A GLORIOUS FINISH
“Stand by, Ned!” ordered Tom, in a low voice. “Get ready to follow me up
above,” and the young inventor made ready to ascend the enclosed ladder
to the cockpit overhead.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ned.
“I don’t know; but it looks like dirty work. I’m afraid they’ve got us,
after all!”
“How could they?”
Tom did not stop to answer, but quickly ascended the ladder. Ned, in a
few words, told the others the alarming news that had come down from the
cockpit, and then stood ready to carry out Tom’s orders.
The young inventor, crowding into the narrow space of the after cockpit,
found Wright managing the machinery, for the planes had a dual control
system. In the forward cockpit Ted Dolan was slumped down in a heap.
“What’s the matter?” cried Tom, when he reached Dolan’s side.
“I don’t know,” the mechanician answered weakly. “It’s something I
ate—or else I’ve been doped. My stomach seems caved in and I can’t see.
I’ll have to quit, Mr. Swift—sorry——”
“Don’t worry about that!” exclaimed Tom. “Ned and I can finish the
trip—if the engine’s all right.”
“But that’s just the trouble,” went on Dolan, in a weak voice. “She
isn’t acting properly.”
“Seems to be some obstruction in the oil feed line,” said Wright.
“Use the other,” Tom promptly advised.
“They’re both feeding slowly,” was the answer. “If the oil stops, we
stop too!” Tom well knew that.
“You get down to the cabin, Dolan,” advised the young inventor. “Mr.
Damon will look after you—he’s a traveling medicine chest. But have you
been eating or drinking with strangers?”
“Nothing like that, Mr. Swift—no, sir! I only ate meals I was sure of,
and at the hangar too. I never drank anything but water—not even sodas,
for I know they can knock you out in hot weather. I think somebody got
in the hangar and doped my food.”
“It’s possible,” admitted Tom. “How about you?” he asked the assistant.
“I’m all right—I can stick.”
“Well, we may need you later. You go down now with Dolan and look after
him, and send Mr. Newton up here.”
Having given these orders, Tom began looking over the machinery. He was
engaged in this when Ned came up to help, reporting that Mr. Damon was
looking after the ill mechanician.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ned.
“Oil feed supply,” was the short answer. “You run the plane, Ned, and
I’ll take the pipe down and clean it. We can run on one line while I’m
working on the other.”
It was a few minutes later, when Tom had the pipe uncoupled, that he
uttered an exclamation of anger and surprise.
“What is it?” cried Ned.
Tom held out a piece of cork. It had been stuffed into the pipe in such
a way that for a time enough oil would pass to keep the motors running,
but the cork would gradually swell and eventually would completely clog
the pipe, shutting off all oil.
Without oil an engine will soon heat up, until, because of friction, the
bearings, slide rods, pistons and cylinder walls may become red-hot.
When that occurs the engine naturally stops. And when the engine of an
aeroplane stops the plane falls. It is not like a dirigible that can
sustain itself.
“Dirty work!” bitterly murmured Tom, as he worked with all possible
speed to replace the pipe, for the secondary oil supply was fast
failing. The plane was losing speed rapidly.
“Somebody must have got in, put some sort of dope in Dolan’s food or
water, and also clogged the pipes,” said Ned.
“Right!” snapped out Tom. “But we aren’t beaten yet!”
And they were not. By hard work the young inventor got the other oil
line cleaned, and then the _Osprey_ at once picked up speed. However,
much valuable time had been lost, and Tom was anxious lest the motors
might have been permanently damaged by running without sufficient oil.
But they must carry on now, at all hazards, for they were within
striking distance of their goal. They at last settled down into the San
Francisco landing field after dark—a poor record, nearly twenty hours
having been consumed since starting.
“Lucky I’m not on a strict time limit for these six trips,” commented
Tom as, tired and exhausted from work and worry, he climbed out of the
cockpit, followed by Ned. “Jacks didn’t stipulate that we must keep to
the sixteen-hour schedule for these six trips. His only condition was
that we must fly continually from coast to coast, with landings only at
Chicago and Denver, and we’ve done that.”
“Through good luck and management,” commented Ned. “But we’ve got to be
mighty careful, Tom, on the last trip back. They’ll be out to do us if
they can and spoil our chances of getting that hundred thousand dollars
from Jacks.”
“You said it! Well, we’ll do the best we can.”
Extraordinary precautions were taken about the hangar that night. Men
continually patrolled the place, and even newspaper reporters and
photographers were looked upon with suspicion. None but those with
unquestionable credentials were allowed within the enclosure.
Tom had intended starting back to New York about three days after his
arrival, but the accident to the oil line decided him to have the
cylinders reground and new pistons put in.
“We want to make the last lap a record,” he said.
The delay was nerve-racking but it could not be helped. Tom was in
communication with his father and Mary, and they, too, were eager for
his success. All was well at home, Mary reported, and close guard was
being kept on the Long Island hangar.
“They may try to blow us up when we make our last landing,” said Tom
grimly, to his manager.
“They’re equal to it,” was Ned’s answer. “What about Chicago and
Denver?”
“I’m wiring the men there to be on the watch.”
At last the overhauling of the _Osprey’s_ motor was finished, and after
a test preparations for the trip back were made. Word that this was to
be the final test of the airline express had been broadcast, and the
papers all over the country were on the alert for news. It was almost
like a presidential election.
In the half-light of a cold dawn Tom and his friends took the air from
the San Francisco field. As they mounted upward Ned happened to glance
at a calendar hanging on the wall of the car.
“Did you know that, Tom?” he asked.
“Know what?”
“That this is Friday the thirteenth?”
“Well, what of it?” asked the inventor.
“Don’t you believe in luck?”
“Yes, when it’s with me!” Tom said, with a chuckle. “Not otherwise. I
saw a black cat as we were taking off, and I guess that will neutralize
Friday the thirteenth. Don’t worry!”
There seemed to be no cause for worry on the first leg of the final
trip. They got off very well, and under the care of Dolan, who had
recovered from his indisposition, the _Osprey_ winged her way across the
mountains like the bird whose name she bore.
They were well ahead of their schedule when they landed in Denver, and
luck was with them on the second lap, when Stone and his helper, with
occasional relief from Tom and Ned, piloted the _Eagle_ on its eastern
journey.
“Well, Tom, old scout, it looks as if we were going to come through with
flying colors!” cried Ned, as preparations to land in Chicago were being
made.
“I hope so,” was the answer.
There was a quick change of the car from the _Eagle_ to the _Falcon_ at
the Chicago field, and Tom was about to give the signal to take off when
a man with a reflex camera came dashing across the field. There had been
a score of newspaper pictures taken, as well as many feet of movies, and
Tom and Ned thought this man was a late-comer.
“Just a moment, Mr. Swift—please!” he cried, as he ran forward, his
head almost inside the camera.
Tom was used to this plea from the hard-working newspaper
picture-takers, and though he was anxious to be off he delayed a moment.
He knew it might mean the discharge of a man if he came back without a
picture he had been ordered to get.
A reflex camera, as those interested in photography know, is one with a
focal plane shutter, exceedingly rapid in action. It is much used in
news photography. The operator raises a hood, which serves the same
purpose as the black focusing cloth in the photograph gallery. To get
sharp pictures it is necessary to focus up to the last moment. In the
reflex camera the operator can see the image of the picture he is about
to take on a ground glass. When the focal plane shutter is released this
ground glass automatically drops out of the way.
Something in the actions of this man aroused the suspicions of Tom. He
looked at him keenly for a moment as the fellow ran forward, his head
almost inside his camera. Then, with a cry, Tom leaped out of the window
of the car, and, like a football tackler, threw himself on the man. He
knocked the fellow down, grabbed the camera and threw it as far as he
could in a direction where there were no spectators.
“Look out!” yelled Tom. “It’s a bomb!”
So it proved, for when the “camera” landed there was a sharp report and
a puff of smoke, followed by a shower of dirt.
“I’ve got you, Schlump!” yelled the young inventor. Tom twisted the
fellow’s hands up on his own back as he rolled him over on his face and
sat on the scoundrel.
Schlump it proved to be. He had hoped to get close enough not to be
recognized by holding his face down in the fake camera. And he almost
succeeded, adopting the guise of a newspaper photographer. The camera
was but an empty black box with a fake lens. Inside Schlump held a bomb
with a slight charge of powder in it. He dared not use much for he,
himself, would be close when he hurled it.
But Tom had sensed the danger in time, and by his prompt action had
saved himself and his friends from injury, if not death, and had saved
the plane from damage.
“Hold him! I’ll prefer charges against him after I reach New York!”
cried Tom, as police officers hurried up and took the plotter in charge.
“You’ll never get to New York!” boasted the prisoner.
But Tom did not let this threat worry him. Making a hurried explanation
to the police captain in charge of the squad of officers, Tom saw the
prisoner led away and then he took his place again.
“A narrow squeak, that,” commented Ned.
“Just a little,” admitted Tom, with a smile. “And now for the last lap.”
The _Falcon_ roared her way into the air amid the cheers of the throng,
and the final stage of the journey was begun. At first it was feared
lest some hidden defect might develop in the motor. But none did, the
machinery working perfectly.
“They didn’t get a chance this time,” Tom decided. “And from the fact
that Schlump tried so desperately at the last minute to disable us with
a bomb, shows, I think, that they have fired their last shot.”
But there was danger still in store for the daring aviator and his
friends. They had made exceptionally good time from Chicago and were
approaching the Long Island field. Tom was jubilant, for the record
showed the best time yet made.
“There’s the field!” cried Ned, from the after cockpit where he was
helping manage the plane. Tom had decided, as was his right, to pilot
the last stage of the journey himself.
“You’re right!” admitted the young inventor as he gave a glance
downward. “And there’s a big crowd on hand to welcome us.”
As they swung around into the wind, a puff of smoke was seen to arise
from the hangar.
“Look at that!” cried Ned.
“Fire!” exclaimed Tom. “They may be trying to burn the place!”
Lower and lower the machine dropped, and those aboard could see the men
in charge of the hangar making frantic signals for them not to drop too
close to the big building. Tom heeded this advice, and swung down well
away from the increasing volume of smoke. The _Falcon_ came to a stop,
and the young inventor and Ned climbed out of the cockpit.
“What’s going on?” cried Ned to some of the workmen.
“Two masked men set the place on fire,” was the answer. “But we’ve
caught them, and the fire will soon be out. We were afraid you would
come too close.”
“Whew!” whistled Tom. “They’re keeping up the fight until the last
minute. So you caught the masked men, did you? Good! I’ll have a look at
them in a moment. But what’s our time, Ned? We’ve completed our schedule
and fulfilled our contract, but I’d like to know what actual running
time we made this last trip in.”
Ned did some rapid figuring. Then he uttered a cry of delight.
“What is it?” asked Tom.
“Fifteen hours and forty-six minutes!” was the answer. “The best time
ever made! You’ve broken all records, Tom!”
“I’m glad of it,” was the modest reply.
“And so am I!” cried a voice, and Mary pressed her way through the
milling throng to—well, what she did to Tom is none of your business
nor mine, is it?
“Well, young man, you did what you said you would,” came in the rasping
voice of Jason Jacks. “Any time you want that hundred thousand dollars,
or two hundred thousand, just let me know. I didn’t believe much in this
thing when you started, but you have proved that you can run an airline
express between New York and San Francisco. There’s a big future in it,
I believe!”
“So do I,” said Tom quietly. “And now I’d like to see who those masked
men are.”
When the men were brought before the young inventor and stripped of
black face-coverings, they proved to be none other than Renwick Fawn and
the man who variously called himself Blodgett and Barsky—the men who
had endeavored to steal Tom’s Chest of Secrets.
“I thought so!” said the young inventor. “So it was you who were back of
this, with Kenny and Schlump. Well, we have both of them and now we have
you.”
“But I thought these two were in jail,” said Ned wonderingly.
“They either escaped or bribed their way to a parole,” returned Tom.
“But they’ll go back now.”
And back went Fawn and Barsky to the prison from which, by means of
political influence, they had been paroled. They had wanted revenge and
had also tried, by corrupting Kenny and Schlump, to steal the airline
express patents. But their plans had been frustrated.
“Did you really suspect, Tom, that the two masked plotters were Fawn and
Barsky?” asked Ned.
“Not at first,” was the answer. “Fawn has gotten over that queer trick
of throwing out his elbow that surely would have given him away, and
both men disguised their voices when they talked. They wanted to escape
recognition, for they knew they might be sent back to jail on the old
charges. Well, they’ll do double time now—on the old charge, and for
trying to kidnap me, as well as setting fire to the hangar.”
“They played a desperate game,” commented Ned. “To think of digging
that tunnel and going to all that work to get your patents.”
“They didn’t dig the tunnel,” Tom answered. “It’s a natural one. They
just made an entrance to it near our fence—that much of the digging
alone was new. The rest was natural. I may find a use for that same
tunnel, too. It’s a good thing to know about. And now, Ned, I’m going to
take a little vacation.”
“You deserve it!” answered the manager.
Thus the last of Tom’s enemies were caught and sent away. Mr. Jacks was
as good as his word, and not only invested largely in the new enterprise
himself, but got his friends to do so, so that the money Ned and Mary
had put in to bolster the sinking fortunes at the last minute was fully
repaid them.
“I’d never have let you risk your savings, Ned, or you either, Mary, if
I had known it,” said Tom, when the story was told him. “Suppose I had
failed?”
“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t fail!” answered Ned.
“So did I,” whispered Mary.
And that’s that!
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.