom’s inventive career.

Those of you who have followed him in his successes, from his motor boat to “Tom Swift’s Chest of Secrets,”—the volume immediately preceding this one—need not be told of Tom’s activities. He had made some wonderful pieces of apparatus and had had some startling adventures. In some of these his father and Mr. Damon had shared. So, also, had Ned Newton, Tom’s closest friend and now the treasurer of the Swift Construction Company.

Mary Nestor, of whom Ned had spoken, was a beautiful girl whom Tom hoped to marry some day, and Ned Newton was interested in a similar manner in Mary’s friend, Helen Morton.

As Tom sat there in the darkness, trying to puzzle out where he was and how he had gotten there, his thought flashed to Mary.

“I wonder what she’ll think?” he mused. “I’d better get to a telephone and explain. Let’s see. I was coming back from town and I saw some fellow sneaking along behind the bushes. I met Ned. I went down a flight of stairs in a hole—though how they could be there and I not know it, is more than I can fathom. Then they doped me. But who did it and why, I don’t know. I’ll soon find out, though. Wonder how long I’ve been here? Feels like a week, I’m so stiff. But I’m not hurt, thank goodness!”

Tom stretched out his arms in the darkness. They responded to the action of his muscles. But when he tried to get up and walk—well, he simply could not!

“Chained fast!” cried Tom, aloud. His hands had sought his left ankle when he found that something held him fast there, and his fingers had come in contact with a chain.

For a moment he felt a sinking sensation. To be chained fast in the dark, at the bottom of some cave or dungeon, located he knew not where, was enough to take the heart out of any one. But not for long did Tom Swift give way to despair.

He gave a vigorous tug to the chain about his ankle. After all, it might only be lying across it or loosely twisted. But it needed only one effort on his part to loosen the links to let him know that he was bound fast. Whoever had put the chain on his ankle had done so with serious intentions of holding the young inventor captive.

“Well, this is worse and more of it!” he mused grimly. “What does it all mean? It can’t be a plot to kidnap me. No one knew I was coming across the lots, for I didn’t know it myself until the last minute. And seeing that man sneaking along, discovering the secret stairs—it was all a series of accidents. Though it’s likely to prove a serious accident for me if I can’t get loose.”

Tom was nothing if not practical, and first he felt about with his hands to determine the exact nature of what it was that held him fast. He discovered, by the sense of touch, that something in the nature of a handcuff was snapped about his ankle. To this cuff, or leg-iron, was attached a chain. By following this, link by link, Tom found that the chain was made fast to a ring of iron which, in turn, was sunk into the stone side wall of the cave or tunnel in which he now found himself.

How far he was removed from the bottom of the flight of secret steps where he had been made unconscious, he did not know, any more than he knew where he was.

Having discovered what it was that held him fast and the nature of the chain and its fastenings, Tom, who had risen to his feet, stood silent a moment, listening. It was very black and very still in the cave, if such it was, and from the earthy, damp smell he concluded that he must be underground, or at least in some vault or cellar.

By test Tom found that he could move about five feet, such being the length of the chain. The leg-iron had been snapped or riveted about his ankle outside of his trousers. It was not tight enough to cause any pain, but it was snug enough to be impossible of removal.

“They’ve got me as tight as an animal in a trap!” grimly exclaimed the youth, when, by a series of tugs, he ascertained how securely the end of the chain was fast in the rocky wall. “Just like a trap, or a prisoner in an old-time dungeon!” bitterly reflected the young man. “All it needs to make a moving picture film is some beautiful maiden to come to my rescue with a file—”

Tom’s spoken words (for he was talking aloud to himself) came to a sudden end as he clapped a hand to the pocket of his coat.

“I’ve got ’em!” he fairly shouted, and he drew out a small paper parcel in which were two keen files. They were part of the purchases made just before stumbling on the mysterious man and finding the steps in the queer opening.

“Files—the hardest and best made!” he told himself. “They’ll cut through anything but a diamond. Luck’s with me, after all. They didn’t know I had these! Oh, boy!”

Everything seemed changed now! Though he was held fast, though he was in some secret dungeon, hope sang a song of joy in his heart.

For a moment Tom debated with himself as to the best end of the chain at which to begin filing. It would be more comfortable with that leg-iron off his ankle, but by feeling it in the darkness he could tell that it was broad and thick. It would take some time for even the keen, hard file to cut through it.

“I’ll file through one of the links close to the leg-iron,” decided Tom. “That won’t leave much to carry around, and it won’t take long to cut through a link—that is, unless they’re made of case-hardened steel.”

But the chain was of the ordinary sort, made of soft iron, and it did not take the young inventor long, practiced as he was in the use of tools, to file apart one of the links. True it was not easy in the darkness, and, more than once, the file slipped and cut Tom’s hands or fingers, for he changed from left to right and back to left in using the file, having taught himself to be ambidextrous in many operations.

At last he could feel that the link was nearly severed and then, inserting the small ends of the two files in it, he pried them apart. This leverage broke the thin remaining bit of iron and Tom was free.

That is, he was free to move about as he pleased, but he was still within the dark cave, and where it was he could not imagine.

“I’ve got to feel my way about,” he told himself. “It’s as dark as the inside of a pocket.”

So dark was it that Tom had to tread cautiously and with outstretched hands lest he bump into some obstruction. Whether he was moving toward the steps down which he had come or in the opposite direction, Tom had no means of knowing. His sense of touch alone guided him.

He could feel that he was walking along a tunnel, but the size of it he could only guess at. Then, suddenly, on making an elbow turn, he saw, glimmering in the distance, a faint light. It was the light of day, Tom knew, and by that he realized that he had been held captive all night.

“That makes it bad,” he mused. “Dad will have done a lot of worrying about me, I’m afraid. But I guess I’ll soon be out of here.”

Then, to his ears, came the murmur of voices—voices strange to him. So faint was the light in the distance that it was of no service to him where he stood waiting in the darkness; waiting for he knew not what.

The voices increased in loudness, showing that the speakers were approaching. Then he heard footsteps echoing strangely in the hollow tunnel.

“If there’s going to be a fight I’d better get ready for it,” Tom told himself fiercely. He stooped and began feeling about on the ground for a loose rock or a club. But he could find nothing. Then like a flash it came to him.

“One of the files! They’re pretty sharp on the handle end. As good as a knife! I’ll use it like a knife if I have to,” he mused desperately.

He drew one of the files from his pocket, grasped it firmly, and waited in the darkness for what was to happen next.

CHAPTER III

MASKED MEN

After the treatment that had been accorded him, Tom Swift rather welcomed than otherwise a chance to come to grips with the men who were responsible for his position. Usually even-tempered and generous, just now he felt eager for vengeance and he would not have cared much if two men had attacked him at once.

Strangely enough he did not feel weak or ill now. He had, somewhat, when he first regained his senses after having been overpowered by some drug. But his brain had cleared and he kept himself in such good physical trim all the while that even a night of unconsciousness had not sapped his strength.