AN INTERVIEW IN THE DARK
While Mr. Swift was writing the message he wished his son to take to
the village, the young mechanic inspected the motor-cycle he had
purchased. Tom found that a few repairs would suffice to put it in
good shape, though an entire new front wheel would be needed. The
motor had not been damaged, as he ascertained by a test. Tom rode
into town on his bicycle, and as he hurried along he noticed in the
west a bank of ugly-looking clouds that indicated a shower.
"I'm in for a wetting before I get back," he mused, and he increased
his speed, reaching the telegraph office shortly before seven
o'clock.
"Think this storm will hold off until I get home?" asked Tom.
"I'm afraid not," answered the agent. "You'd better get a hustle
on."
Tom sprinted off. It was getting dark rapidly, and when he was about
a mile from home he felt several warm drops on his face.
"Here it comes!" exclaimed the youth. "Now for a little more speed!"
Tom pressed harder on the pedals, too hard, in fact, for an instant
later something snapped, and the next he knew he was flying over the
handle-bars of the bicycle. At the same time there was a metallic,
clinking sound.
"Chain's busted!" exclaimed the lad as he picked himself up out of
the dust. "Well, wouldn't that jar you!" and he walked back to
where, in the dusk, he could dimly discern his wheel.
The chain had come off the two sprockets and was lying to one side.
Tom picked it up and ascertained by close observation that the screw
and nut holding the two joining links together was lost.
"Nice pickle!" he murmured. "How am I going to find it in all this
dust and darkness?" he asked himself disgustedly. "I'll carry an
extra screw next time. No, I won't, either. I'll ride my motor-cycle
next time. Well, I may as well give a look around. I hate to walk,
if I can fix it and ride."
Tom had not spent more than two minutes looking about the dusty
road, with the aid of matches, for the screw, when the rain suddenly
began falling in a hard shower.
"Guess there's no use lingering here any longer," he remarked. "I'll
push the wheel and run for home."
He started down the road in the storm and darkness. The highway soon
became a long puddle of mud, through which he splashed, finding it
more and more difficult every minute to push the bicycle in the
thick, sticky clay.
Above the roar of the wind and the swishing of the rain he heard
another sound. It was a steady "puff-puff," and then the darkness
was cut by a glare of light.
"An automobile," said Tom aloud. "Guess I'd better get out of the
way."
He turned to one side, but the auto, instead of passing him when it
got to the place where he was, made a sudden stop.
"Want a ride?" asked the chauffeur, peering out from the side
curtains which somewhat protected him from the storm. Tom saw that
the car was a large, touring one. "Can I give you a lift?" went on
the driver.
"Well, I've got my bicycle with me," explained the young inventor.
"My chain's broken, and I've got a mile to go."
"Jump up in back," invited the man. "Leave your wheel here; I guess
it will be safe."
"Oh, I couldn't do that," said Tom. "I don't mind walking. I'm wet
through now, and I can't get much wetter. I'm much obliged, though."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I can hardly take you and the bicycle, too,"
continued the chauffeur.
"Certainly not," added a voice from the tonneau of the car. "We
can't have a muddy bicycle in here. Who is that person, Simpson?"
"It's a young man," answered the driver.
"Is he acquainted around here?" went on the voice from the rear of
the car. "Ask him if he is acquainted around here, Simpson."
Tom was wondering where he had heard that voice before. He had a
vague notion that it was familiar.
"Are you acquainted around here?" obediently asked the man at the
wheel.
"I live here," replied Tom.
"Ask him if he knows any one named Swift?" continued the voice from
the tonneau, and the driver started to repeat it.
"I heard him," interrupted Tom. "Yes, I know a Mr. Swift;" but Tom,
with a sudden resolve, and one he could hardly explain, decided
that, for the present, he would not betray his own identity.
"Ask him if Mr. Swift is an inventor." Once more the unseen person
spoke in the voice Tom was trying vainly to recall.
"Yes, he is an inventor," was the youth's answer.
"Do you know much about him? What are his habits? Does he live near
his workshops? Does he keep many servants? Does he--"
The unseen questioner suddenly parted the side curtains and peered
out at Tom, who stood in the muddy road, close to the automobile. At
that moment there came a bright flash of lightning, illuminating not
only Tom's face, but that of his questioner as well. And at the
sight Tom started, no less than did the man. For Tom had recognized
him as one of the three mysterious persons in the restaurant, and as
for the man, he had also recognized Tom.
"Ah--er--um--is--Why, it's you, isn't it?" cried the questioner, and
he thrust his head farther out from between the curtains. "My, what a
storm!" he exclaimed as the rain increased. "So you know Mr. Swift,
eh? I saw you to-day in Mansburg, I think. I have a good memory for
faces. Do you work for Mr. Swift? If you do I may be able to--"
"I'm Tom Swift, son of Mr. Barton Swift," said Tom as quietly as he
could.
"Tom Swift! His son!" cried the man, and he seemed much agitated.
"Why, I thought--that is, Morse said--Simpson, hurry back to
Mansburg!" and with that, taking no more notice of Tom, the man in
the auto hastily drew the curtains together.
The chauffeur threw in the gears and swung the ponderous machine to
one side. The road was wide, and he made the turn skilfully. A
moment later the car was speeding back the way it had come, leaving
Tom standing on the highway, alone in the mud and darkness, with the
rain pouring down in torrents.