SUSPICIOUS CHARACTERS
Under the skill of the physicians at the lake sanitarium Mr. Duncan's
wound was quickly attended to and the bleeding, which Tom had partly
checked, was completely stopped. Some medicines having been
administered, the hunter regained a little of his strength, and, about
an hour after he had been brought to the resort, he was able to see
Tom, who, at his request, was admitted to his room. The young inventor
found Mr. Duncan propped up in bed, with his injured arm bandaged.
"Is the injury a bad one?" asked Tom, entering softly.
"Not as bad as I feared," replied the hunter, while a trained nurse
placed a chair for the lad at the bedside. "If it had not been for
you, though, I'm afraid to think of what might have happened."
"I am glad I chanced to be going past when you called," replied the lad.
"Well, you can imagine how thankful I am," resumed Mr. Duncan. "I'll
thank you more properly at another time. I hope I didn't delay you on
your trip."
"It's not of much consequence," responded the youth. "I was only going
to see that everything was all right at our house," and he explained
about his father being at the hotel and mentioned his worriment. "I
will go on now unless I can do something more for you," resumed Tom.
"I will probably stay at our house all night to-night instead of trying
to get back to Sandport."
"I'd like to send word to my wife about what has happened," said the
hunter. "If it would not be too much out of your way, I'd appreciate
it if you could stop at my home in Waterford and tell her, so she will
not be alarmed at my absence."
"I'll do it," replied our hero. "There is no special need of my
hurrying. I have brought your gun and compass up from the boat. They
are down in the office."
"Will you do me a favor?" asked Mr. Duncan quickly.
"Of course."
"Then please accept that gun and compass with my compliments. They are
both of excellent make, and I don't think I shall use that gun this
season. My wife would be superstitious about it. As for the compass,
you'll need one in this fog, and I can recommend mine as being
accurate."
"Oh, I couldn't think of taking them," expostulated Tom, but his eyes
sparkled in anticipation, for he had been wishing for a gun such as Mr.
Duncan owned. He also needed a compass.
"If you don't take them I shall feel very much offended," the hunter
said, "and the nurse here will tell you that sick persons ought to be
humored. Hadn't they?" and he appealed to the pretty young woman, who
was smiling at Tom.
"That's perfectly true," she said, showing her white, even teeth. "I
think, Mr. Swift, I shall have to order you to take them."
"All right," agreed Tom, "only it's too much for what I did."
"It isn't half enough," remarked Mr. Duncan solemnly. "Just explain
matters to my wife, if you will, and tell her the doctor says I can be
out in about a week. But I'm not going hunting or practicing shots
again."
A little later Tom, with the compass before him to guide him on his
course through the fog, was speeding his boat toward Waterford. Now
and then he glanced at the fine shotgun which he had so unexpectedly
acquired.
"This will come in handy this fall!" he exclaimed. "I'll go hunting
quail and partridge as well as wild ducks. This compass is just what I
need, too."
Mrs. Duncan was at first very much alarmed when Tom started to tell her
of the accident, but she soon calmed down as the lad went more into
details and stated how comparatively out of danger her husband now was.
The hunter's wife insisted that Tom remain to dinner, and as he had
made up his mind he would have to devote two days instead of one to the
trip to his house, he consented.
The fog lifted that afternoon, and Tom, rejoicing in the sunlight,
which drove away the storm clouds, speeded up the ARROW until she was
skimming over the lake like a shaft from a bow.
"This is something like," he exclaimed. "I'll soon be at home, find
everything all right and telephone to dad. Then I'll sleep in my own
room and start back in the morning."
When Tom was within a few miles of his own boathouse he heard behind
him the "put-put" of a motor craft. Turning, he saw the RED STREAK
fairly flying along at some distance from him.
"Andy certainly is getting the speed out of her now," he remarked.
"He'd beat me if we were racing, but the trouble with his boat and
engine is that he can't always depend on it. I guess he doesn't
understand how to run it. I wonder if he'll offer to race now?"
But the red-haired owner of the auto boat evidently did not intend to
offer Tom a race. The RED STREAK went on down the lake, passing the
ARROW about half a mile away. Then the young inventor saw that Andy
had two other lads in the boat with him.
"Sam Snedecker and Pete Bailey, I guess," he murmured. "Well, they're
a trio pretty much alike. The farther off they are the better I like
it."
Tom once more gave his attention to his own boat. He was going at a
fair speed, but not the limit, and he counted on reaching home in about
a half hour. Suddenly, when he was just congratulating himself on the
smooth-running qualities of his motor, which had not missed an
explosion, the machinery stopped.
"Hello!" exclaimed the young inventor in some alarm. "What's up now?"
He quickly shut off the gasoline and went back to the motor. Now there
are so many things that may happen to a gasoline engine that it would
be difficult to name them all offhand, and Tom, who had not had very
much experience, was at a loss to find what had stopped his machinery.
He tried the spark and found that by touching the wire to the top of
the cylinder, when the proper connection was, made, that he had a hot,
"fat one." The compression seemed all right and the supply pipe from
the gasoline tank was in perfect order. Still the motor would not go.
No explosion resulted when he turned the flywheel over, not even when
he primed the cylinder by putting a little gasoline in through the
cocks on the cylinder heads.
"That's funny," he remarked to himself as he rested from his labors and
contemplated the "dead" motor. "First time it has gone back on me."
The boat was drifting down the lake, and, at the sound of another motor
craft approaching, Tom looked up. He saw the RED STREAK, containing
Andy Foger and his cronies. They had observed the young inventor's
plight.
"Want a tow?" sneered Andy.
"What'll you take for your second-hand boat that won't run?" asked Pete
Bailey.
"Better get out of the way or you might be run down," added Sam
Snedecker.
Tom was too angry and chagrined to reply, and the RED STREAK swept on.
"I'll make her go, if it takes all night!" declared Tom energetically.
Once more he tried to start the motor. It coughed and sighed, as if in
protest, but would not explode. Then Tom cried: "The spark plug!
That's where the trouble is, I'll wager. Why didn't I think of it
before?"
It was the work of but a minute to unscrew the spark plugs from the
tops of the cylinders. He found that both had such accumulations of
carbon on them that no spark could ever have reached the mixture of
gasoline and air.
"I'll put new ones in," he decided, for he carried a few spare plugs
for emergencies. Inside of five minutes, with the new plugs in place,
the motor was running better than before.
"Now for home!" cried Tom, "and if I meet Andy Foger I'll race him
this time."
But the RED STREAK was not in sight, and, a little later, Tom had run
the ARROW into the boathouse, locked the door and was on his way up to
the mansion.
"I suppose Mrs. Baggert and Garret will be surprised to see me," he
remarked. "Maybe they'll think we don't trust them, by coming back in
this fashion to see that everything is safe. But then, I suppose, dad
is naturally nervous about some of his valuable machinery and
inventions. I think I'll find everything all right, though."
As Tom went up the main path and swung off to a side one, which was a
short cut to the house, he saw in the dusk, for it was now early
evening, a movement in the bushes that lined the walk.
"Hello, Garret!" exclaimed the lad, taking it for granted it was the
engineer employed by Mr. Swift.
There was no reply, and Tom, with a sudden suspicion, sprang toward the
bushes. The shrubbery was more violently agitated and, as the lad
reached the screen of foliage, he saw a man spring up from the ground
and take to his heels.
"Here! Who are you? What do you want?" yelled Tom.
Hardly had he spoken when from behind a big apple tree another man
sprung. It was light enough so that the lad could see his face, and a
glimpse of it caused him to cry out:
"Happy Harry, the tramp!"
Before he could call again the two men had disappeared.