A MOUNTAIN STORM
Tom Swift had to think of many matters when he planned his airline
express. He was aided, however, by his past experience in manufacturing
aircraft and he had made many journeys above the earth and had been in
many kinds of peril.
Not the least of these were fires, and Tom well realized the danger of
ignition in a craft necessarily so frail as a flying machine heavier
than air. So in building the _Falcon_, the _Eagle_, and the _Osprey_ he
had taken into consideration this menace and had installed certain
fire-fighting apparatus.
In order that this might be used to the best advantage, Tom had
instructed his men in a fire drill, similar to that used on ships at sea
when the call to fire quarters is sounded at unexpected intervals to
accustom the passengers to acting sanely in times of excitement.
Now, as Eradicated warning cry sounded forth, Tom did not lose his head,
but at once pulled the level of the automatic signal which informed
those in the plane above, as well as those in the car, that they must
prepare to fight for their lives.
“Put on the parachutes!” Tom cried, for there was one of these
life-savers for every person on board. As you know, all the mail-plane
fliers now wear these “umbrellas,” as do all army fliers. The parachute
is made from a particular kind of raw silk cloth. It can be folded into
a very small compass, and is strapped around a flier’s body by means of
leather belts going around his legs and waist. On the waist belt is an
iron ring, and as the person jumps from a burning plane, or one that is
crippled and falling, this iron ring is pulled.
Immediately it releases the cords that hold the parachute in folds and
the silk spreads out in the form of an immense umbrella. The air,
getting under this, acts as a brake, and the person comes to the ground
much more gently than otherwise would be the case. Even with the
parachutes, however, there is danger in the fall, if it happens to be in
a tree, and often there is peril in falling into the water. But, with
all those, there is much more chance for life than if none is used.
There is, too, always the danger that the parachute will not open in
time, but this happens so rarely that it need not be considered.
“Bless my door mat!” cried Mr. Damon, fumbling with the straps. “I hope
I don’t get this thing on backward!”
“This is the way it goes!” cried Ned, who already had his adjusted.
Tom, likewise, had adjusted his safety device, and now the young
inventor, thinking regretfully meanwhile of this sudden ending of his
hopes, began to prepare for “abandoning ship.”
“Come here, Rad!” he called, for though the colored man’s voice had
issued from the galley with the warning cry of fire, the man himself had
not appeared. “Hurry, Rad!” cried Tom.
A moment later his old servant showed himself.
“What happened, Rad?” cried Tom. “Quick! Is the kitchen on fire? The
automatic chemical sprinkler ought to have worked!”
“No, Massa Tom,” answered the old colored man. “De kitchen didn’t cotch
fire—jes’ dis pie whut I was makin’ fo’ yo’. I put her in de oven ob de
gaskoliny stove, and den I forgot it. ’Case why? ’Case dat big giant got
hungry an’ wanted me to fix him up suffin to eat. An’ when I were doin’
dat mah pie burned! Look, it’s laik a piece ob charcoal.”
“And do you mean to tell me, Rad, that you raised an alarm of fire just
because a pie burned?” cried Tom, somewhat sternly.
“Suah, I did,” was the answer. “Why not? It was a fine pie!”
“Well, bless my insurance policy!” exclaimed Mr. Damon while the others
stood listening, hardly knowing whether to laugh or not. “You sure did
give us a scare, Rad!”
“I should say so!” murmured Tom. “Whew, but I’m glad it wasn’t true! It
would have meant the end of my hopes. Mr. Jacks wouldn’t invest any more
money if we burned up on the second third of our trip. But are you sure
everything’s all right, Rad?”
“Yes, Massa Tom, eberyt’ing but dish yeah pie!” and ruefully the old
colored fellow held out the remains of the pastry.
“Well, I’m glad it was no worse,” replied the young inventor. “I guess
we can take these off,” he went on, as he began loosening his parachute
belt. The others did likewise, and then word was relayed to the
mechanicians in the plane above that all was well and that there was no
need to leap out.
“Well, then we’ll descend on Denver in the way we originally intended,”
decided Tom, for they were now over that interesting and historic city.
The same scenes were enacted here as had taken place in Chicago. A big
crowd was on hand to welcome and cheer Tom Swift and his comrades, and
the natural western exuberance of the people was a little too much for
the police. Tom had difficulty in piloting the unclamped car through the
mass of curious ones to the waiting _Osprey_, the propellers of which
were slowly whirring in anticipation of the flight to the Pacific coast.
But after answering many questions of the reporters and posing for his
photograph and for the movie men, Tom at last was in the car beneath the
third aeroplane. It was now well on in the afternoon, and if the
originator of the airline express hoped to do the entire distance in
sixteen hours it behooved him to “get a hustle on,” as Ned expressed it.
“The hardest part of the trip is ahead of us, Tom,” his manager said.
“I know it is,” was the answer. “Over the Rockies. But the predicted
storm hasn’t come to the scratch, and I’m glad of that. It means quite a
gain in time not to run into bad weather.”
“Better wait before you crow,” said Ned. “We have about six hours of
riding ahead of us, and there’s no telling what we may meet with.”
Tom was glad to note, by inspections of the various gages, that the
_Osprey_ was doing better in regard to speed than either the _Falcon_ or
the _Eagle_. She fairly roared and soared her way into the air after
leaving Denver, carrying aloft, in the car beneath her, the young
inventor and his friends.
Tom got the wireless apparatus to working and after some difficulty
succeeded in establishing communication with his home, where he talked
to Mrs. Baggert.
“Your father is lying down, taking a nap,” reported the housekeeper.
“Yes, he’s all right. But a queer message came in over the local office
telephone a little while ago, Tom. Wait, I’ll repeat it to you. I
answered, because no one else was around, and I heard a voice saying:
‘Tell Tom Swift not to count his chickens before they’re hatched!’ And
then a man’s voice laughed. I tried to find out who it was and where the
message came from, but I couldn’t.”
“Oh, well, don’t worry about it,” Tom advised Mrs. Baggert, though he
himself felt not a little anxious. “They’re still up to their old
tricks, Ned,” Tom reported to his financial manager.
“Well, they can’t get at us while we’re up here,” Ned answered.
“No, but we aren’t at San Francisco yet, and something may happen
there,” Tom replied. “I do hope they won’t make any more trouble for
Dad.”
“He will be well looked after by Mrs. Baggert and the others,” was Ned’s
consoling reply.
On and on roared the _Osprey_, like the great hawk whose name she bore,
winging her way toward the great open space of the Pacific. The hours
rolled around, and they were crossing a wild and desolate rocky region
when suddenly the comparative stillness was broken by a loud, booming
sound, as if of an explosion.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Ned, and Tom, who was making a log record of
the trip, looked up apprehensively.
“Thunder!” answered Mr. Damon, who was sitting near one of the
observation windows. “I just saw a flash of lightning. I guess we’re
running into a storm.”
There was no doubt of it a few moments later. With the _Osprey_ rushing
forward and the mountain storm coming to meet the craft, it was only a
short time before the airline express was in the midst of a violent
outburst of the elements.
“Whew, this is fierce!” cried Tom, as there came a blinding flash,
followed by a terrific clap, and then, almost immediately after, by a
shower of rain as if a cloud had burst above them.