BOUND IN DARKNESS
NED NEWTON was rather puzzled over Tom’s long absence from the office.
The day had passed and the young inventor had been at his usual desk for
only a brief period in the morning. He had told Ned he was going into
the little testing room and would soon be back.
Ned knew that Tom did not like to be disturbed when conducting
experiments and tests in this “cubby-hole,” as it was called, for it was
made small purposely to avoid air drafts and vibrations. So when noon
came and Tom did not appear for dinner, nothing much was thought of it,
as he frequently missed a meal.
“But this time I have chicken and dumplings,” complained Mrs. Baggert.
“And Tom is so fond of them!”
“He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” commented Ned, who always ate lunch
with the Swifts, as time was saved by not going to his own home.
“I’ll save him some,” remarked the kind-hearted housekeeper.
Noon passed, and the afternoon was waning when a message came over the
telephone that needed Tom’s personal attention. He had left orders that,
no matter what he was doing, he should be summoned when this call came
in. So Ned, believing his friend was in the little experiment room,
hastened there, leaving Mr. Newton, who was back in Shopton, looking
white and worried, to hold the wire.
But Tom was not in the little room. Nor was he in the corridor where
Barsky, in a fit of rage at being discovered, had knocked the young
inventor senseless.
“Hum, this is queer,” mused Ned. But no suspicion as yet entered his
head. “He must have gone back to the office by the outside way,” for
this was possible.
Hurrying back to the main room Ned did not meet his chum. Then began a
hurried search for the missing youth, still with no thought that
anything was wrong. It was merely believed that he had left the
experiment room to go to some other part of the works, as he often did.
Accordingly, the intercommunication telephone system was worked to the
limit. But from the foreman of each department came the reply:
“Mr. Swift isn’t here, nor has he been here.”
From the pattern room came the report:
“Mr. Swift not here, but he ought to come here.”
“Why?” asked Ned.
“Because,” replied the foreman, “that new Russian workman he hired has
gone away and left a valuable pattern half glued. It will be ruined if
it isn’t finished and placed in the vise to set. But none of the men
knows anything about it, and I don’t either. Mr. Swift gave special
orders that Barsky was to be allowed to work in his own way on that
train-stop matter, and we don’t like to interfere. But I know enough
about pattern making to feel sure this one will be spoiled if it isn’t
finished soon.”
“I’ll see if I can find Mr. Swift and send him to you,” promised Ned.
But Tom could not be found in any of the shop departments, nor was he in
his rooms at home. He had not been seen there since early morning, Mrs.
Baggert stated.
Still no alarm was felt. Often in the excitement of following up a new
idea or completing an invention on which he had been working a long
time, Tom would slip off by himself, either to be alone with his
thoughts or to try out something that had occurred to him. And often he
said nothing to any one of his intention.
“That’s probably what he’s done now,” remarked Ned, and so little was
thought of the matter that Mr. Swift was not informed, for it did not
occur to any one but that Tom would come back by evening.
“He might be over at Mary Nestor’s house,” suggested Mr. Newton, when
the person who had called Tom on the telephone had been told to ring up
later in the day.
“That’s so,” agreed the young manager. “It’s the most likely place to
find him. I should have thought of that before.”
But Mary also answered in the negative. Tom was not there.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, influenced to do so perhaps by an
anxious note in Ned’s voice.
“Oh, no; nothing wrong,” he said. “It’s just an important message for
him. He’ll be around soon, I guess.”
But Tom Swift was far from “being around.”
Ten thousand years seemed to pass while the young inventor lay in a fog
of incoherence. At least, it appeared to Tom to be ten thousand
years—perhaps longer.
Slowly he opened his eyes, but the darkness about him was so intense
that he thought it was still an effect of the cowardly blow, which he
now remembered. But in a moment he knew that his eyes were open and that
he was staring out of them, but without seeing anything.
The blackness was profound—like a piece of black velvet wrapped about
him.
And then, as he tried to move and found that he could not, Tom knew that
he was bound—bound with ropes and in a dark and strange place.
“I surely am up against it!” he muttered.