It is now time to return to the bedside of Ralph Ingersoll, in the home
of Dr. Tallman. It was evening and Tom, as he had promised, had returned
to hear Ralph’s story and see what light he could throw on the fate of
Jack and the stolen model.
Tom returned alone, Mr. Bowler having received an urgent telephone
message on returning home, which commanded his presence at his office
that evening. So Tom had driven out alone in the Flying Road Racer to
have a chat with Ralph.
He found the lad sitting up in bed, much better, thanks to the doctor’s
ministrations, and eager to see his friend. After first greetings had
been exchanged, Ralph lost no time in plunging into his story. As our
readers know, the lad had been surprised and carried off by the same two
rascals who had stolen the model while he was left on guard at the wood
road. Apparently, they kidnapped him on account of his desperate
resistance. At any rate, he was bundled into the yellow auto, and
hurried off down the wood road which, as Jack had surmised, joined the
main thoroughfare further on.
Terrified half to death by the men’s dire threats to kill him if he made
any outcry, the poor lad told how they had taken him to the room in the
old rookery, which, it appeared, was used as a rendezvous for hard
characters of all descriptions—which explained the secret hiding-place
in the wall.
Tom, who had been warned by the doctor not to excite his patient,
thought it best to let the lad tell his story in his own way, and
therefore did not put any questions regarding Jack. It can be imagined,
then, with what a cruel shock he heard of the lad’s being abandoned to
his fate in the burning building, after the flight of Rook and Radcliff
with the model and Ralph.
He sank his head in his hands, quite unable to speak for some moments.
As he knew, from what the policeman had told him that morning, that the
building had been gutted by the fire, he found it impossible to cherish
a hope that somehow Jack might have been saved. When he grew calmer
Ralph went on with his narrative.
It appeared that after the men had fled from the blazing building they
made their way directly to a garage where the yellow car had been put
up. This place was not, properly speaking, a garage at all, but a stable
in the low part of town, kept by friends of the rascally pair. Here they
spent the rest of the night, sleeping in a hayloft.
During their passage through the streets Ralph was given no opportunity
to appeal to passers-by. Jake Rook’s threats of what would happen to him
if he did alarmed him far too effectually for him to disobey the
ruffian’s orders to keep silent.
That morning had been spent by Jake Rook in active work of some sort. At
any rate, Ralph said he had gone out early, after writing several
letters in a sort of office attached to the stable. As he left the place
to post them he had dropped one unnoticed, and, as Radcliff’s attention
happened also to be distracted at that moment, Ralph had picked it up.
All that morning and the early part of the afternoon were spent in the
stable and then, after Jake Rook’s return, the auto was run out and
Ralph ordered to get into it with his two guardians. He dared not offer
any opposition and soon the trio, skirting the city by back streets,
were driving along a country road.
“We came to a place where there was a bridge,” said Ralph, “and the men
stopped the car there. I heard them say they were going to some place up
the creek that the bridge crossed.
“They both got out of the car and one of them took the model out of the
box and looked at it to see if it had been damaged, for we had come over
some pretty rough roads.
“The engine of the car had been left running, though the clutch was out,
and I thought that maybe it was my chance to escape. I knew a little
about autos, for that circus gang had one once. So I put my foot on what
I thought was the clutch pedal, and the machine began to move off. But
it wasn’t going very fast and Jake Rook jumped on the running board and
pulled me clear out of the car.
“He fell over as he did so, and we both rolled into the road. Before he
could get up again the car was out of sight. Rook was so mad that he
picked me up round the waist and ran to the rail of the bridge with me
and—and that’s all I remember,” said Ralph, bringing his narration to a
close.
It cleared up many points which had been enigmas, and Tom told Ralph how
they had found him.
“And just to think,” he exclaimed bitterly, “that it wasn’t so very long
before that that those ruffians made off up the creek. Oh! If only we
could have caught them!”
“Why don’t you look at that letter I picked up?” suggested Ralph
presently.
This was a surprise to Tom. In his grief over Jack’s fate he had
forgotten all about the letter which Ralph had mentioned.
“That’s right, I’d forgotten you had it,” he said. “It may give us a
clew. Where is it?”
“In the pocket of my coat. It’s hanging up over there on that hook.”
Tom lost no time in getting the missive from the garment Ralph
indicated. It was addressed, in what was clearly meant to be a disguised
hand, to Stephen Melville, No. 289 Wall Street, New York.
Tom tore the envelope open eagerly. Inside was a single sheet of paper,
covered with the same half printed writing that was on the envelope. The
note was brief and very much to the point:
“Have got moddle and will take it to old Haskins place, as
arranged. Will wate for you thar. Have also got boy who may
be the Ingersoll kid you ware anxious about. Join us at
Haskins place as soon as posibul.
“J. R.”
“Phew! I should say that this does give us a clew!” gasped Tom, having
read the note, “but it doesn’t give us any line on poor old Jack, and
I’d rather have that than fifty models. Hold on, though! If we can find
those men and get them arrested that may help us to trace Jack. I’ll get
right back to the city now and notify the police at once. The old
Haskins place!” mused Tom. “That must mean some old house or mansion in
the vicinity of that creek. I wish——”
But just then the recollection of Jack’s probable fate swept over the
lad again and poor Tom fairly broke down. In the midst of his collapse
Dr. Tallman came into the room. His face was radiant and he seemed
excited.
“Someone wants to talk to you on the ’phone, Tom,” he said kindly.
“To me?” exclaimed Tom, looking amazed.
“Yes, somebody in Boston. The call is from Mr. Bowler’s office.”
Greatly wondering who could be calling him, except the lawyer, Tom
hastened to the ’phone, which was in the hall outside the room where
Ralph lay.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Tom picking up the receiver, “hullo! Who is
it—What—Oh, glory!—It’s Jack!”
And Jack, indeed, it was. The sound of his voice brought into Tom’s
heart the most joyous feeling he had ever known. He fairly skipped about
with excitement as Jack hastily told him of his escape from the burning
building, and how, the next day, he had been discovered more dead than
alive by workmen in the warehouse. The men found him in a swoon, but
rushed him off at once to the Emergency Hospital, where nourishment and
stimulants were administered.
The hospital people communicated with Mr. Bowler as soon as they found
out who Jack was; but, through the error of a clerk in his office, the
message had not been transmitted properly to his house. When he reached
his office that evening, in response to the summons already recorded,
his amazement may be imagined when, instead of the client he had
expected, the missing Jack Chadwick greeted him.
The joyous news was soon communicated to Ralph, whose peaked face
lighted up wonderfully at the glorious intelligence. In spite of Dr.
Tallman’s urgent request to him to stay and have some refreshment, Tom
insisted that he must get back to Boston without delay. He was crazy
with impatience to get the letter Ralph had so cleverly picked up into
the hands of the police, and to clasp Jack’s hand again.
Ten minutes later Tom was off on one of the most pleasurable trips of
his life; shortly before he had hardly dared to hope that Jack had
escaped from the flames alive. He promised to return in the morning. As
Dr. Tallman said good-by he added:
“By the way, I think I shall have something remarkable to tell you ere
long about this young Ingersoll. He is not by any means just what you
think he is.”
With which puzzling words Tom had to be content, for the good doctor
refused to say more.
“What a wonderful day this has been,” mused Tom, as he spun along the
road, his searchlight brightly illumining the road ahead of him. So
intent was he on his pleasant thoughts that he was quite startled when
suddenly, into the circle of light ahead, there stepped a human figure.
Tom turned out quickly to avoid running over him. But as he did so he
heard himself hailed in a sharp voice.
“Hey, mister!”
“Well, what is it?” demanded Tom.
“Give me and my pard a ride inter Boston?” Now, at any other time Tom
would have refused such a request, for just at that date holdups of
automobilists were frequent. But at the moment, he felt so joyous and at
peace with all the world, that he stopped the car and told the men to
get in.
As the car came to a standstill two dark figures stepped into it out of
the black night.
“Get back in the tonneau,” ordered Tom, “and hold on tight, we’re going
to make a fast run.”
“But not the kind of run you expect, Tom Jesson,” came in startling
contrast to the whining, tramp-like tones in which he had been hailed
from the roadside. “Turn this car around and drive where we tell you.”
The command was enforced by the pressure of something cold to the back
of Tom’s neck. With a sharp thrill of fear, the boy realized that it was
the muzzle of a pistol that pressed against him, and that the man who
had uttered the command to turn about was Jake Rook.