TOM’S PLIGHT
Desperation gave Tom Swift unusual strength as he lay bound and
seemingly helpless in that upper story of the lonely cabin. Though the
ropes about his wrists and ankles seemed very tight, he had a feeling as
he strained his arms that he was going to get free. That talk he heard,
floating up from the room below where, through the crack, he could see
the conspirators gathered, gave him fierce energy.
“So that’s their game, is it?” mused Tom, as he heard the plot to blow
up the plant. “They want to put me out of the way so they will have a
free hand to wreck my plant and get the plans and models of the airline
express cars and airships. I don’t believe they ever thought of
inventing that sort of combination craft themselves. They are trying to
steal my ideas. Kenny and Schlump must have hatched the plot. Oh, but
I’ve got to get loose and warn Dad and Ned!”
It was this very necessity for quick action that emboldened Tom and gave
him the fierce energy to struggle to get free of his bonds. He was glad
the gag had come loose, for with that in his mouth, hindering his
breathing, he could not have worked as hard as he did—he would have
suffocated.
But now he could breathe easily, and he had need of all his spare wind
in the exertions that followed the overhearing of the plot of the men
who had captured him.
Luckily ropes, however strong, are capable of being stretched if one
pulls on them long enough and often enough. And though it hurt Tom to
force his bare wrists against the hemp strands, he kept at it until he
found he could move his hands more freely. He wished he might find a
projecting nail or some sharp object in his prison, against which he
could rub his bonds to sever them. But he dared not roll about much for
fear of making a noise and so bringing his captors upstairs. Once they
discovered that he was making an attempt to escape, they might chain him
fast or move him to some other prison whence it would not be so easy to
get away.
“Once I’m free of these ropes I know I can get out,” Tom told himself.
“I’m only on the second floor, I can tell that, for I counted the stairs
as they carried me up. And if I can get a window open I can jump to the
ground, if I don’t find some sort of a vine or a rain-water pipe that I
can climb down. But the first thing to do is to get these ropes off my
hands and feet.”
Tom knew that once his hands were freed it would be a comparatively easy
matter to loosen the ropes on his ankles. All his energies, then, must
center on his hands. They were tied behind his back, with several coils
of rope wound about the wrists. Again and again Tom strained on these
until, at last, he felt that he could draw out one hand.
It was not easy, even when he had done this much, but he kept at it, and
finally had one hand altogether freed. The exertion had made him sweat
and had tired him greatly. He panted for breath as he lay there, while
below him he could hear the murmuring voices of the plotters.
A little rest brought back Tom’s breath and gave him renewed strength
for what he had yet to do, which was to free his ankles. But he had
accomplished the hardest part, which was to get his hands loose. It was
not easy, however, to loosen the knots in the ropes about his feet, and
it was several hours before he managed to free himself completely. One
reason for this was the tightness of the knots, and another was that,
occasionally one or more of the men below would come upstairs and flash
a gleam from an electric torch into the room where Tom was a prisoner,
to make sure he was still safe.
But the young man could tell, by the movement of chairs below, when this
inspection was coming, and each time he was ready for it. He assumed on
the floor the same position he had held when still bound and he wound
the ropes back again on his wrists so it could not be seen, from a
casual inspection, that they were loose. And he also placed the gag in
his mouth.
Because of the necessity for stopping work every now and then to assume
the position of a bound prisoner, Tom was longer engaged in freeing his
feet than otherwise would have been the case.
Consequently it was almost morning when he was able to stand up and move
about freely. Cautiously he crossed the room, pausing at every board to
make sure it would not squeak and betray him, and at last he reached a
window through which the faint rosy streaks of dawn were coming—the
second morning that Tom had been away from home.
“Now to see if I can get this window open,” mused Tom. He scarcely hoped
to find that it would open readily, and he was not greatly disappointed
when he found it fastened. By the morning light, now growing stronger,
and by feeling, he ascertained that the sash was held down by nails
driven over the edges of it into the frame.
A claw hammer would have taken these nails out in a second of time, but
Tom had no claw hammer, and the files by which he had removed the chain
from his leg had been taken from him.
“But maybe by bending the nail back and forth often enough I can either
loosen it enough to pull it out or I can break it off,” he told himself.
He felt that he must now work quickly. For some time there had been
silence in the rooms below him, and he guessed that his captors were
sleeping, thinking him securely bound and locked in.
“But they’ll awake soon and start getting breakfast,” Tom decided.
“They’ll bring me up some, and then they’ll see that I have loosened the
ropes. I’ve got to get away before they come up to feed me.”
His fingers sought a wedging nail and began to bend it back and forth.
At first it gave only a little, but eventually it moved more and Tom’s
hopes rose.
It was now getting lighter every minute. Tom felt that each moment was
precious. Unless he got the window open soon and could manage to escape
through it, he would be discovered.
“There!” he exclaimed with a breath of relief as he at last broke off
one nail. “Now for the other.” The second proved easier, for after
working it backward and forward a number of times and twisting it about,
Tom pulled it out. Now the window could be raised, and this he did
cautiously.
He waited a moment after lifting the sash and listened. There was no
sound from below, and he thought that the men were still sleeping. He
put his head out and looked down. To his dismay the window was higher
above the ground than he had hoped, and there was on that side of the
house neither a vine nor a rain-water pipe that he could descend.
“I’ve got to jump for it!” he grimly decided. “But that grass below
looks soft.” There was a big clump of green below the window. Tom
climbed out, sat down on the sill, edged himself over and then hung by
his hands a moment. This reduced the length of his drop by his own
height. He hung there a moment and then let go.
Down he plunged, coming to a stop on the earth with a thud that shook
him greatly. He seemed to lose his breath and a sharp pain shot through
his left ankle.
“Guess I’ve sprained it,” he mused. The pain was actually sickening, and
made him feel faint. Through an open window on the first floor he heard
some one exclaim:
“What was that noise?”
“What noise?” asked another.
“It sounded like some one falling.”
“Guess you were dreaming! Get up and make some coffee. I’m half
starved.”
“All right,” said the one who had first spoken. “But I’ll just have a
look at that bird upstairs. He’s cute—maybe he’s got away. I’ll have a
look at him before I get breakfast!”
“I’ve got to run for it—and right away!” thought Tom desperately.
“Though how I’m going to do it with a sprained ankle is more than I
know. But it will never do to let them catch me again.”
The grass was tall and rank under the window. It would afford the
fugitive cover until he could get to some better shelter. He began
crawling through it, deeming this safer than trying to stand up and run.
His concealment would be better in this position and it would take the
strain off his hurt ankle. He hoped it was only a sprain and not a
break.
He had not crawled more than a hundred feet from the old house before he
heard coming from it shouts that told that his escape had been
discovered.
“Now I’m in for it!” he mused. Just ahead of him he saw a brook, not
very deep but rather wide. “If I stand up and run they’re sure to see
me,” he reasoned. “And if I crawl I’ll leave a trail in the grass like a
big snake. If I can get to the brook and crawl along in that I may throw
them off the trail for a while.”
It seemed the best thing to do, and while the men back at the house were
running about “in circles,” so to speak, Tom crawled to the brook, and
then, having no particular choice, since he did not know where he was,
he began crawling upstream. He did not hope to throw his enemies off his
trail long in this way, nor did he. They were soon shouting as they ran
down the grass-covered and weed-grown yard, for the open window had told
them which way he had gone.
The trick of going into the brook confused them for a while, but Tom
knew they would separate into two parties and soon trace him. He was
desperate and at his wits’ end when he saw just ahead of him on the edge
of the stream an old barrel, partly embedded in the sandy shore. He
could get into this without leaving the water, and as its open end was
turned rather upstream he might escape observation.
It did not take him long to get into the barrel. He took care to leave
no tell-tale trail, and his strategy was well carried out, for a little
later, splashing their way upstream, ran two of the men—Tom could see
them through a hole in the closed end of the barrel.
“But I’d better not stay here,” the lad mused. “They’re sure to come
back, and the next time they might take a notion to investigate this
barrel. I’ll strike across country until I get to a house. There must be
people living around here.”
Tom never liked, afterward, to recall that journey. It was a painful one
because of his injured ankle. He got a tree branch, which he used as a
crutch and hobbled along on that. Once or twice he fainted and sank to
earth in a stupor. How long these periods of unconsciousness lasted he
could not tell. He dared not call out for fear of bringing the men on
his trail.
Through the woods and across a swamp he pulled himself along, and at
last, in the afternoon, as he could tell by the sun, he dragged himself
out on a road and saw a white farmhouse a little way down it.
“I—I guess I’m all right now,” faltered the exhausted youth.
It was a much surprised farmer who a little later saw a tall young man,
obviously hurt, almost crawling up the front walk. Before the farmer
could ask any questions Tom shot one at him.
“I’ve got to get an important message off at once. Have you a telephone?
I’ll pay for using it!” There was something businesslike in Tom’s voice,
weak and weary as it was, that impelled the farmer’s respect in spite of
Tom’s rather disreputable appearance.
“Come in,” the man invited. “Looks to me like you’d better telephone for
a doctor while you’re at it!”
“That can wait,” gasped Tom. “Something else is more important. Show me
the telephone!”
A little later he was gasping to Ned his message:
“Just escaped! Watch the plant! Get Father to safety. Look out for
bombs. I’ll try——”
Then Tom Swift fell over in a faint.