A WILD CHASE
TOM SWIFT was the first of the four searchers to rush out of the old
brick farmhouse, ready to take up the trail once more in the search. Mr.
Damon followed, then came Bill Tagg, and lastly the big, lumbering Koku.
“Me find nobody can smash,” the giant complained as he clenched his
immense fists. “Master say maybe I fight. No fight?” and he looked at
Tom questioningly.
“There may be a fight yet, if we can catch them,” said the young
inventor, pausing a moment in the front to look back at the house.
“They’ve given us the slip. If it hadn’t been for the accident to my
electric runabout we’d have been here sooner and we’d have caught them.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Damon. “It looks, Tom, as if the somebody who tried to
wreck your machine had an interest in preventing your getting here
sooner. They, whoever it was, wanted to delay you so word could be sent
here to get Ned out of the way.”
“That’s very probable,” admitted the young inventor.
Again he looked up at the window of what had been his chum’s prison
room, and Tom tried to picture how Ned, in his desperation, had secretly
constructed the kite of wrapping paper, whittled sticks and string. Then
the young manager had waited until a stiff wind was blowing and had
loosed the silent messenger into the air.
The electric runabout was in the road a short distance away from the
deserted farmhouse. Tom wished he had time to repair it so the machine
would show some of the former speed, but this was out of the question.
They would have to go along as best they could.
The vicinity of the farmhouse was lonesome and no other building was in
view save a tumbledown barn. Tom, therefore, and his companions were
rather surprised when, on coming out of the yard, they saw a ragged boy
in the road walking around the runabout and admiring it.
“Hello!” called Tom genially. “Do you live near here?”
“Just down the road a piece.” The boy dug his dirty, bare toes into the
soft dust of the road.
“Know anybody who lives in here?” went on the young inventor, seeing a
possible chance to get some information.
“Don’t nobody live here,” the boy replied. “But there’s been some men in
here the last few days, only they’re gone now. They went away a little
while ago in an auto, but it was bigger’n what yours is.”
“Oh, so some men went away from here a little while ago in a big auto,
did they?” asked Tom. “We’re on the track!” he whispered to Mr. Damon.
Then to the boy again: “What kind of men were they and how many of them
were there?”
“They was just men,” the boy replied. “Men like you,” and he comprised
the four in a roving glance. “But they wasn’t dressed so good as what
you are—you three I mean,” and he indicated Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku. He
seemed to omit Tagg, and a moment later the reason was obvious. For the
boy added: “They was dressed more like what he is,” and he pointed
directly at the tramp. In spite of the fact that Bill Tagg had been
freshened up considerably since he shuffled to Tom with Ned’s message,
there was still an air of vagrancy about the wanderer. It stuck out all
over him. He did not seem to mind being made use of for this not very
flattering comparison.
“How many men were there?” asked Tom.
“Three well ones and a sick one,” the boy answered.
“A sick man!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “What do you mean?”
“Well, his head was tied up in rags and the other men carried him out on
a cot. He didn’t say nothin’, the sick man didn’t.”
“That was Ned!” murmured Mr. Damon. “Bless my doctor’s bill, Tom, but do
you think they’ve done for poor Ned?”
“No, I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I think they gagged Ned so he
couldn’t call for help, and they probably bound him with rope. Naturally
he couldn’t walk, and they had to carry him out. So he would appear to
be a sick person. Well, we know how many we have to fight—three men,”
he concluded. “Can you tell me anything more about the men who were
here, son?” asked Tom, tossing the boy a quarter which the lad picked up
in his toes after it had fallen in the dust near him. “Did you see them
often?”
“I sneaked down here pretty near every day after they come to this old
house,” the boy answered. “They didn’t see me, ’cause I hid in the
bushes. But they was funny men.”
“How do you mean—funny?”
“They used to fly kites out of the window—anyhow, one of ’em did. But I
couldn’t see him plain, ’cause there’s iron bars over that window—up
there,” and he pointed to the casement of the room where Tom had found
Ned’s stick pin.
“So one of the men flew kites out of that window, did he?” encouraged
Tom. “What happened to them?”
“Most of ’em fell in the weeds,” the boy said. “They wasn’t very good
kites—just made of old, brown-bag paper. I can make better kites ’n
them. They was made of old sticks. I picked some of ’em up, but they
wasn’t any good. One flew a long way off, though. I couldn’t find that.”
“I can see just what happened,” Tom spoke in a low voice to Mr. Damon.
“Poor Ned tried two or three kite messengers before he finally got one
into a stiff breeze that carried it to Cherry Valley. But we are losing
valuable time. Which way did the three well men take the sick man in
their big auto?” Tom asked the barefooted lad.
“Down there,” and he pointed to the western road.
“Where does that lead to?”
“Lake Carlopa, ’bout ten miles farther on.”
“Lake Carlopa!” cried Tom. “That’s where they’re heading for. Come on!
We may catch them yet!”
Tossing the lad another quarter, Tom led his friends toward his car and
they were soon off again on the wild chase. They had a definite object
now, for the lad had given them such a description of the other auto as
to make it easy for them to inquire about it along the way.
Their inquiries were fruitful to the extent that at several garages and
hot-dog stands along the highway the pursuers learned that the machine
in question, containing three men and one who appeared to be ill or
injured had passed not long before.
“We’re catching up to them!” Tom exulted, when they had covered half the
distance to Lake Carlopa. This was evident by the information given at
different garages. Whereas at first the fleeing car had been half an
hour ahead, it was now but ten minutes. “We’ll get them!” cried the
young inventor.
Though Tom got every inch of speed possible out of his crippled
runabout, when Lake Carlopa was reached they found the kidnappers’ car
abandoned on the shore of the lake.
“Just too late again!” sighed Mr. Damon. “We’ll never get Ned!”
“We may!” shouted Tom. “Look!” He pointed across the lake, and about
half a mile out was discerned a motorboat containing three men. “There
they are—I’m sure of it!” cried Tom. “Now if we only had another boat
to chase them!”
“There’s a feller a little farther on who rents motorboats,” volunteered
Bill Tagg.
“Good!” cried Tom. “We’ll chase them in their own way. Where’s that
motorboat chap?”
The tramp pointed out the dock, and in a short time, leaving his
runabout in charge of the boat proprietor, Tom and his friends were in a
sturdy gasoline craft giving chase to the other, which was now but a
speck amid the blue waters of Lake Carlopa.
“Do you think they have Ned with them?” asked Mr. Damon while Tom
hastily adjusted the motor so as to get the maximum speed from the boat.
“I hope so,” was the reply. “We’ll soon find out, if this old tub can
stand the pace.”
“Have we a chance?” asked Bill, who was taking quite an interest in this
pursuit.
Tom looked at the fleeing boat. Then he calculated the speed of the
craft he had hired. A few minutes of observation caused him to make this
remark:
“We’re gaining on them—slowly. Whether we catch up to them before they
get to the other side is a question. We’ll do our best to catch ’em,
however.”
He made a slight adjustment in the carburetor to get a few more
revolutions per minute from the flywheel and then the four settled back
for the chase.
Tom’s statement about their speed proved true. In a short time it was
discerned that his craft was overhauling the other. The three men could
be plainly seen now, and a muffled object could be made out in the
bottom of the boat.
“Bless my cranberry sauce, there’s Ned!” cried Mr. Damon.
“I hope so,” murmured Tom.
The chase was now becoming exciting. Every moment they were drawing
nearer the fleeing boat.
“Hold on there, you fellows!” shouted Tom. “We want to speak to you!”
“Haven’t got time!” sneered one of the three rascals. “See you later!”
Suddenly the boat in front swerved off to one side. But Tom was ready
for this and shifted his own wheel to intercept the other craft.
“Look out! Rocks!” suddenly cried Mr. Damon.