A VINDICTIVE TRAMP
Though Tom's father had told him there was no necessity for any
great speed, the young inventor could not resist the opportunity for
pushing his machine to the limit. The road was a level one and in
good condition, so the motor-cycle fairly flew along. The day was
pleasant, a warm sun shining overhead, and it was evident that early
summer was crowding spring rather closely.
"This is glorious!" exclaimed Tom aloud as he spun along. "I'm glad I
persuaded dad to let me take this trip. It was a great idea. Wish Ned
Newton was along, though. He'd be company for me, but, as Ned would
say, there are two good reasons why he can't come. One is he has to
work in the bank, and the other is that he has no motor-cycle."
Tom swept past house after house along the road, heading in the
opposite direction from that in which lay the town of Shopton and
the city of Mansburg. For several miles Tom's route would lie
through a country district. The first large town he would reach
would be Centreford. He planned to get lunch there, and he had
brought a few sandwiches with him to eat along the road in case he
became hungry before he reached the place.
"I hope the package containing the model doesn't jar off," mused the
lad as he reached behind to make sure that the precious bundle was
safe. "Dad would be in a bad way if that should disappear. And the
papers, too." He put his hand to his inner pocket to feel that they
were secure. Coming to a little down-grade, Tom shut off some of the
power, the new levers he had arranged to control the gasolene and
spark working well.
"I think I'll take the old wood road and pass through Pompville,"
Tom decided, after covering another mile or two. He was approaching
a division in the highway. "It's a bit sandy," he went on, "and the
going will be heavy, but it will be a good chance to test my
machine. Besides, I'll save five miles, and, while I don't have to
hurry, I may need time on the other end. I'd rather arrive in Albany
a little before dusk than after dark. I can deliver the model and
papers and have a good night's sleep before starting back. So the
old wood road it will be."
The wood road, as Tom called it, was a seldom used highway, which,
originally, was laid out for just what the name indicated, to bring
wood from the forest. With the disappearance of most of the trees
the road became more used for ordinary traffic between the towns of
Pompville and Edgefield. But when the State built a new highway
connecting these two places the old road fell into disuse, though it
was several miles shorter than the new turnpike.
He turned from the main thoroughfare, and was soon spinning along
the sandy stretch, which was shaded with trees that in some places
met overhead, forming a leafy arch. It was cool and pleasant, and
Tom liked it.
"It isn't as bad as I thought," he remarked. "The sand is pretty
thick, but this machine of mine appears to be able to crawl through
it."
Indeed, the motor-cycle was doing remarkably well, but Tom found
that he had to turn on full power, for the big rubber wheels went
deep into the soft soil. Along Tom rode, picking out the firmest
places in the road. He was so intent on this that he did not pay
much attention to what was immediately ahead of him, knowing that he
was not very likely to meet other vehicles or pedestrians. He was
considerably startled therefore when, as he went around a turn in
the highway where the bushes grew thick, right down to the edge of
the road, to see a figure emerge from the underbrush and start
across the path. So quickly did the man appear that Tom was almost
upon him in an instant, and even though the young inventor shut off
the power and applied the brake, the front wheel hit the man and
knocked him down.
"What's the matter with you? What are you trying to do--kill me? Why
don't you ring a bell or blow a horn when you're coming?" The man had
sprung up from the soft sand where the wheel from the motor-cycle had
sent him and faced Tom angrily. Then the rider, who had quickly
dismounted, saw that his victim was a ragged tramp.
"I'm sorry," began Tom. "You came out of the bushes so quickly that
I didn't have a chance to warn you. Did I hurt you much?"
"Well, youse might have. 'Tain't your fault dat youse didn't," and
the tramp began to brush the dirt from his ragged coat. Tom was
instantly struck by a curious fact. The tramp in his second remarks
used language more in keeping with his character, whereas, in his
first surprise and anger, he had talked much as any other person
would. "Youse fellers ain't got no right t' ride dem machines like
lightnin' along de roads," the ragged chap went on, and he still
clung to the use of words and expressions current among his
fraternity. Tom wondered at it, and then, ascribing the use of the
better language to the fright caused by being hit by the machine,
the lad thought no more about it at the time. There was occasion,
however, when he attached more meaning to it.
"I'm very sorry," went on Tom. "I'm sure I didn't mean to. You see,
I was going quite slowly, and--"
"You call dat slow, when youse hit me an' knocked me down?" demanded
the tramp. "I'd oughter have youse arrested, dat's what, an' I would
if dere was a cop handy."
"I wasn't going at all fast," said Tom, a little nettled that his
conciliatory words should be so rudely received. "If I had been
going full speed I'd have knocked you fifty feet."
"It's a good thing. Cracky, den I'm glad dat youse wasn't goin' like
dat," and the tramp seemed somewhat confused. This time Tom looked
at him more closely, for the change in his language had been very
plain. The fellow seemed uneasy, and turned his face away. As he did
so Tom caught a glimpse of what he was sure was a false beard. It
was altogether too well-kept a beard to be a natural one for such a
dirty tramp as this one appeared to be.
"That fellow's disguised!" Tom thought. "He's playing a part. I
wonder if I'd better take chances and spring it on him that I'm on
to his game?"
Then the ragged man spoke again:
"I s'pose it was part my fault, cully. I didn't know dat any guy was
comin' along on one of dem buzz-machines, or I'd been more careful.
I don't s'pose youse meant to upset me?" and he looked at Tom more
boldly. This time his words seemed so natural, and his beard, now
that Tom took a second look at it, so much a part of himself, that
the young inventor wondered if he could have been mistaken in his
first surmise.
"Perhaps he was once a gentleman, and has turned tramp because of
hard luck," thought Tom. "That would account for him using good
language at times. Guess I'd better keep still." Then to the tramp
he said: "I'm sure I didn't mean to hit you. I admit I wasn't
looking where I was going, but I never expected to meet any one on
this road. I certainly didn't expect to see a--"
He paused in some confusion. He was about to use the term "tramp,"
and he hesitated, not knowing how it would be received by his
victim.
"Oh, dat's all right, cully. Call me a tramp--I know dat's what
youse was goin' t' say. I'm used t' it. I've been a hobo so many
years now dat I don't mind. De time was when I was a decent chap,
though. But I'm a tramp now. Say, youse couldn't lend me a quarter,
could youse?"
He approached closer to Tom, and looked quickly up and down the
road. The highway was deserted, nor was there any likelihood that
any one would come along. Tom was somewhat apprehensive, for the
tramp was a burly specimen. The young inventor, however, was not so
much alarmed at the prospect of a personal encounter, as that he
feared he might be robbed, not only of his money, but the valuable
papers and model he carried. Even if the tramp was content with
taking his money, it would mean that Tom would have to go back home
for more, and so postpone his trip.
So it was with no little alarm that he watched the ragged man coming
nearer to him. Then a bright idea came into Tom's head. He quickly
shifted his position so that he brought the heavy motor-cycle
between the man and himself. He resolved, if the tramp showed a
disposition to attack him, to push the machine over on him, and this
would give Tom a chance to attack the thief to better advantage.
However, the "hobo" showed no evidence of wanting to resort to
highwayman methods. He paused a short distance from the machine, and
said admiringly:
"Dat's a pretty shebang youse has."
"Yes, it's very fair," admitted Tom, who was not yet breathing
easily.
"Kin youse go far on it?"
"Two hundred miles a day, easily."
"Fer cats' sake! An' I can't make dat ridin' on de blind baggage;
but dat's 'cause I gits put off so much. But say, is youse goin' to
let me have dat quarter? I need it, honest I do. I ain't had nuttin'
t' eat in two days."
The man's tone was whining. Surely he seemed like a genuine tramp,
and Tom felt a little sorry for him. Besides, he felt that he owed
him something for the unceremonious manner in which he had knocked
the fellow down. Tom reached his hand in his pocket for some change,
taking care to keep the machine between himself and the tramp.
"Are youse goin' far on dat rig-a-ma-jig?" went on the man as he
looked carefully over the motor-cycle.
"To Albany," answered Tom, and the moment the words were out of his
mouth he wished he could recall them. All his suspicions regarding
the tramp came back to him. But the ragged chap appeared to attach
no significance to them.
"Albany? Dat's in Jersey, ain't it?" he asked.
"No, it's in New York," replied Tom, and then, to change the
subject, he pulled out a half-dollar and handed it to the man. As he
did so Tom noticed that the tramp had tattooed on the little finger
of his left hand a blue ring.
"Dat's de stuff! Youse is a reg'lar millionaire, youse is!"
exclaimed the tramp, and his manner seemed in earnest. "I'll
remember youse, I will. What's your name, anyhow, cully?"
"Tom Swift," replied our hero, and again he wished he had not told.
This time he was sure the tramp started and glanced at him quickly,
but perhaps it was only his imagination.
"Tom Swift," repeated the man musingly, and his tones were different
from the whining ones in which he had asked for money. Then, as if
recollecting the part he was playing, he added: "I s'pose dey calls
youse dat because youse rides so quick on dat machine. But I'm
certainly obliged to youse--Tom Swift, an' I hopes youse gits t'
Albany, in Jersey, in good time."
He turned away, and Tom was beginning to breathe more easily when
the ragged man, with a quick gesture, reached out and grabbed hold
of the motor-cycle. He gave it such a pull that it was nearly torn
from Tom's grasp. The lad was so startled at the sudden exhibition
of vindictiveness an the part of the tramp that he did not know what
to do. Then, before he could recover himself, the tramp darted into
the bushes.
"I guess Happy Harry--dat's me--has spoiled your ride t' Albany!"
the tramp cried. "Maybe next time youse won't run down poor fellers
on de road," and with that, the ragged man, shaking his fist at Tom,
was lost to sight in the underbrush.
"Well, if that isn't a queer end up," mused Tom. "He must be crazy.
I hope I don't meet you again, Happy Harry, or whatever your name
is. Guess I'll get out of this neighborhood."