Victor Appleton (house Name) (12 page)

"Swindled? How?"

"Well, it's dis-a-way. Yo' see dis yeah lawn-moah?"

"Yes; it doesn't seem to work," and Tom glanced critically at it. As
Eradicate pushed it slowly to and fro, the blades did not revolve,
and the wheels slipped along on the grass.

"No, sah, it doan't work, an' dat's how I've been swindled, Mistah
Swift. Yo' see, I done traded mah ole grindstone off for dis yeah
lawn-moah, an' I got stuck."

"What, that old grindstone that was broken in two, and that you
fastened together with concrete?" asked Tom, for he had seen the
outfit with which Eradicate, in spare times between cleaning and
whitewashing, had gone about the country, sharpening knives and
scissors. "You don't mean that old, broken one?"

"Dat's what I mean, Mistah Swift. Why, it was all right. I mended it
so dat de break wouldn't show, an' it would sharpen things if yo'
run it slow. But dis yeah lawn-moah won't wuk slow ner fast."

"I guess it was an even exchange, then," went on Tom. "You didn't
get bitten any worse than the other fellow did."

"Yo' doan't s'pose yo' kin fix dis yeah moah so's I kin use it, does
yo', Mistah Swift?" asked Eradicate, not bothering to go into the
ethics of the matter. "I reckon now with summah comin' on I kin make
mo' with a lawn-moah than I kin with a grindstone—dat is, ef I kin
git it to wuk. I jest got it a while ago an' decided to try it, but
it won't cut no grass."

"I haven't much time," said Tom, "for I'm anxious to get home, but
I'll take a look at it."

Tom leaned his motor-cycle against the fence. He could no more pass
a bit of broken machinery, which he thought he could mend, than some
men and boys can pass by a baseball game without stopping to watch
it, no matter how pressed they are for time. It was Tom's hobby, and
he delighted in nothing so much as tinkering with machines, from
lawn-mowers to steam engines.

Tom took hold of the handle, which Eradicate gladly relinquished to
him, and his trained touch told him at once what was the trouble.

"Some one has had the wheels off and put them on wrong, Rad," he
said. "The ratchet and pawl are reversed. This mower would work
backwards, if that were possible."

"Am dat so, Mistah Swift?"

"That's it. All I have to do is to take off the wheels and reverse
the pawl."

"I—I didn't know mah lawn-moah was named Paul," said the colored
man. "Is it writ on it anywhere?"

"No, it's not the kind of Paul you mean," said Tom with a laugh.
"It's spelled differently. A pawl is a sort of catch that fits into
a ratchet wheel and pushes it around, or it may be used as a catch
to prevent the backward motion of a windlass or the wheel on a
derrick. I'll have it fixed in a jiffy for you."

Tom worked rapidly. With a monkey-wrench he removed the two big
wheels of the lawn-mower and reversed the pawl in the cogs. In five
minutes he had replaced the wheels, and the machine, except for
needed sharpening, did good work.

"There you are, Rad!" exclaimed Tom at length.

"Yo' suah am a wonder at inventin'!" cried the colored man
gratefully. "I'll cut yo' grass all summah fo' yo' to pay fo' this,
Mistah Swift."

"Oh, that's too much. I didn't do a great deal, Rad."

"Well, yo' saved me from bein' swindled, Mistah Swift, an' I suah
does 'preciate dat."

"How about the fellow you traded the cracked grindstone to, Rad?"

"Oh, well, ef he done run it slow it won't fly apart, an' he'll do
dat, anyhow, fo' he suah am a lazy coon. I guess we am about even
there, Mistah Swift."

"All right," spoke Tom with a laugh. "Sharpen it up, Rad, and start
in to cut grass. It will soon be summer," and Tom, leaping upon his
motor-cycle, was off like a shot.

He found his father in his library, reading a book on scientific
matters. Mr. Swift looked up in surprise at seeing his son.

"What! Back so soon?" he asked. "You did make a flying trip. Did you
give the model and papers to Mr. Crawford?"

"No, dad, I was robbed yesterday. Those scoundrels got ahead of us,
after all. They have your model. I tried to telephone to you, but
the wires were down, or something."

"What!" cried Mr. Swift. "Oh, Tom! That's too bad! I will lose ten
thousand dollars if I can't get that model and those papers back!"
and with a despairing gesture Mr. Swift rose and began to pace the
floor.

Tom watched his father anxiously. The young inventor knew the loss
had been a heavy one, and he blamed himself for not having been more
careful.

"Tell me all about it, Tom," said Mr. Swift at length. "Are you sure
the model and papers are gone? How did it happen?"

Then Tom related what had befallen him.

"Oh, that's too bad!" cried Mr. Swift. "Are you much hurt, Tom?
Shall I send for the doctor?" For the time being his anxiety over
his son was greater than that concerning his loss.

"No, indeed, dad. I'm all right now. I got a bad blow on the head,
but Mrs. Blackford fixed me up. I'm awfully sorry—"

"There, there! Now don't say another word," interrupted Mr. Swift.
"It wasn't your fault. It might have happened to me. I dare say it
would, for those scoundrels seemed very determined. They are
desperate, and will stop at nothing to make good the loss they
sustained on the patent motor they exploited. Now they will probably
try to make use of my model and papers."

"Do you think they'll do that, dad?"

"Yes. They will either make a motor exactly like mine, or construct
one so nearly similar that it will answer their purpose. I will have
no redress against them, as my patent is not fully granted yet. Mr.
Crawford was to attend to that."

"Can't you do anything to stop them, dad? File an injunction, or
something like that?"

"I don't know. I must see Mr. Crawford at once. I wonder if he could
come here? He might be able to advise me. I have had very little
experience with legal difficulties. My specialty is in other lines
of work. But I must do something. Every moment is valuable. I wonder
who the men were?"

"I'm sure one of them was the same man who came here that night—the
man with the black mustache, who dropped the telegram," said Tom. "I
had a pretty good look at him as the auto passed me, and I'm sure it
was he. Of course I didn't see who it was that struck me down, but I
imagine it was some one of the same gang."

"Very likely. Well, Tom, I must do something. I suppose I might
telegraph to Mr. Crawford—he will be expecting you in Albany—" Mr.
Swift paused musingly. "No, I have it!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I'll
go to Albany myself."

"Go to Albany, dad?"

"Yes; I must explain everything to the lawyers and then he can
advise me what to do. Fortunately I have some papers, duplicates of
those you took, which I can show him. Of course the originals will
be necessary before I can prove my claim. The loss of the model is
the most severe, however. Without that I can do little. But I will
have Mr. Crawford take whatever steps are possible. I'll take the
night train, Tom. I'll have to leave you to look after matters here,
and I needn't caution you to be on your guard, though, having got
what they were after, I fancy those financiers, or their tools, will
not bother us again."

"Very likely not," agreed Tom, "but I will keep my eyes open, just
the same. Oh, but that reminds me, dad. Did you see anything of a
tramp around here while I was away?"

"A tramp? No; but you had better ask Mrs. Baggert. She usually
attends to them. She's so kind-hearted that she frequently gives
them a good meal."

The housekeeper, when consulted, said that no tramps had applied in
the last few days.

"Why do you ask, Tom?" inquired his father.

"Because I had an experience with one, and I believe he was a member
of the same gang who robbed me." And thereupon Tom told of his
encounter with Happy Harry, and how the latter had broken the wire
on the motor-cycle.

"You had a narrow escape," commented Mr. Swift. "If I had known the
dangers involved I would never have allowed you to take the model to
Albany."

"Well, I didn't take it there, after all," said Tom with a grim
smile, for he could appreciate a joke.

"I must hurry and pack my valise," went on Mr. Swift. "Mrs. Baggert,
we will have an early supper, and I will start at once for Albany."

"I wish I could go with you, dad, to make up for the trouble I
caused," spoke Tom.

"Tut, tut! Don't talk that way," advised his father kindly. "I will
be glad of the trip. It will ease my mind to be doing something."

Tom felt rather lonesome after his father had left, but he laid out
a plan of action for himself that he thought would keep him occupied
until his father returned. In the first place he made a tour of the
house and various machine shops to see that doors and windows were
securely fastened.

"What's the matter? Do you expect burglars, Master Tom?" asked
Garret Jackson, the aged engineer.

"Well, Garret, you never can tell," replied the young inventor, as
he told of his experience and the necessity for Mr. Swift going to
Albany. "Some of those scoundrels, finding how easy it was to rob
me, may try it again, and get some at dad's other valuable models.
I'm taking no chances."

"That's right, Master Tom. I'll keep steam up in the boiler to-night,
though we don't really need it, as your father told me you would
probably not run any machinery when he was gone. But with a good head
of steam up, and a hose handy, I can give any burglars a hot
reception. I almost wish they'd come, so I could get square with
them."

"I don't, Garret. Well, I guess everything is in good shape. If you
hear anything unusual, or the alarm goes off during the night, call
me."

"I will, Master Tom," and the old engineer, who had a living-room in
a shack adjoining the boiler-room, locked the door after Tom left.

The young inventor spent the early evening in attaching a new wire
to his motor-cycle to replace the one he had purchased while on his
disastrous trip. The temporary one was not just the proper thing,
though it answered well enough. then, having done some work on a new
boat propeller he was contemplating patenting, Tom felt that it was
time to go to bed, as he was tired. He made a second round of the
house, looking to doors and windows, until Mrs. Baggert exclaimed:

"Oh, Tom, do stop! You make me nervous, going around that way. I'm
sure I shan't sleep a wink to-night, thinking of burglars and
tramps."

Tom laughingly desisted, and went up to his room. He sat up a few
minutes, writing a letter to a girl of his acquaintance, for, in
spite of the fact that the young inventor was very busy with his own
and his father's work, he found time for lighter pleasures. Then, as
his eyes seemed determined to close of their own accord, if he did
not let them, he tumbled into bed.

Tom fancied it was nearly morning when he suddenly awoke with a
start. He heard a noise, and at first he could not locate it. Then
his trained ear traced it to the dining-room.

"Why, Mrs. Baggert must be getting breakfast, and is rattling the
dishes," he thought. "But why is she up so early?"

It was quite dark in Tom's room, save for a little gleam from the
crescent moon, and by the light of this Tom arose and looked at his
watch.

"Two o'clock," he whispered. "That can't be Mrs. Baggert, unless
she's sick, and got up to take some medicine."

He listened intently. Below, in the dining-room, he could hear
stealthy movements.

"Mrs. Baggert would never move around like that," he decided. "She's
too heavy. I wonder—it's a burglar—one of the gang has gotten in!"
he exclaimed in tense tones. "I'm going to catch him at it!"

Hurriedly he slipped on some clothes, and then, having softly turned
on the electric light in his room, he took from a corner a small
rifle, which he made sure was loaded. Then, having taken a small
electric flashlight, of the kind used by police men, and sometimes
by burglars, he started on tiptoe toward the lower floor.

As Tom softly descended the stairs he could more plainly hear the
movements of the intruder. He made out now that the burglar was in
Mr. Swift's study, which opened from the dining-room.

"He's after dad's papers!" thought Tom. "I wonder which one this
is?"

The youth had often gone hunting in the woods, and he knew how to
approach cautiously. Thus he was able to reach the door of the
dining-room without being detected. He had no need to flash his
light, for the intruder was doing that so frequently with one he
carried that Tom could see him perfectly. The fellow was working at
the safe in which Mr. Swift kept his more valuable papers.

Softly, very softly Tom brought his rifle to bear on the back of the
thief. Then, holding the weapon with one hand, for it was very
light, Tom extended the electric flash, so that the glare would be
thrown on the intruder and would leave his own person in the black
shadows. Pressing the spring which caused the lantern to throw out a
powerful glow, Tom focused the rays on the kneeling man.

"That will be about all!" the youth exclaimed in as steady a voice
as he could manage.

The burglar turned like a flash, and Tom had a glimpse of his face.
It was the tramp—Happy Harry—whom he had encountered on the lonely
road.

Tom held his rifle in readiness, though he only intended it as a
means of intimidation, and would not have fired at the burglar
except to save his own life. But the sight of the weapon was enough
for the tramp. He crouched motionless. His own light had gone out,
but by the gleam of the electric he carried Tom could see that the
man had in his hand some tool with which he had been endeavoring to
force the safe.